Free The Ghosts of Athens by Richard Blake

to Heraclius. Whatever else happened there, we stopped the Brotherhood from taking over Alexandria. We stopped the Persians from invading Egypt. It’s thanks to us that those seven million bushels of Egyptian corn will put in every year at Constantinople. Perhaps I did get carried away in pacifying Alexandria. You certainly fluffed your introduction of the new land law. But we did save the breadbasket of the whole Empire. No one could take that away . . .’ He trailed off into a mumble about friends in Constantinople.
    Perhaps he was right. I’d completed the final draft of my report a day after the Alexandrian lighthouse had vanished below the horizon. Before handing it to Martin for copying in his best hand, I’d read it to Priscus. He’d laughed and clapped his hands at its persuasive force. I’d said nothing in it of the overflowing mass graves outside Alexandria, or the plague that had drifted back into the city with the spreading miasma of corruption. I’d said nothing of the burned-out centre, or of the silent, grieving survivors. Without saying anything openly bad about the Emperor’s cousin, I’d managed to throw the whole blame for what I did admit on to Nicetas. And, if the useless bastard of a Viceroy had only done his plain duty and published the new land law at once, none of this could have happened. No doubt, I’d failed miserably in my side of things. No doubt at all, Priscus had gone raving mad once he’d gathered enough force to take on the mob. But who’d let the mob go out of control in the first place? Who’d given the landed interest enough time to choose between handing over a third of their land to the peasants and calling in the Persians? It really was stupid, bloody Nicetas who’d allowed everything to go tits up. Given the slightest regard for truth and justice, Heraclius should have had him dragged off to Constantinople to answer for an incompetence amounting all the way to treason.
    ‘We stand or fall together,’ Priscus had said between reciting some of my choicer sentences in a fair imitation of Our Lord and Master’s flat and whiny voice. ‘Yes, dearest Alaric,’ he’d said, separating the syllables of the name by which I was known in the Empire, ‘we stand or fall together.’
    Then we’d been intercepted off Cyprus and sent west with that sheet of utterly ambiguous parchment. If Priscus had been too overcome by seasickness to sit talking everything over with me, his mind couldn’t but have been moving in the same direction.
    ‘Do you think you were set up from the beginning?’ he asked.
    There was a sudden chorus of shouts behind and above us. There was none of the shifting and pitching that would suggest we were about to dock. But something was going on. I ignored this. We could wait for whatever bad news it surely meant.
    I thought back to the beginning of March. I’d been called to the Imperial Palace. Heraclius had taken me to the great marble balcony that looked over the ship-crowded straits to the Asiatic shore. He’d spoken with such enthusiasm of my land law – what glorious sense it made to give land to the peasants and then arm them as a static defence force. It had worked so well in the Asiatic provinces, where a century of spreading banditry had been checked in just one season, and where, day by day, a rabble of passive starvelings was turning into a race of proud and loyal and productive defenders of their own soil. ‘I can hardly spare you from the Imperial Council here,’ he’d said caressingly. ‘You are my one support, my choicest and most resourceful adviser. But I must spare you for just a few months, so that Egypt can be revived to its ancient wealth and contentedness.’
    So I’d set out for Alexandria, and Nicetas had embraced me and called me ‘brother’. And, then, month had followed month, and the law I’d carried out with every necessary seal and form of words sat, unpublished, on his desk. He’d given me an army of clerks and