Justinian

THIRTY-ONE

Procopius, one of whose duties as city prefect was to ensure the flow of water to the public baths and fountains, nodded to the water engineer. That official turned the handles of a long iron rod projecting from the roadway to open the sluice-gate of a subterranean tunnel leading from the Cistern of Aetius. The assembled group of workmen looked on anxiously, then burst into a ragged cheer as, after a few moments, sparkling jets of water spurted from the fountain.

‘Well done, lads!’ laughed Procopius. ‘You’ve earned your bonus; clearing that channel must have been a mucky job. Take a short break now, then meet me at the Mocius Cistern in an hour.’

Grinning cheerfully at the prospect of that extra drinking money (Procopius was a popular prefect), the maintenance crew, accompanied by the engineer, departed — except for one man, a tall individual with an air of quiet self-possession that marked him out from his fellow workers, Procopius had observed.

‘A word in private, Prefect?’

‘Very well.’ Impressed by something in the other’s manner and bearing, Procopius suggested they walk to the Necropolis, situated coveniently near to the Cistern of Saint Mocius. A stroll through an expanse of low-density housing interspersed with vegetable gardens, between the Walls of Constantine and those of Theodosius, brought them to the City of the Dead, a strange and haunting area of mortuary monuments — tombs, urns, obelisks and statues, many of exquisite workmanship, their whitewashed surfaces or gleaming marble contrasting with the sombre greens of cypress, box, and yew.

‘Will this do?’ asked Procopius, and went on with a smile. ‘A bit crowded, but at least they can’t hear us.’

‘We haven’t met, Sir,’ said the stranger. ‘But we both, as “Friends of Libertas”, served the same great man — Gaius Anicius Julianus, alias “Cato”. You’ll have heard of me as “Horatius” — a go-between who collected and delivered messages. And you, Sir, I believe were known as “Regulus”.’

Procopius inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Well, Horatius — something you wish to tell me?’

‘We both know, Sir, that Libertas has been disbanded, and all its leaders — Cato, Catullus, Cincinnatus et al., dead or forced to take Holy Orders. However, something has arisen which — if we can ensure it goes ahead — would amount to a final blow being struck for the Cause.’

‘Go on.’

‘Justinian is in a quandary regarding the succession. Because of his advanced years, he knows that he can’t for much longer avoid naming his successor. Yet he fears to do so, because he thinks he would then be perceived as yesterday’s man, with the reins of power slipping from his grasp. For someone like the emperor, who can’t bear the idea of not being in control, that would be intolerable. So he’s let the matter drift.’

‘Even though it’s an open secret that the succession’s almost bound to pass to one of two men,’ the prefect commented. ‘There’s Justin the son of Germanus who commanded in Italy before his untimely death. And there’s another Justin, son of Justinian’s sister — a modest, capable fellow, of a type usually referred to as “a safe pair of hands”. Of course the fact that no preference has been made public has led to wild speculation on the part of the citizenry.’

‘Exactly, Sir. Which brings me to my point. All this uncertainty has created an atmosphere of disquiet and instability, the perfect breeding-ground for riots — stirred up, of course, by the Greens and Blues. Also plots. Most of these are hatched by bungling amateurs and come to nothing. But one or two have to be taken seriously — like the one your vigiles put down two years ago.’

‘You mean the Theodore affair? — when the curatores* George and Aetherius tried to elevate to the purple the son of Peter the Patrician, of all people?’

‘That’s the one, Sir. Compromised by security leaks, as I recall. However, I’ve got wind of a fresh conspiracy — this time one that’s been planned with meticulous care, and, in my view, stands a much better chance of succeeding.’

‘How come you know this?’ asked Procopius, both astonished and piqued that his own efficient network of delatores — informers — had failed to hear of such a plot.

‘Before I was recruited by Libertas, Sir, I was an agens in rebus for the state, which meant I had to be ready to take on any role from diplomat to spy. And, though I say it myself, Sir, I was good. Which is why Cato took me on. When it comes to keeping an ear to the ground to learn the “buzz”, there’s no one can match yours truly, Sir.’

‘You say this plot could succeed. Your reasons?’

‘It’s being masterminded by a pair of senators, Marcellus and Ablabius — intelligent, cool-headed types. They’re on the guest list for a banquet celebrating the re-dedication of Hagia Sophia, to be given by the emperor and held in a fortnight’s time — on the Ides of October. At a given moment during the feast, they, together with another senator, will draw their daggers — hidden till then beneath their robes — and despatch Justinian. Their men — already stationed in the vestibule and porticoes — will then announce the death of the tyrant, and excite sedition in the capital. Given the present mood of discontent, that shouldn’t be a problem. I learned all this from the third main accomplice, Sergius, a friend of two officers of Belisarius. I had made it my business to strike up an acquaintanceship with Sergius, and managed to convince him that I was sympathetic to the plot. Which of course, because its purpose is identical to the primary aim once held by Libertas, is no more than the truth. As a one-time Friend of Libertas yourself, Sir, I thought you’d like to be put in the picture.’

‘Would I, indeed! My thanks, Horatius — you’ve done well to tell me this. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me informed of any future developments.’

‘My pleasure, Sir. A word of caution though.’

‘Explain.’

‘We wouldn’t want the plot to be aborted, would we, Sir? Best keep what I’ve told you to yourself; it wouldn’t do for any of your vigiles to act in any way which might arouse the suspicions of the plotters. You get my drift, Sir?’

‘Rest assured, Horatius. This conversation will remain between ourselves.’

‘I’ll be off then, Sir; I see your workmen beginning to arrive at the cistern over there. I’ll keep you posted, never fear.’

The plot, of course, must not be allowed to succeed, thought Procopius, as he made his way down from the Necropolis towards the great shining square that marked the Cistern of Saint Mocius, one of the three that were open to the air. Usurpation — though a frequent occurrence in the old Western Empire — had never succeeded in the East, though the Nika Riots had come pretty close. Should the conspiracy be foiled by others than the prefect and his vigiles, then he, Procopius, would appear in a most unfavourable light — incompetent at best, implicit in the plot at worst. If, on the other hand, the coup succeeded, what then? As a favoured appointee of the murdered emperor, he might well find himself proscribed by the new regime as politically tainted. Alternatively, one or both of the two Justins might launch a counter-coup. Should Justinian’s usurper be deposed as a result, Procopius, as former prefect responsible for law and order in the city, would be blamed for failing to forestall him in the first place.

That he, Procopius, might harbour such reservations, would not have occurred to someone like Horatius — clearly a blinkered idealist who probably imagined all Friends of Libertas to be as altruistic as himself. Anicius Julianus on the other hand, being a man of the world had understood that, while one might be prepared to support a noble cause, there was nothing wrong with expecting due compensation for providing that support, or for not being willing to make the ultimate sacrifice on behalf of the cause. Not for him that ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori’* hogwash. His undercover work for Libertas had, for sure, been dangerous at times; but it had been well rewarded, the risk adding spice to the campaign of sabotage which he had waged, not altogether unsuccessfully, against Belisarius.

Meanwhile, he would pretend to go along with Horatius, learning from him all he could about the details of the plot. Then, in a pre-emptive strike, he would arrest the conspirators before they could carry out their intention. He, Procopius, would be the hero of the hour, no doubt to be suitably recompensed for his boldness and professionalism. Libertas was a cause lost many years before; a sensible man accepted that and moved on. Then a sudden happy thought occurred to him. There was something to be salvaged from the wreck of that abandoned dream — something that would provide enormous satisfaction, while incurring not the slightest risk. .

Meeting regularly with Horatius at the Necropolis in the course of the next two weeks, Procopius learned the following. Marcellus, Ablabius and Sergius had arranged with the master of ceremonies (no doubt some coin changing hands) for their couches at the feast to be the ones nearest to Justinian’s. The third accomplice, Sergius (from whom Horatius obtained his information), had received assurances from his two officer friends that, in support of the coup, they would call out a large number of the Palace Guard, disgruntled over recent cost-cutting measures regarding donatives and privileges.

Procopius now confided to Horatius that he had just stumbled upon reliable information that Belisarius was privy to the plot, and (though his position prevented him from openly declaring it) intended to lend it his support. The general’s huge authority and popularity would, Procopius pointed out, virtually guarantee the coup’s success. Of course, he, Procopius, had no such secret knowledge; it was merely a fabrication to implicate Belisarius. Planted in Horatius’ mind, the seed would germinate and grow. Passing by osmosis to Sergius, then to Sergius’ two officer friends, it would serve to cast suspicion on the general in the event of anyone ‘talking’ under interrogation in the aftermath of the plot’s exposure.

What a delicious way to settle an old score, thought the prefect. Now, he stood to be paid back in overflowing measure for all those mind-numbingly tedious hours when, as official war historian compiling his account, he had been forced to listen to Belisarius enlarging on his deeds of derring-do. The man was an unashamed glory-hunter, a romantic dreamer who loved war for its own sake, who had seemed to treat campaigning as a game, where opponents like Witigis or Totila were regarded more as sporting rivals to be treated with respect and courtesy than as deadly enemies to be eliminated by whatever means were most effective. That was something Narses understood; a professional soldier to his fingertips, he had finished off in months a war that Belisarius had allowed to drag on for nearly two decades, resulting in destruction and suffering on an incalculable scale.

Should Belisarius’ ‘involvement’ in the plot come to light, it would cause the general acute embarrassment at the very least. More likely it would incur public humiliation, with loss of office, wealth, or even liberty, while his ‘betrayal’ would come as a bitter blow to Justinian, who regarded the general not only as a valued servant, but as a trusted friend. Libertas may have failed, Procopius reflected, but at least the tyrant and his minion would not escape entirely a measure of just retribution.

On the fifteenth day of October, the Palace, especially its kitchens, hummed with activity concerning preparations for the banquet to be hosted by the emperor. Cleaning, tidying, arranging, checking lists, scores of menials and slaves, chivvied by silentiarii implementing the instructions of the Magister Officiorum — Peter the Patrician — transformed the Triklinos or state banqueting hall into a space of glittering magnificence, with couches of rare woods decked with silken cushions, elegant tables supporting dishes, flagons, bowls, and goblets, all of solid gold and finest workmanship, and everywhere swags and garlands of sweet-smelling flowers.

Mid-afternoon, and Justinian’s guests — the great and good of Constantinople, resplendent in their robes of office — began arriving: senators, patricians, generals, bishops, the Patriarch. After being announced by the master of ceremonies, these were shepherded to their places by silentiarii. Smiling, affable, welcoming to all, Justinian was the very model of a gracious host, his mood serene and happy following the morning’s service of re-dedication in Hagia Sophia, its restored dome more glorious even than before.

Course followed course of exquisite food, each accompanied by the appropriate wine; then, when the lamps had been lit and the last course finished, the master of ceremonies proposed a toast to, ‘Flavius Anicius Justinianus — our Thrice-Blessed Augustus, Restorer of the Roman World.’

All rose and raised their goblets. Then a collective gasp of horror burst from the assembled guests as three senators, placed nearest to the emperor, drew daggers from beneath their robes and stepped towards Justinian. But before they could strike, they were surrounded, overpowered, and disarmed by vigiles disguised as servants. Bursting free from his captors, one of the would-be assassins grabbed a carving knife from a table and, before he could be re-apprehended, drew the blade across his throat. Spouting in scarlet jets from severed arteries, blood fountained through the air, splashing Justinian’s purple robe.

In a dungeon deep in the bowels of the Praetorium, the remaining two conspirators in manacles — Marcellus being the one who had died by his own hand — stood before the seated prefect. The room’s other occupants were a dozen vigiles, and a carnifex or torturer, who stood beside a table on which, like a set of surgeon’s instruments, was ranged the grisly tool-kit of his trade. In a corner, an array of rods and pincers projected from a glowing brazier.

‘Just tell me all you know,’ said Procopius in pleasant tones. ‘You’ll talk anyway — eventually. So why suffer unnecessarily?’

Both men remaining silent, the prefect nodded to the torturer. The man approached the pair, bearing in gloved hands an iron rod with white-hot tip. This was applied to the backs of the prisoners, these being restrained securely in the grip of burly vigiles. A sickening stench of burning flesh filled the dungeon. Ablabius remained silent, blood dripping down his chin from where he had bitten through his lower lip, but Sergius screamed aloud in agony. ‘No more!’ he sobbed, as the iron was withdrawn. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’

It all came out: the announcement to be made that the emperor was dead; the part to be played by Sergius’ two officer friends in persuading a section of the Palace Guards to back the coup; the information that Belisarius himself supported the conspiracy. All this was confirmed when the two officers in question were arrested and interrogated. (Horatius meanwhile had disappeared — provided with a bag of solidi and instructed to escape.)

Disdaining flight (suggested by his friends) as admission of complicity in the plot, Belisarius indignantly refuted before the Council the ‘evidence’ produced against him. Nevertheless, he was judged guilty and, though his life was spared in consideration of his forty years of loyal service, he was put under house arrest, and his wealth confiscated. However, no hard proof emerging that he was involved in the conspiracy, the following year Belisarius was released and restored to favour. Too late; his heart broken by grief and resentment, the great general — perhaps the greatest Roman general of all — died a few months later.

Shock and sadness over what he perceived as betrayal by his oldest friend changed to remorse and bitter self-recrimination on Justinian’s part as he came at last to see that Belisarius was no traitor, but the innocent victim of malicious rumour.

Revenge, as a Greek philosopher once said, was indeed a dish best eaten cold, reflected Procopius as, lauded and heaped with honours by a grateful emperor, he basked in his new-found reputation as the saviour of the monarchy.

* Civic dignitaries. The plot was investigated in 560, but the case fizzled out for lack of evidence. None of the mud stuck to Peter himself, for we find him in post as Master of Offices throughout that year, and in 562 negotiating a Fifty Year Peace with Persia.

* Horace, Odes. ‘It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.’