Mary Reed - Three for a Letter

Her one good eye looked intently at John as she continued. “Of course, excellency, if I should hear anything that would assist you…”

John pressed two coins, rather than the single coin he had planned to give her, into her grubby hand, and said he would visit again soon. As he went back along the alley he found himself thinking that a man as famous and recognizable as Barnabas surely could not hide for very much longer.

***

“Look out!” the emperor cried.

A small round object flew in a rising arc past John’s face to explode in a shower of twigs through the canopy of one of the tall cedars edging the sea wall. It vanished into the heat haze shimmering over the Sea of Marmara.

John’s glance at the grassy playing field to his left revealed a horse being reined to a halt a short distance away. A polo stick was grasped in its rider’s hand.

“My apologies, Lord Chamberlain. I’ve only just learned this particular athletic activity and I’m not fully expert at controlling the direction of the ball.”

John recognized the rider. It was the boy Hektor, now grown perilously large for his duties as an ornamental court page. There were several mounted players on the field, on the far side of which two other pages and three girls stood giggling together in conspiratorial fashion. Hektor wheeled away to rejoin the game, giving John no opportunity to reply.

Justinian strolled up to John, clapped him on his shoulder and laughed.

“It’s a stroke of good fortune, so to speak, that that ball didn’t hit your head, Lord Chamberlain.” The emperor’s tone was almost jovial. “Yes, I’ve put some of the older pages to work entertaining the young ladies. Less paint on their faces and more perspiration, that’s what I’ve advised for those youths.”

John looked thoughtfully after the players. In the oppressive stillness the shouts of the players announced a new ball was in play. Beyond the far edge of the field, dusty landscaped grounds rose in terraces toward the stolid rectangular mass of the Daphne Palace. Several buildings, his house among them, could be seen scattered here and there amid groves of trees and flower gardens on the slopes above. Here by the sea wall the sultry air smelled of brine, trodden grass and the nearby stables, beyond which the cages of the imperial menagerie lay in quiet shadow. Only one of its cages was occupied and its resident, a large bear, was fast asleep, half buried in a bed of straw. John wished he could likewise lie down and rest but unfortunately for now that was not going to be possible.

“Is it wise to encourage that young man’s development, excellency?”

“He is a favorite of the Master of the Offices,” Justinian replied, “and I always like to keep an eye on court officials’ proteges. But it’s too hot to be standing about in the sun. Sit.” He indicated a marble bench set in the shade of the cedars, waving his ever-present guards away. They stationed themselves watchfully at a distance of several paces.

Wiping his ruddy face with a piece of purple silk, Justinian suddenly chuckled. “I suppose you’re wondering why I am not hearing petitions, Lord Chamberlain? It’s because I decided to abandon the task when the reception hall became so hot that its bust of Constantine began sweating.”

John offered a thin smile with the comment that the petitioners waiting to be heard were doubtless disappointed not to have been granted an audience with their emperor.

Justinian sat down next to John. He was in an unusually expansive mood, it seemed, for usually he explained his actions or reasoning to no one. Nor was it necessary, for as emperor he held absolute power over the life and death of everyone within the empire.

“There were nothing but minor matters to be heard,” he said. “Tax abatements, license disputes, that sort of thing. So just for today I empowered a silentiary to render a positive verdict in every case. Tomorrow I will be extolled in every corner of the city as a paragon of magnanimity. If only the sun god would have such mercy on me, as pagans would doubtless say, would they not, Lord Chamberlain?” He gave John a sly 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, and, so it seemed, she with him, despite their often clashing views of religious and political matters. Those at court often whispered that the emperor gave her too much freedom, that she was allowed to say or do anything she pleased, even to engage in machinations entirely contrary to official policy. John knew this was not entirely the case. The empress hated him and if Justinian were so malleable, Theodora would have been granted John’s death long ago.