“And it was in such a fashion that the impious Persians seized the most holy city of Theoupolis [1], and gave the Church of St. Ignatius [2] over to the Jews, to the dismay of Christians everywhere. This ignominy was achieved in no small measure through the sinful enemies of Romania and Caesar, who withheld the riches of Egypt, which God and His Most Holy Mother had destined for all Romans, an event that limited the abilities of the Christian forces, and aided the Devil-inspired hosts of Chosroes…”
“Clarissime…[3]” called the deep voice accompanied by a soft knock, breaking his concentration as he wrote. Lifting his gaze slightly, Menander noticed one of his scholarians, accompanied by two ordinary foot soldiers, standing at the door of his office.
“Clarissime, these men think there is something you must know” continued his subordinate.
Sighing, he put the stylus down and started to roll the papyrus parchment, as he asked “who are these men, centenarie [4]?”
“Hadrianus, Pedes [5], 3rd tagma, Army of Thrace, clarissime” answered one of them.
“Eutropios, Semissalis [6], 1st tagma, Army of Thrace, clarissime” replied the other.
“At ease” ordered Menander, making a gesture with his hand, and leaning back on his seat, wrapping a thin blue thread around the scroll. “Say what you must.”
Clearing his throat, Hadrianus began “clarissime, we are both loyal soldiers of the Augustus. And it’s because of that loyalty that we feel the need to inform you…of the behavior of Comes Priscus…”
Menander stared impassively at both men, before Eutropios added “some of the officers have started making quiet announcements in his behalf…saying that…that…” But seemingly could not continue.
He only raised his eyebrows slightly.
Well? The soldier, seemingly embarrassed, resumed his point. “…that the calamities that vex us, are the Emperor’s responsibility…and that he must be defenestrated, and the son of Maurice, crowned in his stead…and that the Comes would lead us in the endeavor…”
Following several additional seconds of uncomfortable silence, the clarissimus asked in a dry voice “would you be able to point out the officers that approached you?” The men assented.
“And notify me of whatever other comrades of yours have spoken favorably of these intentions?”
They nodded eagerly, one more time.
“Very well then; not a word is to be said to anyone about this. I will look into this matter myself, later in the day. You are dismissed.”
They stood at attention, saluted, and departed as the scholarian centenarius stayed behind. Once he made sure they could not hear him anymore, Menander spoke to his soldier. “I want you to gather a small turma [7]. Forty men at the most; we’ll pay the Comes a visit at the first hour of the night. Also, have those two followed, and compile a record of where the go, and who they see, until we take action.”
Concluding his orders and while his subordinate left, he stood up, and opened a wooden chest, placed behind his seat. In it, were several scrolls, neatly tied with a red thread. Taking the one he had been working on recently, he put it on top of the others.
We’ll finish with you some other time. Now, to work. Turning to a smaller table on his side, he grabbed a blank parchment of papyrus, took ahold of the inkwell, and having dipped the stylus in it, commenced writing, once more.
“Hemin Kyrio Alexandro Comiti Scholae Palatinae [8]:
It is with the utmost regret, that I inform you of the events taking place amongst the armies of Thrace. I have come to find unequivocal evidence, as your Lordship suspected, which compromises the safety of our beloved Augustus, and that of the entire Empire. The Comes Excubitorum Priscus…”
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Yet again, like in many of the “visits” he had paid to those snobby aristocrats, arrogant senators, and crafty eunuchs in The City, Menander found himself at the head of a small band of horsemen, approaching the home in which Priscus temporarily resided in Dourostolon [9]. The many successful calls he had paid in this fashion to the camps of the Danubian soldiers had earned him the promotion from doryphoros to clarissimus in a rather short time.
But now, to get the big fish, he thought. The four excubitors guarding the locked gate were surprised, although they had seen them coming from a distance, and disarmed quickly, and quietly, by the troop outnumbering them. He only gestured them to keep silent, and to unlock the entrance. Once they had done so, his men scattered across the front patio, in search of alternate exits, as he kicked the door open. This was not to be a covert mission, since he intended to arrest the traitor, not dispatch him quietly. Immediately, he could hear the commotion from somewhere in the depths of the home, as well as encountering two servants near the entrance, who stared at him and his men horrified. He motioned to preselected groups to spread out in search of the Comes, while he asked the help “where’s Priscus?”
One of the slaves pointed towards a corridor to the left of the anteroom, without uttering a word. Sword in hand, he raced down the hall, escorted by five more of his men, until coming against a heavy and darkened wooden door. Interestingly, he could hear sobs inside.
Is he…crying? The treacherous coward…
Knocking on the gate with his sword’s pommel, he called out: “Comes Priscus, I am clarissimus Menander, you must come out immediately!” The reply from within the room was not what he had been expecting; a shriek answered his demand. But more puzzling still, it was a feminine one.
What the…
He kicked heavily against the chamber’s gate, but it did not yield.
That’s the way you want it then. Having rapidly motioned to one of his men, who left in the act, he attempted to bring the door down a second time with another kick, achieving the same results. Seconds later, a group of excubitors arrived, spears in hand to defend their leader, but realizing that it was Romans who were in the home, hesitated in attacking.
“Stop! We are here to arrest the Comes! He’s been found guilty of treason, and will be taken to account for his crimes before the Emperor!” Menander shouted, pointing his sword at them. Although they outnumbered the scholarians, the defenders quickly subsided, and stepped back, as the man that the clarissimus had dispatched outside returned accompanied by four more soldiers, carrying huge axes. The crying from the chamber continued, growing louder.
“Come on! Take it down!” he roared.
The hatchets began to hack at the dense and ancient wood, which still resisted the blows, as chips and splinters flew off of it. He thought quickly; though at the very least one man would have been posted on the street below the windows, this was taking too long, and now there was a risk: that the Comes could best the only guard there present, and escape. “Sergie!” he called out, to one of his own guards, “get back to the entrance and take five men with you. Surround the chamber from the outside, and make sure that the windows are watched! Go now!”
On and on, the cuts on the wood grew deeper and wider, until finally small hole was made, which allowed him to see into the room. Ordering the men to stop, he lowered his head for a look, but noticed nothing else besides an empty bed. Nevertheless, the weeping continued.
Someone’s there. “Cut this damn thing open now!”
It would take some additional tense and seemingly eternal minutes for the wooden planks to finally yield before the axes. Shoving the shattered gates open, and to the sound of yet another loud shriek, the men rushed into the bedchamber with Menander at their head, as the excubitors watched, in confusion, from the entrance.
The first thing he noticed was that, in addition to being locked, the doors had been barricaded with two, now fractured, thick beams. And the source of the sobbing was also easy enough to locate. Sitting on the bed, wrapped in sheets, was a young woman, perhaps around twenty some years, crying with sheer terror. Around, on the floor, were some pieces of clothing, and on some of the crude tables, what seemed to be a wine pitcher and a goblet, as well as some scattered papers. However, what caught Menander’s attention instantly was the abandoned cuirass which belonged to Priscus, and the gaping open window, with the curtains shoved to the sides, at the far end of the room.
Fuck.
Running to it, he stuck his head out the opening. The way the street descended towards the back of the house, had left this window at a higher level above it, than was the case with the others throughout the rest of the residence.
But still not high enough to become an impediment for a determined man.
Damn! For below him, Menander saw seven men: six looking around the adjacent dirt paths in desperation, and one lying on the ground, in a pool of his own blood.
Turning around to the expectant group, he screamed at the young woman, his face just a few inches away from hers “where is he? Where did he go?”
All the girl managed to blurt out, in between sniffles, was “I…I…I do…don’t…don’t know…”
“Stupid bitch!” he hissed, slapping her with the back of his hand. No one had ever escaped him; the whole situation left a disgustingly bitter taste in his mouth. Addressing his men, he added in a frantic voice “shut the city gates! No one leaves Dourostolon until I say so!” We have to find him! Find him!”
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[1] Antioch’s official name. Justinian I rechristened as Theoupolis once he rebuilt it, following the great earthquake of 528.
[2] The once Tychaeum of Antioch.
[3] Used here in a military context. It was a rank amongst the Scholae, equivalent to the Primicerius in the regular army. The highest NCO of sorts.
[4] The contemporary equivalent of a centurion of old.
[5] A common infantry private.
[6] A senior soldier, still a member of the infantry, but with higher pay than the pedes.
[7] Used here, in its late antique context: a cavalry unit, attached to the larger infantry armies, and led by a dekarchos.
[8] Forgive the mixture of tongues here. I only thought it reasonable for the letter to be written in Greek for expediency’s sake, but Alexander’s title to be specified in Latin, as it still is the official language of the Empire.
[9] Modern Silistria.