Richard Blake - The Blood of Alexandria

Even before the echo faded of Martin’s voice, there was a scraping and shuffling as a hundred and seventy well-fed bodies heaved themselves up and then pitched forward for the required prostration. As the echo did fade, Macarius preceded me to the top of the stairs leading up to the platform. I followed, still carried in my chair. Following me were a couple of black slaves to fan me with ostrich feathers.

As the prostration ended, the hundred and seventy called into my presence looked up to see me already sitting on a high chair of ebony and ivory. I sat in the beam of sunlight ever directed on this point from the mirrors set in the domed roof high above. The frieze of Augustus and friends was behind me. Against the wall to my left stood a colossal statue of Augustus. Over on my right stood one of the Great Alexander. Of exactly equal height, each looked across the Hall at the other, ambiguously soft approval on their faces. On a golden easel just behind me on the platform, an icon of the Emperor kept watch on the proceedings. Before me, presiding over my silver inkstand of office, Martin sat on a low stool, his eyes cast reverently down to a heap of papyrus rolls.

In that vast floor space, and with a hundred and fifty feet of ceiling height above us, it hardly mattered with what magnificence we’d arrayed ourselves. For that reason, I’d decided against the gold leaf and cosmetics. I’d chosen instead to rely on the natural gold of my hair and from the smooth regularity of my still clean-shaven face. As for the robe, it was mostly white, though with a good third dyed purple. Normally, the heavy Corinthian silk would have shouted wealth and taste and, above all, power beyond anything the grandest man in my audience could ever hope to match. Not here. The statued past and the architectural ever-present alike dwarfed us all.

As the slaves, now standing on each side of me, set up an almost imperceptible breeze, Martin rose and stretched a hand out to the audience. With a chorus of relieved grunts, the hundred and seventy sat back into their own chairs.

I sipped at the cooled, well-watered wine before handing back the goblet to Macarius. It did nothing to settle my nerves. I looked at the sweating, slimy faces of the Egyptian landed interest. In silence, they looked back at me. I looked briefly up to my left at the curtained-off gallery: was that a gentle tug on the painted silk? Or was it a stray morning draught? I took a deep breath; and thus, as Homer says, the great consult began.

‘Gentlemen, friends, lords of the Egyptian soil,’ I said in a voice that carried to every corner of the Hall, ‘I am come before you to speak the will of Caesar. I speak with the permission and full knowledge of the Viceroy Nicetas, his cousin. Though it is not required by protocol, I am instructed to take reasonable questions at the end of what I have to say.’

And there’d be plenty of those, I could see. I cursed Nicetas again. Given half a say in the matter, I’d have had him shipped in chains to Constantinople, there to answer for a stupidity and cowardice indistinguishable in their effects from outright treason. But I continued.

‘It is a fact well-known to Caesar that the Egyptian land taxes have been short since the time of His Imperial Majesty Maurice of sad memory. We are aware of the representations made by your agents in Constantinople, that the late tyrant Phocas was kept deliberately short of revenue. We are also aware of the material help you provided during the late revolution. You, however, will be aware that your taxes were due not to the tyrant but to the Empire itself.

‘You cannot also deny that, during the two years since the revolution, the shortfall has grown still worse. In more settled times, Egypt contributes around a third to the Imperial revenues. At the moment, even though other provinces have been wasted by the barbarians or occupied by the Persians, Egypt contributes barely one-fourth.

‘This is surely insupportable. Heraclius is acknowledged, by Church and by Army and by Senate, as legitimate Emperor. The taxes he is owed – for his own reign and for those of Maurice and of the tyrant – are his by law, and, I will say, by nature.’

For all the law was known in outline, there was a ripple of nervous shuffling throughout the Hall. Perhaps I’d come on a little strong with that nonsense about a government’s natural right to taxes. I smiled and managed a perfect fall from the hieratic tone in which I’d begun.

‘But gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I come before you not as the representative of a tyrant, eager to plunder you of your goods. I represent Heraclius, the Lord’s Anointed, the Thirteenth Apostle, whose reign is and ever shall be known as the restored Golden Age of Love and Justice.

‘Know, therefore, the will of Caesar.’

Deep under the folds of my robe, I moved my leg to give Martin an imperceptible kick. He opened the first and biggest papyrus roll to the marked place and read in his loudest, flattest voice.

Back in Constantinople, I’d counselled against the switch of official language from Latin to Greek. Bearing in mind the weight each had for many years had in the Empire, it made sense to have all communications from the government in the language best known to the educated classes. What had concerned me, though, was the greater chance of ambiguity and therefore of chicanery provided by the very riches of Greek.

Listening again to the marvellous clarity of the new land law, it was obvious I’d been wrong. Sadly, though, I don’t think my assembly of landowners cared one way or the other about the style. What they hated was the content. Martin was barely halfway through the reading before the murmurs broke out. As I said, they’d had time to know exactly what was coming. But there were certain motions that had to be gone through. When Martin came to the rights and obligations of the enfranchisees, the shouting got really under way.

‘Are you telling us,’ one of the fattest in the assembly bawled, all thought of my position absent from his outraged mind, ‘that, in return for letting us off a few taxes, we’re to give our best land to the wogs? And do I hear right that you’re even planning to arm them?’

As the horrified babble rose higher, I leaned slightly forward.

‘Get that man’s name,’ I said to Martin, trying not to move my lips. He’d been one of the latecomers. I’d not had time to try sucking up to him; and he seemed genuinely not to have known the details of the law. ‘Put him on the red list for the apportionment of lands.’

Martin nodded.

I wanted to single out another of the dissenters, but Apion was now trying to make himself heard.

‘There is no alternative,’ he was saying. ‘The scheme has already been tried in the Asiatic provinces. Already, it has increased the revenues and ended brigandage.’

My biggest ally was Apion. If Nicetas had been wasting my time, I hadn’t. I’d been hard at work on lobbying of my own. Apion had the biggest estates in Egypt. A few assurances about his own interests, plus the promise of a governorship for the nephew he’d sent off to study in Constantinople, and he’d come neatly on side. Now, he was doing his best to rally support beyond the richer landowners who, comparatively speaking, had less to lose from the reforms.

‘You mark my words,’ the fatty broke into the emollient flow, ‘you give land to the wogs, and they’ll let it go to waste. They’ll be putting up heretical churches while they’ve money to spend. When that’s run out, they’ll turn up here in Alexandria. Give them arms – why, they’ll cut the throat of every honest Greek in Egypt.’

The man had the nerve to put his hat on in my presence. He sat back in his chair and glared openly at me. All round him, the roar of approval grew in volume. Apion looked nervously at me for support.