Justinian

NINETEEN

The day after Christmas of the same year that Belisarius took Rome and Witigis invested it, Justinian and Theodora, accompanied by Menas, the new Patriarch, and followed by a glittering train of courtiers and clerics, set out from the Imperial Palace for the consecration of the new Hagia Sophia, risen Phoenix-like from the ashes of the old.

As the procession crossed the Augusteum (or Augusteon, as the great square was coming to be called, Greek fast replacing Latin in the capital), the emperor reflected on the events of the three years that had elapsed since the triumphant conclusion of the Vandal War. There had been a few unforeseen setbacks and anxieties: the mutinies in Africa and Sicily; the shock of hearing from Belisarius that the war might be lost for lack of reinforcements (the speed and apparent ease of victory in Africa, had perhaps caused him to assume too easily that Roman discipline and tactics, even with modest manpower, was a combination that would always beat barbarians); the Gothic resurgence following the replacement of the timid and vacillating Theodahad with the formidable Witigis; the tug-of-war between himself and Theodora over who should be Pope.

But in the end, most problems (or at least those that could be loosely termed political) had been resolved: a relief force of tough Isaurians and Thracians under an experienced general (rejoicing in the appellation John ‘the Sanguinary’) had entered Rome and re-opened lines of communication, forcing Witigis to prepare to abandon the siege; Theodora’s choice for Pope — the pro-Monophysite Vigilius — had triumphed over his Orthodox rival Silverius. (Perhaps it had been for the best, the emperor conceded to himself, his basic sense of justice enabling him to realize that the recent revival of persecution of the Monophysites was as lacking in humanity as it was unproductive.) All considered, the success of the Grand Plan seemed tantalizingly close to completion. In Italy, the tide was turning in his favour; a few more months should see the whole peninsula in Roman hands (with Spain, Gaul, and perhaps one day even Britain, to follow?), especially as he had decided to send an experienced general — Narses, with a fresh army — to help Belisarius. The second version of his and Tribonian’s great Code* had been published to universal acclaim and satisfaction. While the goal of religious uniformity might seem for the moment to be elusive, with goodwill, patience and perseverance, that too, Justinian believed, could eventually be achieved.

However, like those fabled Apples of the Hesperides — fair to the eye but which turned to ashes in the mouth — a secret fear lurked ever at the back of Justinian’s mind, threatening to dash the cup of triumph from his lips. There had been times when, if he were being honest with himself, he had experienced ‘a dark night of the soul’ concerning his attitude towards his wife. Deeply though he loved Theodora, there had been moments when he had been tempted to see her, not as his Divinely Chosen colleague, but as an agent of the Evil One with whom he had weakly colluded: a figure like Medea, the enchantress in the fable, who, to gratify her love for Jason slew her own brother. Such a moment had come to pass when the thought occurred to him, ‘Had Theodora sent the letter to the Gothic king that had resulted in the murder of Amalasuntha?’ Another had been prompted by rumours that the recent Pope, Silverius, an enemy of the Monophysites (whose cause Theodora had championed), had been done away with at her orders. At such times, the old corrosive fear that he might be cursed, that he was somehow bad for others (a fear that for long he had believed buried) had returned to haunt him. To the roll of shame: the deaths of Atawulf and Valerian, the near-fatal hesitation to speak up for his uncle in the Senate, that self-inflicted blow in the Cistern of Nomus the mark of which he bore to this day — to these perhaps could now be added the names of Amalasuntha and Silverius.

As, resplendent in the robes and diadem of a Roman empress, Theodora processed across the Augusteum beside her husband, she reflected on the tumultuous events of the past eighteen months regarding the Monophysites, whose well-being was (next to the lot of her own sex) the cause dearest to her heart.

As a result of pressure from a reactionary Pope, Agapetus, who, on a visit to Constantinople had been horrified to find the Monophysites in the ascendancy (largely through the efforts of Theodora on their behalf), not only in the capital but as well throughout the Empire, Justinian had been forced to renege on his granting of favoured status to the Monophysites. Squeezed between the Scylla of the Pontiff and the Charybdis of Monophysitism, Justinian had yielded to the former — who was in an extremely strong bargaining position. Agapetus had hinted that he might use the immense power that he wielded as Pope to tell the Romans in Italy not to cooperate with Belisarius and his army of liberation, unless the emperor agreed to his demands. These were: the deposition of Anthimus, the Monophysite Patriarch of Constantinople, and the excommunication of all leading Monophysites in the capital.

Realizing that his cherished aim of recovering Italy for the Empire (the key constituent of his Grand Plan) could be put in jeopardy, Justinian had reluctantly yielded to what, in effect, was Pontifical blackmail. Anthimus was duly deposed, and replaced by Menas — an ultra-Orthodox Chalcedonian* — who immediately and with brutal thoroughness began a crackdown on Monophysites throughout the Empire, especially in their heartlands of Syria and Egypt, where a reign of terror was unleashed. The death of the aged Agapetus did nothing to improve the lot of the persecuted sect, Silverius — a principled conservative — being consecrated by the electoral college in Rome as his successor.

Theodora however, wholehearted in her loves as in her hates, was not the sort of person meekly to accept defeat. She had an ally in the corridors of power: Antonina, wife of Belisarius, a strong-willed woman who had even more influence over her husband than did Theodora over hers. Via correspondence, the two women (who were bosom friends) concocted a plot. Antonina would put pressure on her husband (now installed with his tiny army inside Rome, a city which the Goths, led by their new king, Witigis, proceeded to besiege) to have Silverius deposed in favour of Theodora’s choice for Pope, Vigilius, an unscrupulous, ambitious deacon from an illustrious Roman family. Vigilius had sworn that, in the event of his being elected, he would reverse the anti-Monophysite regime of the Patriarch Menas. To undermine Silverius’ position, forged letters purporting to be messages from him to Witigis offering to throw open the gates of Rome to the Goths, were to be ‘discovered’. .

Torn by shame and indecision, Belisarius paced the marble floor of a reception chamber in Rome’s Pincian Palace. He had sent a summons to Pope Silverius in the Lateran Palace on the opposite, southern side of the city, and was now awaiting his arrival. It was a meeting the general was not looking forward to. Under orders from Antonina (acting on instructions from that she-devil of a friend of hers, the Empress Theodora), he was to present the Pope with an ultimatum: issue a statement supporting the Monophysites, or face the consequences.

Belisarius hated the role he had been forced to play — a second Pilate compelled by circumstance to act against a good and innocent man. He liked and respected Silverius, the man who, in the face of considerable opposition from more cautious souls in both the Senate and the Vatican, had opened the gates of Rome to Belisarius’ army. Now, he was to pay back that generous act by betrayal.

‘Come!’ he shouted with uncharacteristic violence, as a rapping on the door interrupted his thoughts. A frightened-looking servant entered. ‘S-Sir,’ the man stammered, ‘- the Domina would wish to see b-both yourself and the Holy Father — should your d-discussion not succeed.’

‘Understood,’ replied the general in more kindly tones, dismissing the messenger with a gesture. Soon after, the Pope — a frail-looking figure with an open, guileless countenance — was ushered into the chamber.

‘Welcome, Your Holiness,’ declared Belisarius, waving the other to a seat. ‘There is a proposition I must put to you,’ he went on awkwardly, continuing to pace the floor, ‘- one which I hope you will feel able to accept. It is — ’

‘- that I must go along with what the Empress wishes on behalf of the Monophysites,’ continued Silverius with a wry smile; ‘or surrender Peter’s throne. Something on those lines, I assume?’

‘Precisely, Holiness,’ responded the general, sounding relieved. ‘You’ve saved me from having to spell it out.’ He seated himself opposite the Pontiff. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ he cried, in his agitation forgetting to observe the correct mode of address, ‘- just do as she requests. If you don’t, then someone else will; and we both know who that someone is — a time-serving lickspittle called Vigilius.’

‘I can appreciate you’re in an awkward position, General,’ replied the other. ‘I suppose you’ve no choice but to put the Empress’ case to me. But you must understand that I cannot compromise my principles by agreeing to her demands. If that makes things difficult for you,’ he went on gently, ‘then I am sorry. But I have to answer to my conscience rather than an earthly power. What was it that Christ said? — ‘Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s; and unto God the things that are God’s’.’

Giving a resigned shrug, Belisarius conducted Silverius to his wife’s suite. Assembled in the triclinium were a number of officials and servants, also a beautiful woman, extended on a couch like a great, sleek cat. Beside her stood a smooth-faced man, clad in the rich apparel of a noble rather than a deacon’s simple gown — Vigilius.

‘Come, my love — sit by me,’ commanded Antonina. Obediently, the general perched himself on the floor beside the couch. Turning to Silverius, she waved a clutch of documents in the air and declared in icy tones, ‘You would betray us to the Goths, it seems, Your Holiness. “At the first hour on the Kalends of next month, I shall cause the Asinarian Gate to be opened”,’ she read from one of the missives. ‘Your own words, Holiness. What have you to say?’

Silverius smiled and spread his hands, as if to imply that the question did not merit any answer.

‘Traitor — by your silence you condemn yourself,’ sneered Antonina. ‘If further proof of guilt were needed, the fact that your residence, the Lateran Palace, is hard by the Asinarian Gate, supplies it.’ She nodded to two of the officials who, stepping forward, tore the pallium from the Pontiff’s shoulders then forced him to exchange his papal vestments for the habit of a monk. A barber then advanced, and, producing a razor, unceremoniously scraped the hair from Silverius’ scalp to form a tonsure.

The unfortunate man was hustled from the palace (from which his waiting retinue was curtly dismissed) and put on board a ship bound for the east. Next day,* Vigilius was consecrated Pope, groups of Belisarius’ soldiers standing by to discourage hostile demonstrations.

Arriving in the Empire, Silverius was confined in a monastery near Patara in Lycia, a coastal province of south-west Anatolia. Chancing to hear of his distinguished ‘guest’, the bishop of Patara visited Silverius, from whom he heard the whole sorry saga of deposition and abduction. Outraged, the bishop wrote to Justinian informing him of Silverius’ plight. For the emperor (prepared though he was on most occasions to turn a blind eye to the machinations of his wife) this was too much. Indignantly, he had Silverius freed and put on board a ship for Rome, with instructions that the case against him be re-opened and the charge of treason re-examined. When he heard the news, Vigilius was terrified (should Silverius be cleared and reinstated, what would happen then to him?) and at once appealed for help, to Antonina and Theodora. .

Off Naples, the ship carrying Silverius to Rome was intercepted by a fast galley or liburna and boarded by four rough-looking individuals. Showing the captain a letter of authorization bearing the seal of Belisarius, their caput demanded that Silverius accompany them. The skipper and the former Pope had little choice but to comply. Two hours later, the liburna beached on a rocky islet and Silverius was bundled ashore. ‘Your new See, Holiness,’ chuckled the caput. Then the craft stood out to sea, dwindled to a distant dot, and vanished.

The awful truth dawned on Silverius. Here, on this tiny island, he had been left alone to die. A hasty examination of his ‘new See’ confirmed his fears: the place consisted of bare rocks from fissures in which sprouted a few hardy shrubs. It was totally devoid of shelter, fresh water, or edible substance — in short, of anything that might sustain life. A horrible, lingering death from thirst and hunger awaited him. Unless. .

The son of another stout-hearted Pope, Hormisdas, (before the latter entered the priesthood), Silverius had grown up on the coast of Calabria.* Like all his boyhood companions, young Marcus, as he had then been known, had taken to swimming almost as soon as he could walk. But that was sixty years ago. Old and in failing health, could he now attempt the sort of distances he had swum with ease in his youth? He looked east across the blue Tyrrhenian, to a steep and barren coastline perhaps five miles distant. On the far horizon a tiny, purple cone was etched against a sky of palest azure — Vesuvius.

Never one to shirk a hard decision, Silverius rapidly made up his mind. If he remained on the island, he faced inevitable death — barring unlikely rescue by some passing craft. Death too, probably awaited him if he attempted to swim to shore, but at least it would come quickly. Stripping off his monkish habit, he waded into the sea and began to swim.

It being summer, the water was not cold and he managed to make slow but steady progress; his old skills had not completely atrophied. After what he estimated to be an hour, Silverius noted to his gratified surprise, that the coast was appreciably closer. Though tiring, he was far from exhausted; provided he could escape the onset of muscle cramps and did not encounter adverse currents, there might, he thought, be a possibility that he could actually reach shore. And then? With luck, he could surely beg some local peasant to provide him with clothing and sustenance for his immediate needs. He could then make his way to Rome where he had many friends among both Goths and Romans, men of integrity and influence who would help him live ‘underground’ as it were, until. . Until Justinian and Belisarius (both decent, well-intentioned men, but as potter’s clay in their wives’ hands) developed enough backbone to call off Theodora and Antonina. And that, Silverius was realist enough to acknowledge, might not be for a very long time. Still, better a life of precarious obscurity than imprisonment in a remote monastery, or slow starvation on a sea-girt rock.

Now, on the approaching shore he could make out individual features such as rocks and trees; he must have covered at least two-thirds of the distance. Silverius felt a surge of optimism. Against all the odds, it looked as though he might in fact survive. Then he spotted something that caused hope to shrivel in his breast, to be replaced by a cold knot of terror — a dark, triangular fin slicing through the water fifty feet ahead of him.

The great shark dived deep below the swimmer, then, with powerful sweeps of its crescent tail, shot upwards with the speed and impetus of a missile from an onager.

Feeling a jarring thump against his leg but as yet no pain, Silverius reached downwards — and experienced a thrill of disbelieving horror as his groping fingers encountered a stump of shredded flesh and jagged bone, felt a pumping flow of blood from a severed femoral artery. Then pain struck; Silverius’ scream of agony was mercifully cut short as the monster hit again, crushing his torso to a jelly in its massive jaws. .

With its scaffolding now removed, Justinian could see the exterior of the great church clearly for the first time. As Anthemius had warned him to expect, though impressive through sheer scale, it was not otherwise especially arresting. However, entering from the narthex into the ambulatory and thence into the vast central space, Justinian (who had deliberately refrained from visiting the building in the final stages of construction, the more to savour this moment of revelation) was reduced to stunned silence, awed by an overwhelming sense of space and light. And everywhere, such colour: marble richly veined in varied hues, softly glowing mosaics, the gleam of gold and silver.

Justinian raised his eyes, caught his breath at the sight of the vast dome high above, appearing, just as Anthemius had said it would, to float in air — ‘as though suspended by a golden chain from Heaven’. A sense that he had touched the Infinite, the Transcendental, overcame the emperor. Through these mute stones, he felt, God was assuring him that he was indeed His Chosen One, as Theodora was divinely authorized to be his helpmeet. His doubts and fears evaporating like the mists of morning on the Bosphorus, Justinian fell upon his knees and whispered, ‘Solomon — I have surpassed you!’

* The version we possess today.

* To refresh the reader’s memory: the Chalcedonians believed that Christ had two natures — human and divine (the view accepted by Orthodox Catholicism), while the Monophysites held that Christ had only one nature — divine.

* 29 March 537.

* Then situated where Apulia — the ‘heel’ of Italy, is today; Calabria is now the ‘toe’ of Italy — anciently Bruttium.