Justinian

THIRTY

At Damian’s wine shop in the harbour area between the Bosphorus and Golden Horn, the talk was all about a terrifying crisis that had suddenly, it seemed, blown up out of nowhere. A barbaric horde of mounted nomads originating from the steppes of Central Asia had crossed the frozen Danube, swept through the Balkans into Thrace, looting and killing as they went, smashed through the Long Walls* (damaged in a recent earthquake), and were even now advancing on the capital itself. Daily, panic-stricken refugees crowded into the city, creating a major problem for the authorities to lodge and feed them, and sapping the morale of the citizens.

‘They say the Huns have crossed the river Athyras,’ declared a burly coppersmith. ‘Christ, that’s less than twenty miles away.’

‘They’re not Huns, you know,’ corrected a youth from the University, ‘slumming it’ in Damian’s with some of his fellow students. ‘They’re Kotrigurs — led by one Zabergan, their chief.’

‘Same difference, mate. Slant-eyed yellow bastards, with these ruddy great pigtails down their backs. They eat Roman babies for breakfast, so I’ve heard.’

‘And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death!’ bellowed Scripture Simon. ‘And Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with — ’

‘Shut it, Simon,’ sighed the bartender. ‘There’s a noggin on the house with your name on it — but only if you keep your trap shut.’

‘What’s the emperor doing about it — “Cottigers” did you call them?’ grumbled a pot-bellied carpenter with sawdust in his hair. ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’

‘Nothing, chum,’ commented a brawny porter. ‘Bloody nothing. Oh, he can sort out Italy and Africa but when it comes to us poor sods at home — doesn’t want to know, does he? Too taken up with this latest religious wheeze of his to bother about the likes of us.’

‘Aphthartodocetism — that’s the new doctrine you’re referring to,’ pronounced the student, smirking knowingly at his friends.

‘Aphtha — ; what the hell’s that when it’s at home?’ growled the porter.

‘Aphthartodocetism holds that the body of Christ was incorruptible — ergo, His sufferings were only apparent.’

‘Well!’ exclaimed a floury-armed baker. ‘Sounds to me like something the Patriarch’ll take a dim view of — very dim indeed, I’d say.’ Sensing from the interested hush that he had the floor’s attention, the man went on portentously, emphasizing points with an admonitory finger. ‘According to Chalcedon, Christ is both human and divine. Strikes me that this Apartho-whatever stuff is suggesting He’s only got the one nature — which puts it squarely in the Monophysite camp. Looks like His Serenity has screwed up badly over this one.’

Keen amateur theologians, like all Constantinopolitans, the patrons of Damian’s immediately became engaged in passionate debate about the merits or otherwise (mostly otherwise) of this latest theological dogma, which seemed to have about it an exciting whiff of heresy. .

Seated as usual at his desk in his tablinum, Justinian racked his brains as to how best to tackle this appalling business of the Kotrigurs. No sooner had he finished the momentous task of restoring the West to the Imperial fold, he told himself, than the Danube frontier — despite being reinforced with a line of massive fortifications — started springing leaks, allowing a seemingly endless tide of barbarians to come flooding in. If it wasn’t Bulgars it was Slavs, if it wasn’t Slavs it was Utigurs, if it wasn’t Utigurs it was Kotrigurs. These last two — fierce Mongol tribes related to the Huns — he had managed, in time-honoured Roman fashion, to play off against each other for an extended period. Now, however, they seemed to have patched up their differences, resulting in the present crisis. With all Roman armies away in Italy or the east, the problem of how to defend the capital was acute. Also, it was becoming personally embarrassing. As ‘Little Father to his People’, an emperor was expected to ensure protection for his subjects in times of peril. Should he, Justinian, be found wanting, his status as God’s Appointed would inevitably be called in question. Meanwhile, the one man who might have been able, if anyone could, to deal with the situation, was absent. Belisarius, now retired, was nowhere to be found, and had left no word as to where he could be contacted. .

In his dream, more radiantly beautiful even than she had been in life, Theodora advanced towards Justinian. Taking him by the hand, she led him silently through the Triclinium of the Nine Couches, out of the Palace, and into the Augusteum. Pointing to the huge bronze equestrian statue of the emperor, arrayed in the panoply of a conquering Roman general, that had recently been installed in the centre of the great square, she turned to Justinian with a smile and murmured, ‘In hoc signo vinces — With this sign you shall conquer.’

Stirring awake, the emperor felt a sharp pang of loss and disappointment. The dream had been so real; in his memory it seemed as though Theodora had actually spoken to him. Suddenly, these sad reflections were replaced by a surge of excitement, as a thought flashed into Justinian’s brain. ‘In hoc signo vinces’: the words that, accompanying a cross in the sky, the symbol of the Christians, Constantine had seen in a vision before going on to defeat his rival Maxentius at the Battle of the Milvian Bridge. At last, God had given him his sign! — the sign that he had prayed in vain for, following the death of his beloved wife. The message of the dream was clear: he, Justinian, was to lead an army in person against the Kotrigurs, an encounter from which he would emerge victorious!

But where was the army to come from? Justinian’s mind raced. With the enemy almost at the gates of the capital, there was no way that any units could get here from their distant postings in time to intervene. There were the Palace Guards of course; but a token force of a few hundred parade soldiers could achieve little against fierce nomad hordes. There was only one solution: he must appeal directly to the citizens of Constantinople and raise a volunteer army — as Fabius had done, in the dark days when Hannibal had wiped out the flower of Rome’s legions. Never mind that for more than a hundred and fifty years, no Roman emperor had commanded troops in battle,* or that he was now seventy-seven; age had not dulled his mind nor sapped his resolve. Summoning the captain of the guard, he strode to the armoury to select the right accoutrements in which to lead his people into battle.

‘Belisarius!’ En route to address his subjects in the Forum of Constantine, Justinian uttered a cry of joyous welcome at the sight of his old general riding towards him at the head of his bodyguard — tough German bucellarii or personal retainers.

‘Came as soon as I heard the news about the Kotrigurs, Serenity,’ declared Belisarius. ‘Been away on a hunting trip in Phrygia, so rather incommunicado, I’m afraid.’

The two embraced warmly, Justinian feeling a rush of affection and gratitude towards this man who, more than any other, had made the dream of a reconstituted Empire into a reality. He also experienced a stab of guilt for ever having listened to Belisarius’ detractors; time and again — as he was indeed demonstrating at this moment — the general had proved his unswerving loyalty towards his emperor.

Entering the great circular forum, dominated by the porphyry column bearing a statue of the city’s founder, the pair, imposing in muscle cuirasses and crested helmets, mounted the tribunal for reviewing troops. The vast crowd assembled in the forum (Palace messengers had been busy spreading the word that the emperor wished to address the citizens) fell silent.

‘People of Constantinople,’ declaimed Justinian, experiencing an exhilarating flow of confidence, ‘I need hardly remind you that we stand today in peril from a savage enemy, both numerous and cruel. Our armies are too far off to help us, so it is to ourselves that we must look for the defence of our city and our families. That you will rise to the occasion I have every confidence, for you are Romans of New Rome, stout of heart and strong of spirit, who will never allow barbarian feet to trample the pavements of our capital. All fit males between the ages of sixteen and sixty, report now to the Arsenal where Belisarius — who, as you see, has joined us in our hour of need — will form you into companies and see that you are issued arms. That done, assemble at the Golden Gate, where Belisarius and I will lead you out against these heathen Kotrigurs. With God upon our side, we cannot fail to be victorious.’

For a few moments silence filled the vast enclosure; then thunderous applause erupted from the audience, moved and uplifted by the sight of their aged emperor and his great general come to their deliverance.

‘Amazing!’ breathed Justinian in admiration, looking at what appeared to be a huge army, arrayed along a ridge of high ground overlooking a tributary of the Athyras. ‘Congratulations, general — a really splendid job. From here, I can’t tell which are real and which are dummies.’

‘Let’s hope Zabergan thinks the same,’ said Belisarius, looking pleased by the emperor’s reaction to his subterfuge. ‘Only one in twenty’s an actual soldier; the rest are made of bundled straw with wooden poles for spears. Well, we’ll soon find out,’ he went on, pointing to a distant pall of dust. ‘That’ll be Zabergan’s van approaching.’

Minutes later, scouts came posting up, confirming Belisarius’ observation. Soon, the Kotrigur host was near enough to enable Justinian to make out details: squat, powerfully built men with flat, Oriental faces, mounted on huge, ill-conformed brutes; on the back of each warrior was slung a powerful-looking bow and a quiverful of long arrows. Obviously unwilling to engage the formidable Roman ‘army’ threatening their flank, the river of horsemen made a wide detour to the side into the tributary’s valley — as Belisarius had intended. Overweight and middle-aged he might be, but the retired general had lost none of his military flair.

‘They’ve fallen for it!’ exclaimed the general, slapping his thigh in glee. ‘Let’s spring our trap, Serenity.’

Spurring along the lip of the valley ahead of the slow-moving enemy column, the two Roman leaders arrived at where the river’s enclosing walls narrowed and steepened to become a gorge. Here, armed with darts and javelins, was stationed a large body of the citizen-militia recruited earlier. Piles of boulders, together with sheaves of extra missiles, had been arranged along the canyon’s edge. Despite his age, and hardly ever having set foot outside the capital these fifty years, Justinian found that he was enjoying immensely this challenging adventure.

Waiting for the Kotrigurs to come in sight, an air of tense expectancy built up among the Romans to a nerve-jangling degree. At last, from around a bend in the river, the nomad van appeared, and soon a densely packed mass of horsemen was drawing level far below.

‘Right lads,’ called Belisarius, ‘let ’em have it!’

A storm of stone and iron burst upon the Kotrigurs. Dropping from the heights, the huge rocks acquired enormous impetus, smashing men and horses to a bloody pulp, while volleys of sharp-tipped shafts skewered their helpless targets by the score. Unable to respond, the nomads milled about in desperate confusion; at last, on retreat being sounded by a horn-blast, they turned and streamed back up the valley, leaving hundreds of casualties strewn upon the floor of the defile.

In a gesture of infinite regret, Zabergan spread his hands, a wry smile creasing his broad Mongol face. ‘My young men — so headstrong, so high-spirited,’ he said to Justinian in apologetic tones. ‘“A spot of cattle-rustling in Thrace”, was all they wanted, so they said. Things got a little out of hand, I fear; I found myself unable to control them.’ And he sighed and shook his great head.

That was rich, thought Justinian, coming from a ruthless despot as feared among his followers as by the targets of his depredations. The two men were seated on cushions in the chief’s yurt, furnished in barbaric splendour with eastern rugs and hangings, weapons of the chase and war, furs, and looted vessels of silver, gold and bronze. Anyone less unable to control his men would be difficult to imagine.

‘Well, let us call your, ah. . “visit” an unfortunate misunderstanding,’ said the emperor, torn between inner mirth and indignation. ‘So, now you wish to take the foedus,* for your people to become Friends of Rome?’

‘Indeed, My Emperor. It will be a privilege indeed to serve one whose feats of arms are known throughout the world.’ Zabergan added slyly, ‘And whose generosity to his allies is equally legendary.’

‘The labourer is worthy of his hire, I suppose. Mind you, I expect results — no Utigurs, Slavs, or Bulgars to cross the Danube into Roman territory. An annual subsidy of, say, fifty pounds of gold; would the Khan of the Kotrigurs find such a sum acceptable?’

Justinian was well satisfied with the outcome. Zabergan duly led his Kotrigurs back across the Danube and seemed prepared to earn his subsidy, for no further raiding parties crossed the river. Not everyone agreed with his methods of maintaining peace beyond the frontiers, Justinian knew. His generals to a man (Belisarius included) regarded the stratagem of paying barbarians to keep the peace or to police other barbarians as shameful appeasement, unworthy of a Roman emperor. Which did not trouble Justinian one whit; his policy worked, and that was all that mattered.

After a tour of inspection of the Long Walls against ordering a programme of urgent repairs, Justinian and Belisarius returned to Constantinople at the head of their tiny army. As they rode past market gardens and fields of sunflowers, the emperor reflected on the main events occurring since the termination of the Gothic War. Apart from the start of silk production in the Empire, and barbarian incursions into the Balkans — now hopefully halted thanks to his deal with Zabergan — those seven years had seen: the death of Pope Vigilius and his replacement by Pelagius (a most reluctant ‘convert’ to Justinian’s Edict condemning the Three Chapters, acceptance being the price for Peter’s Throne), with the goal of religious unity however, seemingly even more remote than before; a series of destructive earthquakes (one of which had caused the dome of Hagia Sophia to collapse); a recurrence of the plague — mercifully less lethal and of shorter duration than its terrible predecessor; a renewal of the so-called Eternal Peace with Persia; and a wary alliance forged with yet another formidable tribe of steppe-nomads, newly arrived in Trans-Caucasia from Mongolia (the survivors of a massacre masterminded by the Chinese) — the Avars.

Of his friends and close advisers none remained, thought Justinian with sadness. John of Cappadocia, his one-time right hand man, following his disgrace at the hands of Theodora had taken Holy Orders, and died some years before. Narses, ever-efficient and still on active service in Italy though in his eighties, was however, never a man the emperor found that he could warm to. Popes, bishops, generals, and civil servants — all had come and gone, most serving him with competence, some brilliantly, without ever touching his heart. Wait though, he was forgetting; there were two faithful servants he could count as friends — Belisarius and Procopius, of course. Both had stood by him at that supremely testing time — the Nika Riots. Belisarius had shown unswerving loyalty throughout a long career, and Procopius — almost alone of his officials — had been brave enough to visit him when stricken with the plague. So, following Theodora’s death, he was after all not quite so alone as he had thought.

Constantinople came in sight: behind the mighty Walls of Theodosius stretched a vista of low hills rising one behind the other, studded with domes, towers, and tall columns topped by statues of past emperors, with — in the far distance — the looming mass of Hagia Sophia, shrouded now in scaffolding against the reconstruction of its fallen dome.* Entering the city from the north by the Charisius Gate, the procession was greeted by a deputation of senators and dignitaries headed by Procopius, now city prefect (duly promoted to the post — as Justinian had promised on his sick-bed). As it advanced past the Cistern of Aetius then through the ruined Wall of Constantine, the column was cheered to the echo by ecstatic crowds who had assembled to welcome home their emperor and favourite general, together with their little band of citizen-militia. True, no wagon-loads of booty or lines of chained captives accompanied the victors, but Roman arms had triumphed and Roman honour been upheld.

When it reached the Church of the Holy Apostles the procession halted, Justinian dismounting to enter and light candles before Theodora’s tomb. As he rose from his knees after offering a prayer, the emperor experienced a sudden, overwhelming conviction. His victory against the Kotrigurs had proved the sign appearing in his dream to be no false illusion. God had indeed forgiven him, and confirmed that he, Justinian, truly was His Chosen One. He would enter Heaven after all, to be forever reunited with Theodora.

Rejoining the procession, another realization struck Justinian that further raised his spirits. In taking on the Kotrigurs, he had, at last, exorcised those demons of self-doubt and hesitation that had plagued him all his life, resulting in: the deaths of Atawulf and Valerian; his self-harming in the Cistern of Nomus, the mark of which he carried to this day; his near-fatal hesitation to speak up for his uncle in the Senate; his vacillating concerning Belisarius; his failure to support Silverius or send troops adequate to protect Antioch. At last, those phantoms from the past could finally be laid to rest. As the column made its way beneath the towering arches of the Aqueduct of Valens, the emperor felt calm, and happier than at any time since Theodora had died.

But his new-found serenity and peace of mind were destined not to last. .

* Not to be confused with the Theodosian Walls protecting Constantinople (and which can still be seen). The Long Walls constituted a further line of defence, running across the peninsula thirty miles west of the capital — a sort of Maginot or Siegfried Line.

* Theodosius I at the Battle of the Frigidus in 393; Justinian took the field against the Kotrigurs in 559.

* Oath of loyalty, requiring the swearer to become a foederatus — federate.

* The project was undertaken by Anthemius’ son. By increasing the curve, he succeeded in making the new dome even more impressive than the original.