Harry Turtledove - Justinian

That, I must say, was clever, exile being a common punishment for those who have offended their sovereign. After some thought, I answered, "I shall not do that at this time. I do not reject it out of hand, though. Should I change my mind, or should a proper situation arise, I will think on it again."

"You are gracious, Emperor," Paul said. I did not feel particularly gracious; part of the reason I had said what I said was to make him go away without committing myself to anything. He added, "Leontios will be glad to hear he has some hope of seeing the light of day once more."

I started to tell him not to let Leontios get his hopes up, but then held my tongue. For Leontios to be in prison was torment, as Paul rightly said: I had intended it to be such. But for Leontios to be in prison, thinking each day might be the one on which he was set free, disappointed each night when he lay down on his pallet, hope building again the next morning, only to be dashed once more: was that not torment more exquisite? If Paul wanted to inflict it on his friend, he was, as far as I was concerned, welcome and more than welcome to do so.

"I am glad to see you smile so, Emperor," Paul said. "It gives me hope you will soon show my friend the light of your mercy."

"Does it?" I said, and smiled more broadly.

I walked through the gardens around the palace with Kallinikos. It had rained earlier in the day. Drops of water still glistened here and there on leaves and flowers, and all the trees and shrubs and plants glowed with the special green they take on just after a rain.

My mind, however, was not altogether on the garden. I pointed to an old, run-down church dedicated to the Mother of God that stood near the palace. "Hardly anyone goes in there these days," I remarked.

"A pity," the patriarch said, trying as usual to guess my mood and to accommodate himself to it.

This time, he guessed wrong. "What I have in mind," I told him, "is tearing it down and putting up a fountain and some seats there, so I can have a convenient place to receive the nobles when the weather is fine."

"You want to- tear down the church?" he said, frowning. This was not the sort of request he received every day.

But I nodded. "You can rebuild it somewhere else- in the district of Petrion, say. There aren't that many churches near the Golden Horn now. You need not pay for this," I added. "Since I am tearing this one down, I'll pay for the replacement."

That put a different light on things, as I had thought it might. Now Kallinikos almost purred: "Of course, Emperor. It shall be just as you say." I could see from the gleam in his eye that the church he would build in Petrion would be far grander than the one already crumbling to ruins of its own accord here.

"Oh," I said, as if just thinking of it. "One thing more: I want a public prayer from you as the workmen start to tear down this church." I pointed again toward the tumbledown building.

The ecumenical patriarch frowned again. "A- prayer, Emperor? We have many prayers for the construction of a church, but I do not know of any for the demolition of a church." He risked a jest: "I am certain the followers of the false prophet know several."

I looked down my nose at him, being more than a palm's breadth the taller of us two. "I daresay you can devise one," I said coldly.

Kallinikos's coughing fit would have done credit to his predecessor, although Paul, being consumptive, had the better excuse for suffering such a spasm. "Emperor, if you require this prayer of me-"

"Would I have asked you for it if I did not require it?" I demanded. "I am not in the habit of making jokes, particularly in matters of piety."

Kallinikos stopped coughing. He started shaking. That suited me better. "If, as I say, you require this prayer of me, you shall have it."

"I hoped you would say that," I told him, smiling in such a way as to make him shake even more.

We held the ceremony for the demolition of the church a few days later. Splendid in his patriarchal regalia, Kallinikos raised his arms to the heavens and intoned, "Glory to the long-suffering God at all times: now, forever, and through eons upon eons. Amen." God certainly must be long-suffering, for Him to have put up for so long with such a lump of suet on the patriarchal throne.

Having knocked down the church, I duly erected the fountain and the reception area around it. There, on pleasant days, I passed time with aristocrats from the old families, many of whom affected to regard Constantine the Great as an upstart. We drank wine. We ate sweet cakes. Occasionally, when they felt bold, they would complain to me of the tax assessments Stephen the Persian and Theodotos levied on them. Since the occasions were social, I pretended to listen.

What did my forbearance gain me? Only betrayal.

Are you all right, Brother Elpidios? I haven't heard you sputter that way since the first time Justinian talked about having a woman. What's your trouble now? Oh, calling Kallinikos a lump of suet. Brother, I saw Kallinikos a good many times. If you rendered him down for fat, you'd need a big tun to hold it all.

The prayer when they knocked down the church? No, Justinian never figured out the patriarch meant God was long-suffering for putting up with him. A good thing for Kallinikos he didn't, too, or we'd have found out exactly how much fat he had in him. Justinian would have cooked him over a slow fire.

Yes, Justinian should have paid more attention to what the nobles were telling him. He should have paid more attention to what a lot of people told him. He didn't listen to me, either. You've seen that. You'll see it again, God knows. Justinian was good at a lot of things. Listening wasn't any of them.

Zachariah did not bring Pope Sergios back to the imperial city under arrest, as I had charged him to do. He went with an army of soldiers from Ravenna and some of the cities south of it down to Rome, intending to arrest Sergios and put him on a ship.

Unfortunately, however, through some mischance word of what the exarch intended to do reached Rome ahead of him. The people of Rome prevailed upon Zachariah's army not to let Sergios be taken out of the city and carried away to Constantinople. Although Zachariah himself was a fine man, steadfast both in his loyalty to me and in his purpose here, the soldiers under his command, being for the most part of the same Italian blood as the city mob of Rome, were persuaded by them, and mutinied against the exarch.

Some few of the soldiers remaining loyal to Zachariah, he used them to seize the pope in his residence. But his force was so small and that outside so large and inflamed that he lost hope of accomplishing the command I had given him. All at once, it was as if the wretched Sergios were holding him and his few faithful followers, rather than the other way round.

In his letter to me retailing these events, Zachariah maintained he yielded to necessity. Years later, I heard he cowered under the pope's bed, with the mutineers baying for his blood. God knows the truth in this matter. I do not. I do know Sergios, perhaps fearing my vengeance if the exarch were slain, did not let the mob work its full and ugly will upon him. Instead, he was merely expelled from Rome after being reviled and beaten.

Had the exarch been murdered by these semibarbarous Italians, I would unquestionably have sent a fleet from the imperial city to burn Rome to the ground and to bring Sergios here for trial as a common murderer. As things were, I by no means abandoned my intention of arresting Sergios and placing on the episcopal throne of Rome another, more tractable, man.

Before I could make arrangements to bring that to pass, however, another concern forced itself upon me: I received from Thessalonike word that Dorotheos, whom I had appointed general of my new military district of Hellas, had without warning lost his life. Having read so far and no farther in the announcement informing me of this, I assumed him to have fallen to some unsubdued Sklavenoi. But I soon discovered such was not the case. Rather, his horse threw him as he was riding into Thessalonike after hunting. His head smashed into the ground. He lay without speaking or moving for three days before breathing his last.