smile.
John nodded silently. He had no doubt the emperor was aware that his trusted Lord Chamberlain practiced Mithraism, a proscribed religion. However, it was a fact that could never be articulated—at least not until Justinian opened the topic.
Justinian’s smile passed quickly into a graver expression as he continued. “Concerning the boy, Gadaric. His death greatly distresses me, John. It’s been some years since I promised to defend his grandmother Amalasuntha, yet she was found strangled in her bath. And now, with General Belisarius at the gates of Ravenna, with Italy almost reclaimed from the Ostrogoths and Amalasuntha all but avenged, it seems that I have failed again.”
“Gadaric’s sister is still alive,” John pointed out. “Although she has a lesser claim to the Italian throne, her marriage to an ally would certainly go far towards mending the empire as well as ensuring you have honored your promise.”
For all Justinian’s public declarations of avenging Amalasuntha, John and most of Constantinople were aware that her murder had been little more than a convenient excuse to allow Justinian to pursue his dream of returning the empire to its former glory. The loss of Italy, to the emperor’s way of thinking, had been only a temporary defeat in a protracted war. There were, after all, old men who could still remember a Roman emperor in the west.
It was true, he thought, that while the Ostrogoths had grudgingly accepted King Theodoric’s daughter Amalasuntha as regent for her son Athalaric, after Athalaric’s death they had refused to allow her to reign as queen. Now there were signs that the new regime would be less sympathetic to Roman culture—and Roman landowners and business interests—than Theodoric and his daughter had been. Then too, the Ostrogoths were of the Arian faith and thus heretics in the eyes of the church. So if Justinian wished to be ruler of an empire made whole again, he would certainly have more than sufficient support in his quest from more than one quarter.
Then too, since Belisarius, his most trusted general, had long since wrested Africa back from the Vandals was now on the verge of reconquering Italy, Justinian had considerable interest in protecting Amalasuntha’s grandchildren and advancing their claims to Theodoric’s throne.
The polo players approached again as the girls squealed and the boys shouted. John noted that Hektor was now wielding his stick with some skill, not to mention an accuracy apparently miraculously acquired just after the recent near accident.
Once the riders had passed by, Justinian resumed speaking. “I have been contemplating a diplomatic solution. They say the Goths’ general Witigis is a most estimable leader. I am considering marrying the girl Sunilda to him and then dividing Italy between us. Your objection will doubtless be that he is already married to Amalasuntha’s daughter Matasuntha. But she was an most unwilling bride, was she not?”
“Perhaps she would be a more willing wife if you were to elevate Witigis in the manner you suggest, but I confess, excellency, that I do not see why it would be politic to employ the granddaughter instead.”
“Matasuntha cannot be relied upon,” Justinian replied, his voice surprisingly sharp. “It is not generally known, Lord Chamberlain, but when one of Belisarius’ commanders was approaching Ravenna, that vile woman offered herself to him if he would deliver her from Witigis! Such treachery of a wife toward her husband is unthinkable.”
“I see.” John fell silent. Justinian sounded genuinely distressed by the woman’s not-uncommon faithlessness. He reminded himself that the emperor was still only a man, an ordinary man once known as Petrus Sabbatius but now possessed of limitless power. His view of the world was, like everyone’s, colored by his own experiences and his marriage to Theodora was, so far as anyone could tell, an ideal match. Justinian remained besotted with her,
John nodded silently. He had no doubt the emperor was aware that his trusted Lord Chamberlain practiced Mithraism, a proscribed religion. However, it was a fact that could never be articulated—at least not until Justinian opened the topic.
Justinian’s smile passed quickly into a graver expression as he continued. “Concerning the boy, Gadaric. His death greatly distresses me, John. It’s been some years since I promised to defend his grandmother Amalasuntha, yet she was found strangled in her bath. And now, with General Belisarius at the gates of Ravenna, with Italy almost reclaimed from the Ostrogoths and Amalasuntha all but avenged, it seems that I have failed again.”
“Gadaric’s sister is still alive,” John pointed out. “Although she has a lesser claim to the Italian throne, her marriage to an ally would certainly go far towards mending the empire as well as ensuring you have honored your promise.”
For all Justinian’s public declarations of avenging Amalasuntha, John and most of Constantinople were aware that her murder had been little more than a convenient excuse to allow Justinian to pursue his dream of returning the empire to its former glory. The loss of Italy, to the emperor’s way of thinking, had been only a temporary defeat in a protracted war. There were, after all, old men who could still remember a Roman emperor in the west.
It was true, he thought, that while the Ostrogoths had grudgingly accepted King Theodoric’s daughter Amalasuntha as regent for her son Athalaric, after Athalaric’s death they had refused to allow her to reign as queen. Now there were signs that the new regime would be less sympathetic to Roman culture—and Roman landowners and business interests—than Theodoric and his daughter had been. Then too, the Ostrogoths were of the Arian faith and thus heretics in the eyes of the church. So if Justinian wished to be ruler of an empire made whole again, he would certainly have more than sufficient support in his quest from more than one quarter.
Then too, since Belisarius, his most trusted general, had long since wrested Africa back from the Vandals was now on the verge of reconquering Italy, Justinian had considerable interest in protecting Amalasuntha’s grandchildren and advancing their claims to Theodoric’s throne.
The polo players approached again as the girls squealed and the boys shouted. John noted that Hektor was now wielding his stick with some skill, not to mention an accuracy apparently miraculously acquired just after the recent near accident.
Once the riders had passed by, Justinian resumed speaking. “I have been contemplating a diplomatic solution. They say the Goths’ general Witigis is a most estimable leader. I am considering marrying the girl Sunilda to him and then dividing Italy between us. Your objection will doubtless be that he is already married to Amalasuntha’s daughter Matasuntha. But she was an most unwilling bride, was she not?”
“Perhaps she would be a more willing wife if you were to elevate Witigis in the manner you suggest, but I confess, excellency, that I do not see why it would be politic to employ the granddaughter instead.”
“Matasuntha cannot be relied upon,” Justinian replied, his voice surprisingly sharp. “It is not generally known, Lord Chamberlain, but when one of Belisarius’ commanders was approaching Ravenna, that vile woman offered herself to him if he would deliver her from Witigis! Such treachery of a wife toward her husband is unthinkable.”
“I see.” John fell silent. Justinian sounded genuinely distressed by the woman’s not-uncommon faithlessness. He reminded himself that the emperor was still only a man, an ordinary man once known as Petrus Sabbatius but now possessed of limitless power. His view of the world was, like everyone’s, colored by his own experiences and his marriage to Theodora was, so far as anyone could tell, an ideal match. Justinian remained besotted with her,
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