Justinian

TWENTY-ONE

In the throne room of the great royal palace at Dastagerd on the Euphrates, a tall, handsome young man gazed intently on a bust of Emperor Justinian. ‘We are rivals you and I,’ Khusro, Great King of Persia, murmured to himself, ‘although you may not know it yet. In the age-old contest between Persia and Rome, it is surely Persia that is destined to emerge superior. Let us weigh up your strengths and weaknesses, my enemy.’

The young king peered closely at the bronze features, whose likeness to their subject’s the sculptor had captured with amazing skill from coins and medals bearing the emperor’s image brought back from a Constantinople celebrating the triumph of Belisarius. ‘I see kindness there, and will; also ambition and a desire to rule justly and well. But what you imagine to be best for your people may not be what they themselves desire. You are determined to recover Rome’s Empire of the West, and to establish one Orthodox faith throughout your realm. But in striving for these ends you risk two things. Firstly, overstretching your resources, thus weakening your Eastern Empire; secondly, dividing your subjects into two warring camps — Orthodox and Monophysite. Persia, on the other hand, has no such problems: we have no lost empire to waste treasure in reconquering, nor are we plagued by divisive religious policies. Zoroastrians, Jews, and Christians, at liberty to follow their own creeds, all have enriched our realm by the free exercise of their varied talents.’

Khusro chuckled to himself at the thought of how an observer watching his monarch address a mute lump of bronze might react. He continued to study the metal face, looking to discern further character traits. ‘I see self-doubt, I think. Which suggests that your drive to achieve will be compromised by uncertainty. In the coming struggle, Justinian, it is I, Khusro, who will prove to be the winner. Your character is flawed, your realm riven by potential fault-lines. Old age is waiting in the wings, and soon the years will sap your strength and your resolve. It will be a contest between a young lion and a tired old bull.’ Smiling in anticipation, Khusro fondled the jewelled pommel of his sword. Drawing the weapon, he stood it upright between his knees, a sign to his generals, who would soon be arriving, that they should prepare for war.

Entering the chamber, Khusro’s captains knelt before the three symbolic thrones which, at a lower level, faced the one on which the monarch sat. One was for the Roman emperor, one for the chief ruler of the Central Asian khanates, the third for the emperor of China — against the time when these potentates would come to pay homage to the King of Kings.

‘Rise,’ commanded Khusro. ‘As you see, the sword is drawn. We will make war again against our ancient enemy.’

‘Would that be wise, Great King?’ enquired the elderly Surena,* Isadh-Gushnasp, the only civilian in the group, whose wisdom and experience alone entitled him to express his views without reserve. ‘The Treaty of Eternal Peace still stands; it should not, perhaps, be lightly broken.’

‘“The word of a Persian noble is his bond”,’ the king responded, quoting a maxim of the ruling caste, whose guiding principles were honour, truthfulness, and courtesy. ‘That is true — on a personal level. But at times relations between rival states demand a more, let us say, ‘flexible’ approach. And any ending of the Peace need not be permanent — only long enough for certain pressing issues to be resolved.’

‘These issues — the disputed territories of Lazica, Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Syria**?’

‘Precisely, my Surena. It is my view, as it has long been that of my predecessors, that the balance of power in these regions has for too many years been tilted in Rome’s favour. Once the scales are readjusted to an even level, Rome and Persia can sign the treaty once again.’

‘But give the word, Great King!’ exclaimed a grey-haired general, ‘and we shall raze Constantinople and bring you the hide of this Justinian — as once we served Valerian.’†

‘We do not seek to conquer Rome, Shahen, old fire-eater,’ chuckled Khusro fondly, ‘merely remind her that our Empire of Iran is not to be trifled with. Persia needs Rome — both as a training-ground where our young men can learn the arts of war, and as a source of subsidy in times of peace.’ Addressing the whole group, he went on, ‘Ravenna may have fallen to the Romans, but the situation there is still precarious. Before they can bring back their forces from the West, let us — as the envoys of Witigis have already suggested — surprise them while the Eternal Peace still holds, and launch a strike against their eastern frontier. I have a legitimate claim to Justinian’s throne.* But despite that, as I mentioned, conquest is not our aim — what does Persia need with more territory, when our realm extends from the Euphrates to the Himalayas? Instead, by holding their wealthy cities of Syria to ransom, we can extract huge indemnities to swell our Treasury.’ Turning to the Surena, he went on with an ironic smile, ‘I trust this does not meet with your disapproval, Izadh-Gushnasp?’

The minister bowed his head in mute assent. ‘I would only point out, Great King, that with Italy now Roman once again, Belisarius may soon be posted to the east.’

‘Then we must lose no time. Prepare your various commands for war,’ he declared to his generals. ‘I myself will lead the army. We march for Syria in three days’ time.’

‘My instructions, from the emperor himself, are that you break off any negotiations you may have begun with Khusro, and immediately make ready for a siege.’ The speaker — Count Prudentius, an influential courtier just arrived in Antioch from Constantinople — was addressing Germanus, Justinian’s cousin, whom the emperor had designated plenipotentiary in Antioch, in response to Khusro’s invasion of Syria. The two men faced each other in the main reception hall of Antioch’s Praetorium: Prudentius — florid, running to fat, sweating heavily in his official robes which, despite the June heat, he seemed to think it necessary to wear; Germanus — spare, with sharp, intellectual features, clad in a light tunic.

‘That’s madness!’ exclaimed Germanus, his face creasing in concern. ‘Megas, bishop of Berrhoea,** has just reported back to me after seeing Khusro. He says the king is willing to spare Antioch in return for a thousand pounds of gold. A small price, it seems to me, to save “the Crown of the East”.’

‘Giving in to blackmail,’ sneered Prudentius, mopping his face with a silken handkerchief. ‘Since when did Rome condescend to bow the knee to Persia? Shame on you, Germanus. Before he became emperor, Justin, as commander of Rome’s eastern army, saw off the Persians when they invaded Oriens. His nephew is prepared to do no less.’

‘But the two situations aren’t remotely comparable,’ protested Germanus, his heart sinking at the sight of the other’s stolidly impassive expression. ‘Justin was an inspirational leader, opposed by a mob of unblooded conscripts. There’s just no one of his calibre in Antioch at present. The city faces the prospect of investment by a new type of army: a huge force of volunteer professionals, battle-hardened in campaigns against fierce steppe nomads like the Turks and Hephthalites,* and commanded by Khusro himself — a charismatic leader to whom they show fanatical loyalty.’

Prudentius blew out his cheeks then expelled his breath in a contemptuous puff. ‘Excuses,’ he declared dismissively. ‘Antioch’s protected by massive walls, with many wells and granaries within their circuit; she could withstand a siege of months. Belisarius will soon be on his way with a powerful army. And meanwhile, you have already been reinforced by six thousand Roman troops, just the first of more to come.’

‘They will come too late!’ cried Germanus desperately. ‘Can’t you understand what’s going to happen? Six thousand men’s a tiny force with which to defend the immense circuit of the city walls. The Persians will eventually break in, then, in revenge for having been put to the trouble of besieging the place, start to massacre the population. It’s what always happens.’ He added bitterly, ‘But perhaps you’re just too blind or stupid to appreciate that.’

‘How dare you!’ retorted the ambassador, a rosy flush rising up his neck. ‘Don’t think I won’t report your insolence to the emperor.’

‘Do you really suppose I care?’ replied Germanus wearily. He prepared to make a last appeal to the other. ‘Look,’ he declared in a conciliatory tone. ‘I shouldn’t have said that; I got carried away. But I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t point out the realities of the situation. Khusro may be ruthless, but he’s also a man you can do business with, as they say. ‘Pay up and you’ll be left alone’ is his message to the Syrian cities. Hierapolis handed over two thousand pounds of silver and was spared, Berrhoea didn’t and was burned. I’ve no reason to suppose that Antioch will be an exception. Clearly, Justinian has failed to grasp just how serious things are on the ground here. Victory in Italy, and the fact that Belisarius is now free to intervene in the east, must have made him over-confident. Go back to him and point out that calling Khusro’s bluff simply won’t work. I imagine you’ve enough influence to make him see sense. I suggest that meanwhile we pay off Khusro, and thus avert catastrophe.’

By the supercilious lifting of the other’s eyebrows, Germanus knew that his appeal had failed. ‘I do believe that you’re naive enough to think that I might act counter to the orders of our emperor,’ Prudentius declared, in terms of mild amusement.

‘Do as you will,’ responded Germanus in resigned disgust. The man, he saw, was a career politician, incapable of acting other than from narrow self-interest. ‘As for myself, I intend to withdraw to Cilicia; Khusro shall not have the glory of capturing a kinsman of Justinian.’

Even before Germanus’ departure for the north, Prudentius made known to the garrison and citizens of Antioch the wishes of their emperor. The six thousand reinforcements, experienced in the harsh realities of war, greeted the announcement with dismay, the people with a wild elation born of ignorance, and a rash sense of superiority inherited from their proud Seleucid ancestors.

While the citizens made ready to defend the walls, Prudentius (secure in the knowledge that his ambassadorial status gave him diplomatic immunity, a tradition scrupulously honoured by both Persia and Rome), retired to the pleasant suburb of Daphne to await the Persian host.

Macedonia was awakened by a thunderous knocking on her Daphne villa’s outer door opening onto the street. Simultaneously, an agitated major-domo entered her cubiculum, bearing a lamp.

‘Domina,’ the man gasped, ‘the Persians are here. An advance party, I think; the main force is not expected till tomorrow.’

‘Let them in,’ Macedonia instructed, striving to sound calm despite the pounding of her heart. ‘Tell the staff to behave with courtesy, and do nothing to antagonize them. If necessary, offer them refreshment.’ Hurriedly throwing on some clothing, she proceeded to the atrium which, by the dim light of dawn, she could see was already occupied by a dozen wild-looking irregulars in filthy sheepskins, and frightened members of her household cowering against the walls.

Grinning evilly, one of the strangers advanced on Macedonia. Grabbing her by the arm, he began roughly to drag her back the way that she had come. The major-domo rushed to her aid, but was brutally felled by a blow from her assailant’s buckler. ‘Don’t try to help,’ Macedonia called in a trembling voice to her visibly shocked staff. ‘Anything I may have to suffer would be nothing compared to the death of any of yourselves.’

In the semi-darkness of her cubiculum, Macedonia found herself being thrust backwards onto her bed. Easily pinning her down with one hand, the soldier ripped apart her dress with the other. She gagged with disgust as a rank stench of stale sweat, unwashed skin and rancid breath filled her nostrils. With a mounting sense of horror, she realized that she was helpless to prevent what was about to happen, as he thrust his knees between her legs, prising them effortlessly apart. That this brutal coupling was being forced upon her by a man made it all the more repugnant.

Suddenly, the soldier gave a choking gasp. He stiffened; blood gushed from his mouth, drenching Macedonia, then his inert body rolled aside from his intended victim. .

Macedonia came to, her spinning brain registering the elements of the scene that met her eyes: the corpse of her would-be rapist face down on the floor, a bloody puncture in his back; a man — clearly an officer from the quality of his armour and accoutrements — standing beside the bed, a reddened sword in his hand.

‘A thousand apologies, Lady,’ declared the officer in halting Greek. ‘That a man under my command should have behaved so bestially is a stain upon my honour and my conscience.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Did he. .’ he began.

‘Rest assured, sir,’ Macedonia replied tremulously, covering her semi-nakedness with a blood-spattered sheet. ‘You intervened in time.’

‘Bactrian scum,’ declared her rescuer, an edge of bitter anger in his voice. ‘We recruit them for their horsemanship and scouting skills, but I sometimes wonder if they’re not more trouble than they’re worth. In charge of a billeting party of them in advance of the king’s main army, I was careless enough to leave them unattended while I checked the stabling for my horse. I should have known better. I hope you can forgive me, Lady, for I find it hard to forgive myself.’

After promising to arrange for armed protection for her house when the army should arrive, the officer departed with his troop — chastened after receiving a savage tongue-lashing.

The first intimation of the Persians’ approach was a wall of dust extending along the horizon to the north-east. At last the van could be distinguished — company after company of cataphracts in glittering armour; before it, borne by white-clad priests, flew the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the huge Sassanian royal flag, its gold and silver cloth encrusted with gems.

For hour upon hour the Persian host streamed onto the level ground before the city, not being finally assembled until mid-afternoon, its presence indicated by a sea of tents extending from the banks of the Orontes to the fringes of the coastal plain. Khusro himself, accoutred as a cataphract (following the custom of Persian commanders), his silvered carapace of articulated plates blazing in the sun, advanced with his entourage of satraps, generals and attendants to the suburb of Daphne. Here, villas had already been commandeered by advance parties for their residence, and Prudentius and his staff were already installed.

The latter group, plus the citizens of Daphne (which included Macedonia, whose house was now under guard, as the Persian officer had promised), were invited to meet the Great King. Fearful yet curious, they obeyed the politely veiled command, finding the king seated on a throne before his retinue, a short distance from the city walls, its ramparts crowded with excited Antiochans. The throne was flanked on one side by a curious iron tripod, on the other, ominously, by a gibbet.

A formal exchange (couched in terms of flowery politeness) followed between Prudentius and Khusro. The Roman informed the king that, in obedience to Justinian’s command, the people of Antioch were determined to resist any Persian attempt to take their city. Khusro thereupon gave assurances that should the Antiochans change their minds and pay the thousand pounds of gold agreed upon, the city would be spared. He would give them until the following morning to decide. The inhabitants of Daphne (unless they chose to join their fellow citizens inside the walls) would not be affected by the consequences of any siege.

Persian intermediaries, mingling with the citizens of Daphne, then asked them (in Greek and with impeccable courtesy) if they had any requests or enquiries to make of the king. Macedonia, full of gratitude towards the Persian officer who had saved her, commended him warmly for his timely action. A short time later she was summoned to appear before the king himself. Suddenly nervous and regretting her impulse to speak out, she found herself facing a strikingly good-looking young man, whose welcoming smile helped to put her at her ease.

‘What unit was this officer in charge of, Kalligenia*?’ the king asked politely, in the purest Attic Greek.

‘I think he said his men were Bactrian scouts, Your Majesty.’

The king rapped out an order to one of his attendants who instantly departed, then, turning back to Macedonia said, ‘I can only apologize for the failure of one of my officers to keep better discipline among those whom he commanded. Failure for which you nearly lost your virtue. Rest assured, he will be duly punished.’ And he inclined his head in dismissal.

Macedonia, who had assumed that the officer was to be congratulated or promoted, was shocked. Opening her mouth to protest, she was confronted by an official who placed a warning finger to his lips, then led her from the scene.

Soon after, the unfortunate officer was conducted under escort to the iron tripod, to be questioned brusquely by the king. Khusro then issued a command, whereupon two brutal-looking menials seized the officer by the arms and hustled him roughly to the gibbet. His hands were bound behind his back, a noose whipped round his neck, and, before the horrified gaze of the assembled Romans, he was hauled aloft, kicking frantically as the cruel rope choked his life away.

Next morning, the Daphne Gate was opened and, to the jeers of the Antiochans and the laughter of the Persians who opened ranks to let them through, the six thousand Roman reinforcements sent by Justinian fled, heading north for the Cilician border. Persian heralds then rode up below the walls and repeated the terms that Khusro had specified to Prudentius. On these being greeted with yells of defiance, the heralds withdrew and the Persian host rolled forward to commence the siege.

First to the attack, advancing to the beat of drums and cymbals, were the Jan-avaspar — ‘the men who sacrifice themselves’ — assault troops carrying scaling-ladders. Time and again the ladders were sent crashing to the ground, spilling their human cargo, the defenders shoving the topmost rungs from the ramparts with long, forked poles. But so vast was the perimeter of the walls that it proved impossible to repel all such attacks, and gradually the Persians began to infiltrate the city, meeting desperate resistance from the citizens who knew that they were fighting for their very lives.

Meanwhile, Persian miners dug tunnels beneath the fortifications from which they began excavating galleries. Listening for the tell-tale clink of picks on rock beneath their feet, the citizens dug counter-mines, breaking into some of the subterranean passages where, in pitch-blackness, they fought bloody hand-to-hand battles with the enemy. But they could not detect every man-made cavern; in the largest of these, the Persians ignited the wooden beams supporting the roof. Minutes later, with a rumbling crash, a section of wall collapsed in a vast pall of dust and smoke.

Into the gaping breach charged a mass of cataphracts, scattering any defenders foolhandy enough to contest their passage. The heavy cavalry was followed by the Sogdian Brigade. These mailed giants from beyond the Hindu Kush were armed with heavy battle axes that inflicted fearful damage on the Antiochans, severing heads or limbs with nearly every stroke. With the cutting edge of the Persian army driving all before them, a torrent of infantry now poured through the gap and began a systematic slaughter of the citizens, suddenly reduced to a demoralized mob possessed of but one thought — escape. However, for the fleeing, huddled crowds and screaming women and children corralled inside the bulwarks, there could be no escape. For the remainder of that day and through the night, the killing continued, the Persians hunting down every man, woman, and child that they could find. .

Several mornings later, accompanied by Prudentius whom he had ‘suggested’ might care to join him, Khusro looked down upon Antioch from the wooded slopes of Mount Casius. Fanned by a strong wind blowing onshore from the sea, fires now raged throughout the city, the distant crackle of flames and the crash of falling masonry mingling with a faint hubbub of despairing cries, as the slaughter carried on unchecked.

‘Stop them, Great King!’ cried Prudentius, aghast, his previous complacency destroyed by an object-lesson in the grim realities of war, and now replaced by disbelieving horror. ‘In the name of humanity, I beseech you — put an end to this.’

Khusro shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Even I, the Shah-an-Shah of the mighty Empire of Iran, am not omnipotent. My soldiers’ blood is up, and their fury must be allowed to run its course. If I commanded them to desist, would they obey me? As well instruct a tiger not to rend its prey.’ He smiled and shook his head with a smile of gentle irony. ‘You see, my friend, unlike Justinian, who has God upon his side, I am but a man, who must act within his human limitations.’ He gestured to the conflagration below. ‘You seem to imply that this is somehow my fault. Perhaps you should reflect,’ he went on in tones of mild reproof, ‘that it could so easily have been avoided, if only. . Well, I’m sure I need not recapitulate.’

‘To see Antioch destroyed!’ cried Prudentius in a stricken voice. Choking back a sob, he whispered, ‘It is unbearable.’

‘Courage, friend.’ Khusro placed a reassuring hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘Antioch will rise again. For those who survive this unfortunate event, I shall build a new city on the banks of the Tigris, where they may live in peace and freedom as honoured guests of Persia. Greeks have long been welcome in my realm — an ornament to our society, like those professors from Athens when Justinian closed the Schools.’

When the blood-lust of his soldiers was eventually slaked, Khusro continued his progress through northern Syria, exacting tribute from city after city (all paid promptly, encouraged by the fate of Antioch), returning to Persia in the autumn,* well-pleased with the fruits of his campaign against the Romans. These included promises by Justinian to pay an annual subsidy in gold towards ‘protection’ — ostensibly for both Romans and Persians — against the nomads of the steppes.

Accompanying the mighty host as it headed homewards beside the Euphrates was a long, long train of captives (among them Macedonia) — the survivors of the Sack of Antioch.

* The title of the Shah’s chief minister and plenipotentiary.

** How curiously the wheel of history revolves. All these territories (for Lazica read Georgia, for Mesopotamia, Iraq), for centuries mere pawns in the ‘Great Game’ between powers such as Rome, Persia, Russia, Britain, the Ottoman Empire, and more recently, America, are all now independent nations. (Perhaps, in the case of Iraq, that should be ‘semi-independent’!)

† See Notes.

* See Notes.

** Aleppo.

* Or White Huns. (Gibbon refers to them as Nephthalites.)

* One-who-is-born-beautiful — a complimentary mode of address. (The title was originally bestowed on the priestess supervising certain ancient Greek rites.)

* Of the year 540.

* The same Liberius who, nearly sixty years earlier, had masterminded the division of land in Italy between the Romans and Theoderic’s Ostrogoths — an immensely challenging and delicate task.