Harry Turtledove - Justinian

The people inside the great church were of more consequence to me, for I would rule through the high-ranking bureaucrats and soldiers and clerics who packed it tight. Their robes made a bright rainbow of color within the church. These men- and their wives and daughters and, no doubt, concubines in the women's gallery above- shouted acclamations as the common people had outside.

I stared down from my high perch. Along with the army, these men had to acknowledge me their sovereign, as they were doing. Then one of my bearers missed a step. That, added to my own inattention, nearly made me fall off the shield- whose bronze surface was smooth, almost slick- and smash my head on the floor of the great church. A worse omen at a coronation I can hardly imagine. But Myakes, bless him, reached up with his free hand and caught me by the ankle till I steadied, just as he had stopped me from leaping off the city wall when the deniers of Christ besieged Constantinople.

We reached the ambo without further mishap. George the patriarch stood there waiting, leaning on a stick to take some of the weight from his legs. His vestments of silk and wool, worked with gems and pearls and gold threads in the shape of many crosses, rivaled the imperial regalia in splendor.

On the ambo rested a cushion of purple silk embroidered with eagles in gold thread. And on that cushion sat the crown that had for so many years been my father's. Its golden circle of bejeweled and enameled panels, the glittering prependoulia that dangled from it, and its surmounting cross were of surpassing magnificence.

Theodore of Koloneia caught the eyes of the rest of my bearers. At his nod- not that of Christopher, his nominal superior- all four men went to one knee, lowering the shield so I could descend. They rose once more. Having gained my full height by then, I was taller than any of them, though they were all thicker through the shoulders.

George the ecumenical patriarch beckoned. I went to him. Setting his hand on my head, he called out, "Holy!" in a voice so loud and dee p, no one would have guessed him ill. At the coronations of Frankish kings, I have heard, they are smeared with scented oil, in imitation of Biblical practice. No such ritual existing among us, the patriarch offered the customary prayers for the occasion, altering them slightly to stress Christ's two energies and two wills, as defined by the recently past ecumenical synod, and finishing, "May God bless His servant and our master, the Emperor Justinian!"

Had my father been crowning me junior Emperor, the patriarch would have stepped aside then and let him set the crown on my head; junior Emperors are made- and unmade- by the will of the Emperor. But my father was gone. George crowned me, a sign I was receiving the symbol of my new station by the will of God.

The crown was heavy, almost oppressively so. It surprised me; gold combines small bulk with great weight. I wondered how my father had put up with wearing it hour after hour, day after day, year after year. And now, having worn it so long myself, I take its weight altogether for granted. When the mad-dog usurpers mutilated me and exiled me to lonely Kherson, on the peninsula jutting down into the Black Sea from the north, my neck felt curiously limber for some weeks, so accustomed had it grown to supporting the crown along with my head. I had to get used to it all over again when I took back what was rightfully mine, a burden I assumed with pleasure.

No matter how heavy the crown felt there in the great church, I knew I had to bear it without complaint or flinching. And so I stood very straight and very still, looking a challenge out to the dignitaries who were looking in at me and trying to take my measure.

I do not know what they thought of me as they shouted for the acclamations-"Tu vincas, Justinian! Many years to the Emperor Justinian!"- that, with those of the people, with my being raised on a shield by the soldiers, and with the patriarch's coronation, formalized my accession to the throne. What I thought was, Now I rule you all- and you had better obey.

"Romans!" I said loudly, pitching my voice to carry and doing my best to make sure it stayed deep, "Romans, I stand before you full of grief, grief that my father, who fought so fiercely to force back the followers of the false prophet, now no longer dwells among men and rules Romania, but has so soon gone to earn God's reward for his greatness here on earth."

I made the sign of the cross. So did the ecumenical patriarch. So did many of the dignitaries in the great church. Many of them were up on their toes, leaning forward slightly so as to be able to capture every word and from those words to try to divine the future course of the Roman Empire.

That suited me. I had no intention of hiding my aims- on the contrary. I said, "As much as my father wished to be most beloved by the barbarians, so he who is now Emperor of the Romans wishes to be most feared by them all. So that no barbarians might invade our provinces and do them harm, we shall, as soon as may be, trouble them with continuous attacks."

A sigh went through the church of the Holy Wisdom. The wars would not begin at once- it was too late in the season to start a campaign- but begin they would. My father had told me I could set my own course when the Empire rested in my hands, and I aimed to do just that.

"Romans, 'Tu vincas!' should not be only an idle acclamation, spoken and then forgotten," I said earnestly, "nor is passivity preferable to fighting. The peace we have with the Bulgars- a peace existing for no other reason than that it is bought and sold- is shameful and slavish. Better by far to bear wounds in our bodies than in our souls. Before long, the barbarians shall learn a lasting lesson."

I paused. The notables cheered. Nothing else was possible. I was the Emperor. I had defined, as I had the right to define, the direction the Roman Empire would take. Their task was to make it go in that direction, nothing more.

They sensed as much, giving me the cry of "Tu vincas!" again, over and over, till the ancient Latin words came echoing back from the great dome that, as some writer from the age of my namesake says, seems more as if it is suspended from the sky by a golden chain than a part of any merely earthly building. I paraphrase without the book before me, I fear.

Up to this time, all acclamations had gone to my father, save for rare moments like that in the Forum of Constantine. Hearing hundreds of prominent people shouting my praises was heady as strong wine. I had not yet learned those nobles and clerics and soldiers would acclaim a usurper, a rebel, a tyrant, as fulsomely as their legitimate lord.

With the crown on my head, I strode out of the great church to receive fresh plaudits from the people. I already knew the city mob was fickle; anyone attending two days' racing at the hippodrome could have said as much. But for now they were all with me, and I basked in their acclaim like a fence lizard basking in the sun.

On the procession returning to the palace, the servitors helped keep the people happy by throwing more coins out to them. As at the church of the Holy Wisdom, struggling over the nomismata and miliaresia seemed as enjoyable as having them. A tagline from some pagan play ran through my mind: "Man seeks God and, seeking, finds Him." And is not gold a god for far too many?

When I was back at the palace- my palace now- I thought of summoning a serving girl to my chamber and celebrating my accession in the most enjoyable fashion I could imagine. Then, all at once, I recalled my father's deathbed words to me. He had been more than half out of his wits with sickness and poppy juice, but that did not mean he had made no sense.

Instead of some lively wench, I called for Stephen the Persian. When he came before me, he prostrated himself. That took me aback: another reminder I was the Emperor. I told him to rise and then said, "Fetch my mother and, having brought her, you stay as well. I would take counsel with the two of you."