Justinian

TWELVE

On Wednesday, the fourteenth day of January, the sun rose on a city shrouded in palls of smoke from smouldering ruins. Soon afterwards, word went out from the Palace that the races would begin again, in the presence of the emperor. Apprehensive but hopeful, his resolution stiffened by his wife’s advice, Justinian, holding a copy of the Gospels and accompanied by his Mandator and the city prefect, ascended the spiral staircase to the kathisma. At once, he sensed an atmosphere of almost palpable hostility emanating from the vast and silent crowd. He sent word to the editor to cancel the races; clearly, the people were in no mood to be fobbed off by such diversion.

‘I suspect they may ask for your dismissal,’ he murmured to Eudaemon. ‘If so, I’ll have to play along. Don’t worry, though; it will only be a temporary suspension. As soon as things blow over, I’ll have you reinstated.’

The Demarchs approached the royal box. They repeated their request of the previous day, that the two damnati in St Lawrence’s Church be pardoned, then went on, ‘In addition, Serenity, we demand that you dismiss three ministers: first, Tribonian, who sells justice to the highest bidder like a huckster at a market stall; second, Eudaemon, whose answer to the people’s legitimate complaints is blows; and last but by no means least, John the Cappadocian — guilty of gratuitous brutality against many Roman citizens, and whose rapacity and cost-cutting have ruined thousands of good men throughout your Empire.’

A roar of approval erupted from the crowd.

Justinian rose to his feet. Holding aloft the Gospels in his left hand, he placed his right upon the Holy Writ and nodded to the Mandator. ‘Tell them I assent,’ he said.

‘Our most wise and merciful Augustus,’ announced the Mandator in stentorian tones, ‘hears your petition and agrees to its terms: the two criminals presently in the Church of St Lawrence to be granted full pardons, and the Quaestor of the Sacred Palace,* together with the prefect of the city and the praetorian prefect, to be instantly dismissed.’

The muted sigh — like the sound of distant breakers rushing on a beach — that arose from the crowd suggested to Justinian that the crisis might have passed. His acquiescence would surely guarantee, as on many previous occasions with former emperors, that the people would be appeased and things return to normal. So it was with shock that he heard a voice declaim, ‘You lie, you swine!’ Addressing the crowd from the foremost tier, the speaker went on, ‘Don’t let yourselves be taken in; his promises are worthless, made only under duress, from weakness. He’ll break every one of them as soon as you go home.’

Instantly, the mood of the crowd seemed to change — from sullen acceptance to angry suspicion. Yesterday’s orgy of destruction had by no means assuaged their bitter sense of injustice at their treatment by the agents of the government. The speaker’s words reminded them that they had tasted power and were due revenge. A thunderous growl of agreement with his statement swept around the vast assembly.

‘Let us choose a new emperor,’ went on the speaker — a tall commanding figure, whom Justinian recognized as Anicius Julianus, a leading senator and member of the Roman diaspora from the barbarian-occupied West, ‘one who will reign with equity and justice. Justinian has shown he is not worthy to rule the Romans. Let us replace him with one who is — a nephew of the noble Anastasius, and one in whom integrity and strength is wedded to ability. People of New Rome, I give you — Probus Augustus!’

A stunned silence filled the Hippodrome. Then, isolated at first, but swiftly growing to a mighty, swelling chorus, came the shouted response: ‘Probus Augustus! Probus Augustus! Probus Augustus!’

His initial disbelief swiftly turning to panic, Justinian allowed himself to be hastily escorted back to the Palace. There, in his private study or tablinum, he summoned a council of war. Present, besides himself, were: Marcellus, captain of the Palace Guard, and two of his most trusted generals who, along with their contingents of German mercenaries happened to be in the capital — young Belisarius and Mundus, a doughty veteran of many tough campaigns. To these three, Justinian, close to tears, gabbled an account of the scene in the Hippodrome in which he had just been involved. ‘Gentlemen — I confess I’m at a loss as to what should now be done,’ he concluded, in tones of desperation. ‘I would greatly value your advice.’

First to speak was Belisarius. ‘Serenity — it seems to me that while we face an admittedly daunting challenge, it’s by no means an insurmountable one. Out there we have a rabble, unorganized and as yet leaderless. If myself and Mundus here, with our Germans plus the Palace Guard, were to take them on immediately, I’d be surprised if we weren’t able to disperse them.’

‘But your Germans number less than two thousand, while the Guards are a mere half of that!’ exclaimed the emperor in dismay. ‘Against odds of at least a hundred to one, how can you hope to prevail?’

‘Serenity — mere numbers count for little against trained soldiers, provided they are disciplined and committed,’ replied the youthful general. Tall and handsome, with an air of insouciant confidence, he seemed every inch the dashing cavalry commander (though in this instance in charge of infantry). His infectious optimism made Justinian begin to feel more sanguine. ‘Very well, if you really think you can succeed,’ the emperor pronounced. ‘Then you have my blessing — and my heartfelt gratitude.’

‘Oh, we’ll succeed all right, Serenity,’ put in Mundus,* his flat Mongol features breaking into a grin. ‘Our Germans are just spoiling for a fight.’

‘But my Palace Guards are not,’ declared Marcellus smoothly. ‘Their duty is to protect your person, Serenity — not wage war against their fellow Romans. While they are willing to prevent insurgents from entering the Palace, or threatening yourself, Serenity, they cannot be expected to go on the offensive against unarmed citizens.’

‘We’re better off without you, anyway,’ sneered Mundus. ‘You’d only get in the way.’

‘Yes — we wouldn’t want you getting those fancy uniforms dirty,’ said Belisarius gravely, shaking his head in mock concern. He turned to Justinian. ‘Well, Serenity, with your permission we’ll be on our way.’

Shouting Probus’ name, the crowds streamed from the Hippodrome and made their way to the senator’s house. But that particular bird, having got wind of their intentions, and well aware of the fate awaiting failed usurpers, had already flown. Finding his house empty, barred, and shuttered, the disappointed populace burned it down, then headed for the Palace in a mood of fury and frustration. Intercepted in the Augusteum by Belisarius and Mundus, the mob received a bloody mauling from the German mercenaries. Disconcerted, their ardour suddenly cooling, the people were about to break and scatter, when the situation was unexpectedly reversed.

In a commendable attempt to save lives, a group of clergy, carrying religious symbols, tried to separate the combatants. In the ensuing scuffle, some of the clerics were hurt, and their holy relics, which of course meant nothing to the Arian Germans, got trampled underfoot. Infuriated by such sacrilege, the people recovered their spirit and fought back with redoubled fury, to be joined by sympathetic onlookers, hitherto too frightened to become involved. Fighting stubbornly, the crowds retreated in good order into the twisting streets and alleys of Regions IV and V. With the mood of outrage spreading like wildfire, they were now joined by whole households, the womenfolk hurling roof tiles, buckets full of boiling water, and anything that came to hand, onto the heads of the hated Germans. In the labyrinth of narrow lanes, the mercenaries lost the tactical advantage they had held in the great open space of the Augusteum; the initiative now lay entirely with the urban population. Recognizing the hopelessness of the situation, Belisarius and Mundus called off their men and returned to the Palace.

Meanwhile the people, their mood now both triumphant and vindictive, rampaged through the city, burning down the Churches of the Holy Peace, St Theodore Sphoriacus, and St Aquilina, the Hospitals of Eubulus and Sampson, the Baths of Alexander, and any buildings that could be identified as connected with the government.

‘Let’s face it, gentlemen — we gambled, and we lost,’ said Julianus to the same audience he had addressed the night before, assembled once again in the house of Methodius. ‘My advice to you now is that you quietly disappear, pro tempore at least, to country houses if you have them, or to the homes of distant relatives. Thanks to my little speech in the Hippodrome this morning, I am now of course a marked man. Any of you known to have conversed with me these last few days, could well be tainted with — ’

‘Guilt by association?’ broke in a worried-looking councillor.

‘I fear so.’ Julianus raised his hands in a gesture of helpless apology. ‘The Roman Empire may today have more civilized values than in Sulla’s time; but is compulsory enrolment in a monastery so vastly preferable to being required to slit one’s veins?* I wonder.’

‘But surely we don’t need to throw in the towel yet,’ objected a senator. ‘The plebs control the city. The attempt by Belisarius and Mundus to suppress the revolt has failed, and they’ve been forced to retreat to the Palace.’

‘Which remains invulnerable as long as they’re inside it with their troops,’ countered Julianus. ‘So where does that leave us? — stalemate, gentlemen. But that won’t last. With Probus gone, and his brothers in the Palace, the people no longer have a focus for revolt. Soon they’ll tire of protest and abandon taking to the streets. All Justinian has to do is wait. As for myself, I shall leave you now, my friends, to pack for my return to Italy. It has been an honour and a privilege to — ’

He was interrupted by the door bursting open to admit a breathless young man — an ‘ear’ of Julianus, planted in the Palace.

‘Procopius — what brings you here?’ the Anician enquired.

‘Great news, gentlemen,’ gasped the newcomer. ‘Fearing treachery on the part of the courtiers and senators within the Palace, Justinian has just this minute forced them all to leave, Hypatius included. We have our new Augustus, after all!’

‘Pull yourself together and stop behaving like a headless chicken!’ his wife, Maria, shouted at Hypatius, who was pacing the atrium of his villa in the capital, in an agony of indecision. ‘We should follow the example of your brother Probus, and leave now — while there’s still time.’

‘But if they find the house untenanted, my dear, they’ll burn it down — as they did my brother’s. My bronzes, my Rhodian marbles,’ the old general wailed, ‘my silver crater,* gifted me by Anastasius. . I can’t bear to think of losing them.’

‘Better that than losing your life,’ his spouse retorted. She held her hand up, her expression suddenly alert. ‘Hear that? I think they’re on their way.’

A distant hubbub, faint at first but swiftly growing louder, came to the couple’s ears. Almost before Hypatius could collect his scattered wits, the building was surrounded by exultant crowds shouting, ‘Hypatius Augustus! Hypatius Augustus!’

‘You’ve left it too late,’ declared Maria bitterly. ‘As usual. It’s been the story of our lives. When Anastasius died, if you’d marched at once from Antioch instead of dithering, you could be emperor today.’

‘Just tell them I’m not here; perhaps they’ll go away.’

‘Ostrich! You know they won’t. For the time being you must pretend to go along with them. Then, at the very earliest opportunity, disengage yourself and make contact with Justinian; he’ll understand. After all, he is your friend.’ Her manner softening, Maria kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘Go now, my love,’ she whispered. ‘And may God be with you.’

Sick with fear, Hypatius allowed himself to be carried shoulder-high through the darkening streets to a torch-lit Hippodrome, where it seemed the whole of Constantinople was assembled. A jubilant cheer arose from the multitude, and to shouts of, ‘Long live Hypatius!’, the general was installed in the kathisma. Then, for want of a diadem, a golden chain (which someone had been wearing as a necklace) was wound around his head, while a purple curtain, in lieu of an imperial robe, was placed upon his shoulders.

Wishing himself anywhere else but in his present position, Hypatius, as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the torches, noticed that among the cheering citizens — conspicuous by their archaic togas or silken robes of office — were large numbers of senators and councillors, many of them known to him. It dawned on the general that his ‘coronation’ had been no mere whim of the mob, but had the backing of those who counted in the Empire — the sort of men who alone could provide the stability and leadership essential for any revolution to succeed. This changed everything. Displacing terror, excitement stirred within him; perhaps, after all, he really could become emperor. Suddenly, a cry began to circulate around the stadium, transmuting in an instant, possibility into certainty: ‘Justinian has fled!’ Soon the words were taken up by everyone, the Hippodrome resounding with triumphant shouts — ‘Justinian has fled!’. . ‘The tyrant has gone!’. . Long live our new emperor — Hypatius Augustus!’

Mixed with relief, a sense of heady euphoria surged through Hypatius. The imperial crown was no more than his due, he told himself. All his life he had worked hard and played by the rules, only to be cheated of the big prizes by lesser men who knew better than he how to play the political game. With his impeccable credentials of noble birth and royal blood, it was he, not that barbarian nobody Justin, who should have succeeded Anastasius, as it was he who should have been promoted to the top job in the army — Magister Militum Praesentalis,* instead of being fobbed off with command of the Army of the East. Even the charge of that remote posting he had twice had to surrender — first, temporarily, to Justinian over that Dhu-Nuwas business, and now, permanently, to that young whippersnapper Belisarius.

Savouring the moment, Hypatius stood and raised his hand in adlocutio — the imperial gesture of address. A hush spread throughout his vast audience.

‘Fellow Romans,’ he declaimed, ‘- you have honoured me by making me your emperor. I swear to you before God, that my chief concern will always be to serve you to the utmost of my ability. Also, you have my solemn promise that never again will you have to suffer the brutality of a Eudaemon, the injustice of a Tribonian, or the rapacity of a John of Cappadocia. They will go — as Justinian, their master, has already gone. Good riddance to them all, I say, as together we begin a new and happier chapter in the annals of New Rome.’

The tumultuous applause that greeted his speech was music to Hypatius’ ears, wiping out in an instant the many disappointments and frustrations endured throughout a long career.

Meanwhile, in the Palace — virtually empty now that its normal population of courtiers and senators had been dismissed — an eerie silence reigned. Apart from a tiny band of those still loyal to the emperor, its only occupants were now the Palace Guard and German mercenaries waiting in their quarters, a few silentiarii stalking the deserted corridors like ghosts, and a downstairs tribe of footmen, maids, and cooks, among whom an air of ribald insubordination to their royal master was beginning to prevail.

In Justinian’s tablinum, besides the emperor himself, were assembled: Theodora, Belisarius and Mundus, John the Cappadocian, the young lawyer Procopius and the chronicler Count Marcellinus — both experienced stenographers whose function was to record any minutes, and finally, to act as scouts and messengers, two trusted agentes in rebus: special agents whose job could cover anything from spying to diplomacy. The sound of cheering from the nearby Hippodrome did nothing to lighten the mood of despondency verging on despair, which hung like a dark cloud over the meeting. One of the agentes — a coal-black Nubian named Crixus, had just returned from the Hippodrome to report the ‘coronation’ of Hypatius.

‘Serenity — it takes a wise general to know when he’s beaten,’ stated Mundus gently, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had followed Crixus’ account, and which suggested that few present would disagree with what the general now said. ‘Perhaps it’s time to leave the field.’

‘Mundus is right,’ declared the Cappadocian bluntly. ‘Grasp the nettle, Serenity — sail tonight for Heraclea Pontica on the southern shore of the Euxine.* You’d be safe there — for the time being at least.’

‘And close enough to the capital, Serenity, to launch a counter-coup when the time is right,’ suggested Procopius.

‘Thank you, my friend — I appreciate that you’re trying to let me down lightly,’ responded Justinian in gloomy tones. ‘But I think we all know that if I leave, I won’t be coming back. I have, reluctantly, to agree with Mundus and the prefect that flight now seems the only option.’

‘Before we all decide to write off our chances,’ put in Belisarius, ‘there is one possibility that may be worth exploring.’

‘Go on,’ the emperor invited.

‘Thanks to Crixus here,’ Belisarius went on, to a suddenly animated audience, ‘we know that Hypatius is at present holding court in the kathisma, enjoying the acclamation of his “subjects”. As we know, a short passage leads from the Palace to the spiral staircase which opens into the royal box. If I were to lead a hand-picked group of my Germans along that route to the kathisma, we could surprise Hypatius and either arrest or kill him. With its head cut off, the revolt would surely die.’

‘I like it!’ exclaimed Mundus. ‘Like all good plans it’s simple, and seems to me to have an excellent chance of succeeding. I think we should accept it.’

‘I agree,’ said Justinian, perceptibly brightening. He looked around the gathering. ‘If you all back Belisarius’ idea, which I think is a brilliant one, then let us wish him good luck and God speed.’ He turned to Belisarius. ‘You have our permission to proceed. Bring back Hypatius alive, if possible.’

If he was quick, Procopius thought, as he hurried through the corridors towards the quarters of the Palace Guard, he’d just have time to warn Marcellus before Belisarius set out with his Germans. So far, things were working out nicely for his plan of revenge against that meretrix sordida,** Theodora. Subsisting in exiled poverty in some God-forgotten corner of the Empire, she’d have plenty of time to regret the day she’d turned him down, and given him a nasty bite to boot. The wound had turned septic, taking weeks to heal; he could have lost the hand. Pity his scheme necessarily involved taking down her pathetic lap-dog of a husband too — ‘collateral damage’, to use army-speak. He bore Justinian no particular ill-will, but Julianus had promised him Tribonian’s job in the event of the coup succeeding. A man had to look out for himself, after all; no one else, for sure, was going to. Starting that false rumour about Justinian having fled was a master-stroke of his, Procopius reflected. Without it, he doubted if that geriatric ditherer Hypatius would have willingly accepted his imperial role. Now however, all could be in jeopardy — thanks to that wretched brainwave of Belisarius. He quickened his pace. .

‘I’m sorry, Serenity,’ said Belisarius, looking uncharacteristically crestfallen. ‘We found our way blocked by the Palace Guard; they’re obviously just waiting for an opportunity to switch sides. To take them on wouldn’t have achieved anything; and they’d have been able to warn Hypatius. It’s a mystery to me how they found out about our plan.’

‘I think it may be time to go, Serenity,’ said Mundus, speaking with quiet urgency. ‘At least you’ll leave in safety; Belisarius and I will make sure of that.’

‘I’m touched by your loyalty — by the loyalty of all of you,’ Justinian responded, struggling to keep his voice from breaking as he looked around the little group. ‘A fallen emperor is fortunate to have such faithful friends. Those who wish to stay may do so with my blessing. The rest of us should now prepare to leave.’

Theodora, who had remained silent throughout the whole meeting, suddenly rose to her feet.

‘I know it’s not supposed to be a woman’s place to speak in a men’s council,’ she declared in quiet but clear tones. ‘However, the present situation allows convention to be waived, I think. You are for flight? Well, there are the ships, there’s the sea; life and safety yours for the choosing. But ask yourselves — what sort of life would that be? A life of shameful exile in a distant land. Sooner or later, death must come to us all. Speaking for myself, I would not wish to live deprived of my imperial robe. There is a saying — a true one, I believe — that the purple is a glorious winding sheet.*’

She sat down amid a stunned silence, in which the men avoided each other’s eyes in shamefaced embarrassment. Flight, which minutes before had seemed the only option, now, thanks to the galvanizing effect of Theodora’s rousing little speech, appeared out of the question.

Soon, an alternative plan was being thrashed out. Leading the Germans in two separate parties, Belisarius and Mundus would circumnavigate the Hippodrome, then enter via the gates at either end. The obvious risk was that such large bodies of men would be detected and the alarm raised before they could complete the manoeuvre. But desperate situations call for desperate measures.

‘I’ll just make sure the coast’s clear,’ murmured Procopius, as the plan’s final details were being discussed. ‘We don’t want anyone learning what’s afoot.’ And he slipped out of the tablinum. Hypatius and his followers must be warned, he thought. He had not gone ten paces however, when he felt his shoulder gripped from behind, then found himself spun violently round to face the agens, Crixus.

‘Get your hand off me, you black — ’ Procopius broke off with a gasp of pain, as the other’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of his upper arm.

‘And just where did you think you were heading?’ enquired the huge Nubian softly. ‘The Hippodrome, perhaps? I’ve had my eye on you, sonny. Who tipped off the Palace Guard, I wonder? We’ll just go back and join the others, shall we?’

In the flickering torchlight of their great drill-hall, with a frisson of pride and affection Belisarius surveyed his men — blond giants, each protected by Spangenhelm (the conical, segmented helmet favoured by Teutonic races) and hauberk of ring-mail or lamellar plates, small bars of iron laced together. All were armed with spathae, long and deadly Roman swords, equally effective for cutting or thrusting. Shields were being left behind; these would not be needed. Germans, the general reflected, so long as they were individually recruited, and subjected to Roman discipline and training, made the best soldiers in the world — utterly loyal, fearless, and ferocious fighters. (Federate troops: whole tribes enrolled for Rome under their own leaders, were a different matter. Greedy, treacherous, and unreliable, they had played no small part in bringing down the Western Empire.)

‘Right, lads — let’s be off,’ Belisarius called softly. Followed by the silent files of mercenaries under their dekarchs or squad leaders, he led the way out of the Palace, giving the Guards’ quarters a wide berth.

Rendezvousing with Mundus and his Heruls (from a particularly fierce Germanic tribe) at the smoking rubble of the Chalke, Belisarius whispered to his fellow general, ‘We both count to a thousand, then enter. That’ll give us more than enough time to get into position, and allow us both to strike at the same time. All right?’

Mundus nodded, and the two forces — each nearly a thousand strong — set off in opposite directions. Picking their way in the darkness over smouldering ruins without making a sound was no easy task, but Belisarius’ Germans managed it superbly. Long before the count was up, he and his men were assembled outside the Hippodrome’s Nekra Gate.* From inside the stadium’s towering walls arose a deafening hubbub of jubilant shouting.

‘Nine hundred and ninety-nine. . one thousand,’ murmured Belisarius to himself. Raising an arm, he pointed to the entrance of the Nekra Gate. Briefed in advance, his men knew exactly what to do; in silence, they filed through the entrance into the torchlit Hippodrome.

As the crowds inside the vast space became aware of the grim ranks of mailed Germans, the shouting died away, to be replaced by a horrified silence — a silence that gave way to screams of pain and terror, as the Germans began their grim task. The crisis had escalated far beyond the point where reason and restraint might have proved effective; now only a lethal lesson could bring the people to their senses.

Trapped in a huddled mass between the troops of Belisarius and Mundus, the citizenry stood no chance. Unlike the street-fighting of the day before, where the mob could escape down narrow alleys to regroup or bombard their opponents from the rooftops, here, squashed together in an open space, they were as sheep for the slaughter. The Hippodrome became a bloody killing-ground, as the Germans — to whom from their youth fighting and slaughter were activities to be relished — steadily advanced, hacking and thrusting with a terrible, machine-like efficiency. At last the two generals called off their men — blood-bespattered, and exhausted by their efforts — allowing the terrified survivors to flee to the safety of their homes, leaving thirty thousand corpses strewn like broken dolls upon the racetrack.

When the sun arose on the smouldering, half-ruined city, no angry crowds appeared on the streets. Cowed and apprehensive, many with wounds being tended by their womenfolk, the citizens of Constantinople remained indoors. In the Palace, Hypatius, white-faced and trembling, was brought before Justinian. When asked by the latter why he had agreed to usurp the throne, Hypatius had no answer. Denial would have been futile; half the city could bear witness to that coronation speech.

‘Mercy, Serenity,’ babbled the general. ‘I allowed myself to be swayed by the vox populi. That was wrong — wrong and stupid. I’d have realized my folly soon enough, and abdicated in your favour.’

Looking at the broken old man before him, pleading for his life, Justinian felt a stab of pity. Here, surely, was no threat. He had liked Hypatius, coming to regard him almost as a friend. About to pardon him, he caught Theodora’s eye; she shook her head in silent warning. As usual, she was right, Justinian acknowledged to himself; any possibility of rivals bidding for the purple must be ruthlessly eliminated. Reluctantly, he gave the order for Hypatius’ execution. Pompeius too, would not be spared. Later that morning, the bodies of the two brothers were thrown into the sea. The insurrection was over.

In his private chamber, Justinian broke down and wept, his tears ones of relief, of guilt and sorrow for the deaths of so many of his people; above all of gratitude towards the brave and loyal woman to whom he owed his throne, and — most probably his life.

* Tribonian’s official title.

* Of Hunnish descent, Mundo — as he was then known — had once been a formidable bandit leader. Since swearing allegiance to Rome, however, he had become one of the most stalwart of Roman generals. A classic case of poacher turned gamekeeper! (See my Theoderic.)

* Dictator of Rome from 81–79 BC, Sulla was infamous for his Proscriptions — death lists of political enemies, posted up in public. By Justinian’s time, capital punishment, even for murder, was rare; blinding, or confinement to a monastery, the usual alternatives. (See Notes.)

* Bowl for mixing wine with water. The heavy imperial vintages were usually diluted before serving. A host’s generosity or meanness could sometimes be measured by the proportion of water to wine in the mixture.

* Master of Soldiers in the Presence [of the emperor].

* The Black Sea.

** Filthy whore.

* See Appendix III.

* So called, because the bodies of charioteers killed in the races were carried through it.