Ghost Empire

by Richard Fidler

  The hero of the Alexander Romance bears only fleeting resemblance to the historical Alexander; he was presented to Christian readers not as a pagan, but as a kind of harbinger of Christianity, a pious follower of the One True God. And it was here that Christians thought they could see the hand of God at work centuries before the feet of Jesus walked the Earth.

  ALEXANDER OF MACEDONIA, young, brilliant and handsome, set out one day to fight the Belsyrians, who had refused to submit to his rule. Alexander’s men, clad in golden breastplates, were victorious and they pursued the fleeing Belsyrians for fifty days into the wilds of the north-east, all the way to the borders of the Unseen World.

  Eventually Alexander and his men chased the Belsyrians to a pair of dark mountains, known as ‘the Breasts of the North’. The people of this place were of a foul and unclean nature; some with a single horn growing out of their heads, others with the feet of an elephant or the head of a wolf. The wretched creatures ate ‘dogs, flies, snakes, aborted foetuses, dead bodies and unformed human embryos’ and the names of their nations were Gog and Magog.

  Alexander understood at once that these creatures posed a mortal threat to the civilised world. He studied the pass between the two mountains, and realised that if he could somehow close it up, all the hordes of the Unseen World would be trapped behind it. He fell to his knees and asked almighty God to bring the two mountains together. With that, the mountains groaned and shuffled and the gap was closed.

  The young conqueror then ordered his men to construct gigantic gates of bronze to stop up the narrow space that remained between the two mountains. Alexander, well pleased with his work, went on his way. And the people of Gog and Magog remain trapped in that dark place to this day, seething at the bronze gates, waiting . . . waiting . . .

  Detail of mosaic of Alexander the Great.

  Creative Commons/Ruthven

  THE NAME-CHECKING of Gog and Magog in the Alexander Romance was further proof to the Romans, if any was needed, of the soundness of the scriptures, and of Revelation. But still, the holy book left them puzzled as to what role they would play on the Day of Judgement. The waters of the Apocalypse had been muddied somewhat by the ideas of the early Christians. Revelation had been written at a time when the empire was still pagan, and emperors were persecutors. Many early Christians had taken the most lurid figure in John’s vision, the Great Whore of Babylon, as a symbol of the Roman empire in all its wickedness and cruelty. But now that the Romans had been redeemed in the blood of Christ, the old correlation between the empire and the Great Whore could no longer be accepted. A different role had to be found for the empire, and for the emperor, in the final crisis before the Second Coming.

  THEN, AT THE CLOSE of the seventh century, a powerful new vision of the apocalypse surfaced in Constantinople. The vision was attributed (falsely, as it turned out) to a fourth-century father of the church, Methodius of Olympus.

  The Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius put Revelation entirely to one side and drew on other isolated strands of scripture to find a much more favourable and central role for the Roman empire in the final war between heaven and hell. Although the author’s vision was somewhat bleak, ultimately he offered reassurance that the victories of the Ishmaelites were all part of the plan, and that Christendom would ultimately be redeemed by the return of Christ in triumph.

  The Apocalypse speaks of a time when the Ishmaelites will overrun the lands of the Persians and the Romans. From the vantage point of the late seventh century, these prophecies had uncannily already come to pass. In the next phase, the book predicts the walls of Constantinople will be breached: ‘Woe to you, city of Byzantium, because Ishmael overtakes you. For every horse of Ishmael will pass through, and the first among them will pitch his tent before you and will break down the Gate of the Wooden Circus.’

  But the invasion of Constantinople will mark a turning point. God will galvanise the emperor and the Romans into action. They will retake the lands stolen from them by the Muslims, and extract a terrible vengeance. The emperor’s anger will burn up the conquered lands until they are barren and quiet once again.

  For a brief interregnum there will be joy and peace for the Christians. But then, the Apocalypse prophesies, Satan will open up the gates of the north, and the unclean nations of Gog and Magog will stream out across the face of the Earth like locusts.

  Then, when all seems lost, a mighty angel will descend from heaven and annihilate the hordes of hell in a single moment. With Gog and Magog dead, the last emperor of the Romans will perform one last solemn duty:

  The king of the Romans will go up to Golgotha, where the timber of the Cross was fixed at the place in which Christ our lord endured death. And the king of the Romans will take his crown and place it on the Cross and spread out his hands to heaven and deliver the kingdom of the Christians to God.’

  At this moment the emperor’s diadem will ascend into heaven and the last emperor, having completed his duties, will drop dead at the foot of the cross, and the Earth will be given over to the temporary rule of the Antichrist.

  FOR THE BELEAGUERED ROMANS, the Apocalypse gave a shape and meaning to events that would otherwise seem symptomatic of a disordered universe. Its fierce imagery was imprinted on the Byzantine imagination, and its prophecies remembered when the empire entered its death throes at the end of the Middle Ages.

  But as the Christian calendar clocked over into the eighth century, the Romans continued to lose more lands to the caliphate. The armies of Allah expanded eastward into Central Asia and westward across North Africa, all the way to the Pillars of Hercules in modern-day Morocco. Still restless for conquest, they sent their transports across the straits of Gibraltar into Spain.*

  The sudden eruption of Arab power constitutes one of the biggest power shifts in the history of the world, all of it achieved less than a century from the death of Muhammad. By 712, an Arab trader could conceivably set out from the banks of the Indus River and ride west continuously through Arab-controlled lands all the way to the surf of the Atlantic coast.

  The despised desert nomads were no longer embattled upstarts. Winning an empire had made them supremely self-confident, and they now sought to crown their glory with the Queen of Cities, which their Caliph planned to remake as his new capital.

  MEANWHILE, Constantinople had fallen into a cycle of almost continuous upheaval. Bardanes, who had taken the throne from Justinian II, was a man of limited ambitions. He took his elevation to the purple to mean that he was done with the tiresome struggle for power, and he now had licence to pursue his twin passions: getting into complex theological disputes with church leaders, and gorging himself on whatever pleasures he could purchase with imperial gold.

  Just nineteen months into his reign, after enjoying a long morning banquet with his friends, Bardanes settled into an afternoon nap. A group of soldiers entered his chamber, dragged him into the Hippodrome and gouged his eyes out. This was, like the slitting of the nose, a disfigurement that stopped short of regicide, but still effectively disqualified him from any hope of a return to power

  Anastasius II, a competent bureaucrat, stepped up to the vacant throne. The new emperor got to work, fixing the mess left to him by his predecessor. The strategic outlook had further deteriorated. Imperial spies in the east brought alarming news to Constantinople: the Arabs were building ships in their Mediterranean ports and moving troops towards the border. All the evidence pointed to a major assault on Constantinople by land and sea.

  The Dream of al-Qustantiniyah

  THE CALIPH OF THE ARAB EMPIRE was a popular and admired leader, famous for his appetite and oratory skills. His name was Sulayman bin Abd al-Malik, and in that promising summer of 715 his mind was filled with the singular object of his longing: al-Qustantiniyah, the city of Constantinople. The caliph’s poetic imagination had been inflamed by an Islamic prophecy, which foretold that the capital of the Romans would one day fall to a great Muslim leader with the name of a prophet. Sulayman (Solomon) believed he
might be that man. Sulayman now made a dramatic prophecy of his own, vowing, ‘I shall not cease from the struggle with Constantinople; I will either force my way in, or I will bring down the whole Arab dominion’.

  Sulayman was too ill to lead the expedition himself, so he entrusted the leadership of his armies to his brother, Maslama, providing him with a military force of overwhelming strength: a hundred thousand men and eighteen hundred ships, equipped for an assault by land and sea.

  As word spread of Maslama’s campaign, thousands of volunteers from all over the Muslim world rushed to join up, inspired by the call to jihad and enticed by the fabulous riches that were said to be within the Queen of Cities. Rich men donated weapons, horses, camels and donkeys, in the expectation they would be repaid many times over.

  AS SULAYMAN MOVED HIS FORCES into a state of readiness his designs on Constantinople became clear to everyone in the eastern Mediterranean. It dawned on the Romans that a critical moment in the history of the world was almost upon them. Like the Arabs, they saw themselves as central actors in a great cosmic-historical drama, but the script was being handed to them a page at a time, and now the plot seemed to be directing them towards some terrible climax, an apocalypse. The full might of the Saracens was gathered and pointed at their precious city, the beating heart of Christ’s kingdom on Earth. Surely, they reasoned, God would not abandon his chosen people in this critical hour? Fervent prayers were directed to the Blessed Virgin, begging her to intercede on their behalf.

  Emperor Anastasius went about preparing the city for the coming siege. Catapults were hauled up onto the ramparts of the Theodosian Walls, the sea walls were repaired and strengthened, the city’s granaries were filled to the brim and an edict was issued, stating that every family should store enough food to sustain itself for three years. Anyone unable to do so was advised to get out now. Meanwhile Anastasius tried to stall for time by attempting to negotiate a diplomatic settlement.

  But as Anastasius diligently prepared for the frontal assault, he was brought down by a stab in the back. The same feckless troops who had installed him two years previously now objected to his strict measures and deposed him, sending him to a monastery. The army cast about for a compliant figure to replace Anastasius, and found one in a meek tax collector named Theodosius, who was terrified by their proposal and fled into the forest to hide. He was duly tracked down and urged at the point of a sword to accept the crown. Then, in March 717, Theodosius too was deposed by a skilful young general, who would come to be known as Leo the Isaurian.

  Konon the Fox

  LEO THE ISAURIAN was not born with the name Leo, and neither did he come from Isauria. His name was Konon and he was from a peasant family in the Syrian border town of Germanicaea, near the Taurus Mountains.* His village had been absorbed into the Arab caliphate before he was born, and so Konon grew up familiar with Arab customs and he spoke the language fluently.

  Konon joined the army, where his talents were spotted by Justinian II, who appointed him as military commander of Anatolia. He was headquartered at the frontline fortress of Amorium in Asia Minor, which was where the legend of his fox-like cunning began to emerge.

  The Arab generals in Anatolia were hoping to soften enemy resistance by exploiting rivalries and jealousies among the Roman leaders. The Arabs knew that Konon was being spoken of as a future emperor, and so, when they approached the fortress of Amorium, their soldiers fanned out along the walls, and mischievously began to chant ‘Long live the Emperor Konon! Long live the Emperor Konon!’

  The Arab commander then sent a message to Konon inside the fortress: ‘We know that the empire will soon devolve upon you. Let us talk peace together.’

  Konon replied, ‘If you truly desire peace, then why do you blockade my fortress?’

  The general promised to pull back his men if Konon agreed to talk.

  The details in the historical accounts are confusing, but it seems the Arabs offered Konon a deal: if he agreed to become a vassal of the caliph, they would pay him secretly and help to install him in Constantinople as the ‘King’ of the Romans. This, they explained, would be a good outcome for everyone: Konon would get his throne, and Constantinople would be won for the caliphate without bloodshed. Konon, with his easy familiarity with Arab ways, would make a perfect puppet king.

  What followed next isn’t clear. In some histories it’s surmised that Konon told the general that yes, of course he would agree to the deal, but his people would never accept him as emperor if they suspected he was the caliph’s agent, so it was in everyone’s best interests for the Arab armies to withdraw from Amorium.

  The general agreed. Having confused the Arab commander for the moment, Konon escaped from Amorium with his men, and marched on Constantinople, which was in a state of anarchy. At the Theodosian Walls, Konon gave assurances to the hapless Emperor Theodosius that if he abdicated, he and his family would be well treated. Theodosius was only too happy to comply and he retired to a monastery. Konon, having won the support of the senate and the Patriarch, entered the city through the Golden Gate and was crowned Emperor Leo III in the Hagia Sophia. Later he would be nicknamed Leo the Isaurian.

  LEO HAD COME TO THE THRONE, like Heraclius, in a moment of mortal peril. His forces were weak and his people demoralised. Constantinople had boiled over with revolutionary violence seven times in the past twenty-two years. While the Romans were preoccupied with internal divisions, the Bulgars had chipped away at their lands in the Balkans, and the Arabs had torn away at their heartland in Asia Minor. And now the armies of Allah were less than six months away from the capital of Christendom itself.

  The Burning Ships

  THE SENSE of impending doom in the city only deepened as Maslama and his hundred-thousand-strong army marched across Asia Minor to the shores of the Hellespont to meet their transport ships, which ferried them over to the European side of the strait. On 15 August, Maslama arrived on the outskirts of Constantinople, and positioned his men in fortified camps along the entire length of the Theodosian Walls.

  Maslama’s confidence may have been bolstered by an expectation that the emperor was secretly on his side. Maslama had no need to sacrifice his magnificent army with an assault on the walls; all he had to do was wait for Leo to persuade his people that resistance was useless, and that it was in everyone’s best interests to open the gates and avoid a bloodbath. Maslama assumed, not unreasonably, that Leo would rather be the puppet king of an intact city than a dead ruler in a smoking ruin. Leo, in his letters to Maslama, hinted that surrender would be the only humane solution, but still the city’s gates remained closed and barred.

  The tone of their correspondence became increasingly tense as Leo stalled for time. With each day, Maslama’s hopes of a bloodless victory faded into bitter disappointment.

  In the meantime Leo struck a deal with Tervel, the Bulgarian khagan, who had concluded he was better off with the weaker Romans as neighbours than the dangerously strong Arab caliphate. Late one night Tervel sent a group of Bulgar raiders on a surprise attack into the Arab camps. Dozens of soldiers, including some men belonging to Maslama’s personal guard, were cut down. Several days later, a party of Arab soldiers went foraging for food in a nearby forest and ran into another group of Bulgarians, and were killed to a man.

  Maslama was put on notice that it was now too dangerous to send his men to forage for supplies in the Thracian countryside. Reluctantly, he was forced to accept he’d been duped by Leo, who clearly had no intention to surrender. The only strategy left to Maslama was to bring in his navy to blockade the city, choke off its food supply and force the Christians to come to terms.

  ON 3 SEPTEMBER, the Caliph’s 1800 war galleys were sighted on the Sea of Marmara. Men and women watching on the walls could only gawp in wonder and terror as the vast armada swept into the Bosphorus. But as the rearguard of the Arab fleet passed Acropolis Point, the wind fell away, and twenty heavy transport galleys, ferrying two thousand marines, dropped out of formation, and were
dragged by the current towards the sea walls.

  Leo seized the moment and gave the order to attack. A squadron of dromons – Roman war galleys – charged out of the Golden Horn and bore down on the straggling Arab transports. The Arab marines on deck fired a volley of defensive arrows, but the Roman ships still pushed forwards, closing the distance.

  Then, with a roar and a blast of thick black smoke, a jet of liquid fire spewed from the prows of the Roman galleys. The Arab transports were suddenly engulfed with a flaming, sticky fluid that set the sails and decks ablaze. Arab marines and sailors were burnt alive or compelled to leap into the fast-moving currents of the Bosphorus.

  The prows of the Roman ships spewed more of this liquid fire onto the water, but somehow the flames were not extinguished, and the hellish substance continued to burn on the water’s surface, igniting more of the slow-moving Arab ships. The rest of the fleet could only look on as their transports were incinerated, the roar of the flames mixed with groaning timbers and the screams of dying men. The charred hulks broke apart and disintegrated.

  Image of Greek Fire, from an illuminated manuscript, the Madrid Skylitzes. The caption above the dromon reads: ‘the fleet of the Romans setting ablaze the fleet of the enemies’.

  public domain/Wikimedia Commons

  THE EXACT FORMULA for this flaming liquid, which became known to the world as Greek fire, is unknown. It was the Romans’ most closely held state secret and the recipe died with the empire. Most likely it was some combination of pine resin, crude petroleum, quicklime, sulphur and potassium nitrate, mixed up to form a thick, black liquid. The incendiary fluid was carried aboard Roman warships in a heated cauldron to make it less viscous. Once the ship came within range of the enemy, the liquid was siphoned up bronze pipes to a nozzle fitted to the prow, where it was ignited, and then spewed out, like a flamethrower. It’s not hard to imagine how its use could have backfired horribly, but careful engineering and meticulous seamanship brought the full power of Greek fire to bear on the empire’s enemies at the critical moment. And it was no less effective as an instrument of propaganda: what better way to destroy an infidel navy than by sending it to a flaming hell?