Harry Turtledove - Justinian

Along with the horse races, I also announced a triumphal procession through the imperial city, from the Golden Gate to the hippodrome. People crowded under the colonnades on either side of the Mese to watch.

First came a company of excubitores, gorgeous in gilded parade armor with bright-dyed cloaks streaming after them. Behind them walked civilian servitors carrying sacks of silver miliaresia, from which they threw coins into the crowd, the occasion, while auspicious, not calling for gold.

After the men with the money glumly tramped Leontios and Apsimaros, each in the filthy tunic he had worn while imprisoned in the monastery of Delmatos, each with his hands manacled in front of him. So the people could tell which wicked usurper was which, a secretary with a large sign bearing each man's name followed him. And, for the benefit of the many who could not read, the secretaries called out the names of Leontios and Apsimaros in loud voices, as well as their crimes: "These vile worms dared rebel against the vicegerent of God on earth, Justinian, Emperor of the Romans!"

"Tu vincas, Justinian!" the people shouted, for I rode in a chariot drawn by white horses directly behind the overthrown usurpers. I waved to the right and then to the left, acknowledging the appropriateness of the old salute on this day, as on the day when I first reentered the Queen of Cities.

At my side marched faithful Myakes, who, of all my guardsmen, did by far the most in trying to prevent my ouster and who served me so long and well in my exile. Not for anything on earth would I have deprived him of the opportunity to share in avenging the outrages Leontios and Apsimaros had inflicted upon us.

Truth to tell, Brother Elpidios, by then I just wanted it over with. I would have been every bit as happy if Justinian had taken Leontios's head, and Apsimaros's, too, and then gone on with the rest of his business. Leontios had had his nose sliced, after all, and he'd been locked up for seven years. And I've already said I didn't have anything special against Apsimaros.

But nobody was going to change Justinian's mind. He'd wanted a show, and he was going to have himself a show. It was as simple as that. Who'd tell him anything different? He was Emperor of the Romans. Anybody who didn't like it would end up hanging on the wall, same as Apsimaros's brother Herakleios and his chums.

And the people had themselves a good time, same as they do at any parade- same as they did when Leontios stole the throne out from under Justinian, come to that. They cheered Justinian and threw things at Leontios and Apsimaros. If you didn't know better, you had to figure they'd stay on Justinian's side forever. If, I say. If.

Behind me came the stalwart friends I'd made in exile: Cyrus first among them, in his patriarchal regalia; Barisbakourios and his brother Stephen; Foolish Paul, without whose fishing boat we never would have reached the land of the Bulgars; and Theophilos from Doros, who kept improving. With them walked the spatharios Leo, who had served me so well on my return journey to the imperial city.

Another company of excubitores brought up the rear. Like that heading the procession, this company wore fancy parade armor. But the men had everyday weapons at hand, lest some ready-for-aught conspirators attempt a rescue of either usurper- although, in truth, why anyone would have wanted to rescue Leontios passes my comprehension.

Eggs and fruit and the occasional stone flew at Leontios and Apsimaros both. Without being so ordered, the driver of my chariot increased the distance between them and us so we should not be similarly pelted by accident or by malice under cover of accident. The stratagem succeeded, though I had a surfeit of the gagging stench or rotten eggs by the time we reached the hippodrome. But I was not dripping with them, as the two usurpers were.

A great cheer rose from the crowd in the hippodrome on our entering through the gate the chariots normally use. The races having been completed, the excubitores led the way around the churned-up dirt of the track toward the stands opposite the Kathisma: to the spot, in other words, where Leontios had had me mutilated a bit more than a decade before.

Now Leontios and his fellow usurper Apsimaros stumbled after the guards, the shackles they wore clanking with each step they took. On their nearing the grandstand, a chorus posted on the second level of the imperial Kathisma burst into the thirteenth verse of Psalm 91: "Thou hast attacked an asp and a basilisk, and hast trampled down a lion and a dragon!"

I turned my head to speak to Cyrus: "Surely the Lord wrote that verse for me, and surely He inspired you to recall it."

"Emperor, it is my duty and pleasure to serve you," the patriarch replied, modestly casting down his eyes.

No one will deny the city mob is foolish, fickle, and ever demanding new amusements. But neither will anyone deny that the people of Constantinople are the cleverest, best-educated folk in all the civilized world. Understanding at once the verse's multifarious aptness, they burst into a deafening storm of applause. The lion of course signified Leontios, the asp Apsimaros. Some of the more sophisticated no doubt also took in the double meaning of the basilisk, which at the same time implied both reptilian horror and a petty king, a true king or Emperor being not just basiliskos but basileus.

"This is the day the Lord hath made!" Cyrus cried, as Kallinikos had when I was being deposed. Then the people had cheered to see me cast down; now they applauded as I was raised high. Were I to be overthrown again, they might cheer once more, but that shall not come to pass, anyone who might dare such an outrage no longer being among the living.

When I say I was raised high on that day, I speak not only metaphorically but also literally. Myakes stepped forward and pushed Leontios and Apsimaros down before me. They bent their backs almost as if in prostration; Leontios, I saw with no small amusement, got horse dung in his bushy beard. And I, I sprang atop them, setting one red imperial boot on Leontios's back, the other on Apsimaros's, symbolizing in terms the veriest clod might understand my domination over them. The chorus sang out the prophetic verse once more, and the crowd acclaimed me and derided those who had defiled my throne with their presence on it.

"Mercy!" Leontios squealed beneath me. "I did not slay you. Have mercy!" Apsimaros, more manly or merely without hope, kept silent.

I ground my booted foot into Leontios's back. He groaned, but made no move to try to throw me off: excubitores stood round him with swords and spears and bows, ready to punish such insolence with bitter torment. The leeches in the stands, baying laughter at the usurpers' humiliation, would have laughed even louder to see blood flow. However little Leontios knew, he knew that much, having listened to their cheers while my blood spilled for the mob's delight.

Still standing atop the two toppled tyrants, I shouted to the crowd, as loud as I could: "Let them be taken to the Kynegion, there to have the sword sever their heads from their bodies!"

Most of the people cheered, jeering the usurpers and applauding the fate I had decreed for them. Leontios's shoulders began to heave under me, not because he was trying to throw me off but because he was shamelessly weeping. Up in the grandstand, I heard catcalls among the cheers, these surely coming from the more bloodthirsty, those who would sooner have had the executions carried out before their avid eyes.

That privilege, however, I reserved for myself. To placate the masses, I shouted out another announcement: "We shall have a second round of races here in the hippodrome tomorrow!" Universal rapture greeted that proclamation.