by Marié Heese
“I smell smoke,” said Theodora, shivering.
“One of the slaves upset a brazier, Despoina,” soothed Narses. “A curtain caught alight. It is under control.”
“Nonetheless. The city is not safe. We must send my grandson out of harm’s way,” Theodora ordered. “Tell Zeno they must take him to the Hieron Palace.”
“It will be extremely cold there also,” objected Narses. “And this is terrible weather for travelling.”
“I know. But at Hieron, Justinian’s harbour walls will protect them from the worst of the wind. Please, Narses, humour me in this. You must arrange for them to go. Do it.”
“Yes, Despoina. I hear and I obey.”
Sixth interlude: The Nika revolt continues, 18 January, AD 532
Narses the eunuch: his journal
In the year of Our Lord 532, January 18
This morning Justinian announced that he would go out one more time to communicate with his people and make one final attempt to end the riots. Clearly he had spent the greater part of the night considering this; even in normal times he sleeps little, and these past few nights he has had a great deal to keep him awake. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his mouth was firmly set.
Theodora had emerged before her royal husband, paler than ever, her huge black eyes smudged with mauve shadows, to seek me out. “Narses,” she said urgently, “he has taken the idea into his head that he can end this rebellion himself. You must convince him that the time for talk has passed. If he goes out now … truly, he might … he might not come back. You must stop him from this foolishness!” She had her arms tightly folded across her chest as if to hold herself together. It seemed to me that she reverberated, like a plucked cithara string.
When Justinian made his announcement, I said: “Thrice August, there are still ships anchored in the Golden Horn.” I knew that the soldiers who had come to support the Emperor had embarked again after the last hopeless battle against the insurgents and the flaming wind, but they had not sailed away. “One of them could take us to Heraclea Pontica. The Emperor would be made welcome there … and kept safe, until … all this … subsides.”
“This is my kingdom,” said Justinian. “They are my people. I must speak to them. It is my duty.” No protests affected him: against my remonstrations, his wife’s desperate pleas and the generals’ sober advice, he was obdurate. “I will go out again to the Hippodrome,” he said. “I believe that I can negotiate terms that will satisfy the rebels.”
“Despotes, there are desperate men out there. I cannot guarantee …”
“They are my people,” he repeated. I noted that he was clutching a codex that held the Gospel in his hand. It was recognisable even to illiterate people by its richly ornamented cover with an embossed cross of solid gold set among jewelled stones. “I’ll swear to my promises,” he said, holding the codex aloft. “I’ll swear to every one. I’ve sent out messengers. The people will come, they will listen to me.”
“Let me come with you,” pleaded Theodora. “The people should see that we are not afraid. If I come, it will seem more … more normal. Please, I want to be with you.”
“No. It is far too dangerous. One cannot know what such a mob will do. It is no place for a woman. No. I go alone, except for you, Narses. Come. Only you. No, no further guards. The Mandator will join us.”
“But, Despotes …”
“If they want me dead, they can kill me this morning,” said Justinian. “There will be thousands. If they want me dead, not even the entire Palace Guard will stop them, nor will a circle of excubitors. Come, Narses.”
Procopius made a note.
Theodora clutched her husband’s arm. “Justinian …”
He bent to kiss his beloved small wife. A long look passed between them. Her eyes were wondering, as if they looked on a man she had never seen before. And indeed, so brave and resolute he has never been. “Theodora,” he said. “My love.”
She clung to him as desperately as any mother perforce sending her adored only son into battle. “Don’t go,” she begged. “Please don’t do this.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and gently set her aside. Then he turned away and straightened his shoulders. One could see that his mind was already cast forward, concentrated on the ordeal to which he had committed himself. “Come, Narses.” He shook out his purple robes and strode forth, codex in hand. I almost had to trot to keep up with him. At the entrance to the Kathisma the Mandator, whose stentorian voice issues from a remarkably small body with a barrel chest, bowed low and fell into step. Justinian hardly acknowledged him.
The vast circus was packed. It was an overcast day, the feeble sun obscured by clouds, and the cold air biting with the odour of ash. The howling gale that had seemed to support the insurrection had finally died down during the night. Smoke drifted across the horseshoe, causing many of those sitting and standing in every available space to cough. When Justinian made his appearance a kind of subdued, low growl rumbled across the stands. It gave me goose flesh. The Emperor gave no sign that he had heard anything. He stood as far forward as he could.
“My people,” Justinian said, through the trained voice of the Mandator. “I stand here before you today to remind you that I am your Emperor, Thrice August, God’s Vice-regent here on earth. Elected by the Senate, the Army and you, the People. Elected, anointed and crowned. And as such I truly have your interests at heart.”
The growl intensified.
Justinian battled on. “This destruction is not good for the city, not good for the country, not good for you. We must find a way to end it and to put it behind us.”
The volume of the growl diminished slightly. Perhaps they will give him a hearing, I thought. Perhaps they have had enough. He may even succeed. Please God that he will do so.
“I understand that you have suffered. I understand that my government has, in some matters, been at fault. You have made your unhappiness clear,” he continued. “In no uncertain terms. And we have heard you.”
Now the packed auditorium had fallen silent. His words, first murmured into the ear of the Mandator and then boomed out over the thousands of upturned faces, rang like a clapper striking a bell. “We must make amends. You all do see this book, this holy book that I hold in my hand.” Justinian held up the jewelled codex. The pale sunlight was enough to make it glitter. There was a universal sigh. “Yes, I see that you know what it is. The Gospel of our dear Lord Jesus Christ, who died for our sins. Christ the Redeemer, who showed us how to forgive, who died suffering on the cross for our sins.”
Oh, yes, I thought. That is the right note to strike. I think he may yet save the day.
“He showed the way. My people – I ask of you that you may show forgiveness too. Where we have failed, we can make reparations. Where you have acted rashly, we can be compassionate. What I suggest is this: first, law and order must be restored. Anarchy must come to an end. If you will lay down your weapons, and abjure further arson, then I will … and this I swear on this holy book …” Again Justinian lifted the Gospel, holding it level, with his right hand laid on the front cover. “I swear that I will grant amnesty to all who have committed crimes against the crown. None shall be punished for what they may have done in the passion of the moment. And I will undertake to listen to any demands that you, my people, may then make.”
Now a murmur could be heard. Yes! I thought, exultantly. He has won them over! He has done it!
Justinian stood erect, hand on the codex. The Mandator inclined his head to listen, then boomed: “You have my word. I will keep faith with you.”
From the marble seats, which held the senators and members of the Imperial Council (ignored and humiliated by the Emperor of late), a harsh voice suddenly bellowed a retort: “Yes, you’ll keep faith with us as you kept faith with Vitalian!”
That name was as fatal as a flung missile could have been. Other angry voices joined a swelling chorus of insults: “Liar!” “Murderer!” “Swine!” The words became a torrent of a
buse. The entire Hippodrome roared its hatred of the man in the purple robe who stood almost alone, flanked only by his spokesman and myself, neither one a powerful protector to defend his life.
Justinian was flushed with fury, and tried to speak again, but even the booming voice of the Mandator was drowned in the furious hub-bub. I grabbed the royal arm and unceremoniously swung the Emperor around. “Despotes! Come away! Come, quickly!” Between us the other fellow and I hustled the Emperor out through the Ivory Gate and down the corridor at an undignified trot.
When Justinian returned to the palace with nothing to report but defeat, he was devastated. I believe he had not realised how deep the feelings against the two of them ran, how vicious the rebels were, how dangerous the insurrection. Tears stood in his eyes as he reported his utter failure to the small coterie of the faithful who remained in the dusty triclinium.
“They are calling for another emperor,” he said, desolately. “I heard them as we left. We are done for. Finished.”
There was a long silence. I glanced at Procopius and thought I noted a faintly pleased expression on his pale, plump lips. He avoided my eyes and ostentatiously made an entry in his journal.
Belisarius said: “It has been … as if we were fighting fate. As if the very elements had taken up arms against us.”
Mundus nodded his shaggy head hopelessly. “Indeed.”
Cappadocian John clapped his hands together, making everyone jump. “Best to go then, while you can,” he stated brutally. “Won’t be long before this palace is overrun. The palace guards will turn against you, and then even the mercenaries won’t stay put. They have no loyalty, except for the kind that can be bought. Best be quick, before the ships set sail.”
Belisarius stiffened at this, but so beaten down was he that he did not contradict the fellow.
“Very well then,” said Justinian. “We must send word to one of the captains. He must prepare suitable quarters, wait for us, and then be ready to depart immediately.”
“I’ll see to it, Despotes,” said Belisarius. “And my men will ensure safe conduct.” He glared at Cappadocian John.
The title he had spoken seemed to hang in the air, almost visible. Despotes. Basileus. Thrice August. How would one address Justinian once those titles had been lost?
Eudaemon cleared his throat. “Yes. Heraclea Pontica would be a good place to … to wait. For matters to calm down. People to come to their senses. Then, Despotes, you could return.”
“And take care of all those who acted illegally,” added Tribonian smoothly.
Justinian nodded. But we all knew that they would never come back.
Procopius wrote, busily. Silence reigned.
Belisarius stood up. “I’ll send someone,” he said.
“When they are ready, they must send word,” said Justinian. “Once we have boarded, we cannot wait.”
For the time being, however, waiting is all that we can do.
Chapter 24: A new emperor
Above the angry crowd in the Hippodrome, the Kathisma, where moments before the Emperor had stood making a final plea, was suddenly empty. There was a kind of expectancy in the air, a sense of fate made subservient to the common will. As if it had become possible to do momentous things, as long as there was a collective drive towards their desired goal. They could not be checked, they would not be placated; they would thunder forth and remake the world.
“Down with Justinian!” roared a huge red-headed fellow, brandishing a short sword. “We need a new emperor! Replace Justinian!”
“Replace Justinian!” The shout wafted across the city like the stink of acrid smoke upon the wind.
Soon a new name was yelled and taken up as a rallying cry. This gave direction to the howling horde, once more fused into a single furious entity, a fearsome dragon lumbering along the streets to the house of Probus, youngest nephew of the old emperor Anastasius. Yes, he had royal blood. They would give him power and authority. He would do to oust the disdained Justinian.
In the forecourt of Probus’s villa they found a distraught major-domo quaking in his boots.
“The m-m-master’s out of town,” the man gabbled, sensing catastrophe. “The m-master and the m-mistress, they’re out of town. Truly, they left yesterday, there’s nobody here, truly, I speak truly, believe me …” He stumbled sideways up the curved steps leading to the studded front door, throwing out his shaking arms in a vain attempt to carry out his duty, only to be flung aside contemptuously as the red-haired giant led a furious charge. Soon the mob had rampaged through the rooms, wrecking furniture and shattering glass, breaking open door after door as they searched for weapons.
No useful person or battering ram could be found.
Wild with frustration, the dragon breathed out its foul and fiery breath. Leaving the house of Probus crackling in flames, the mob rolled onward to the home of Hypatius. They stormed up the sloping hill atop which the villa sat, surrounded by its parklike garden now sere in the wintry cold, littered with broken branches attesting to the power of the wind that had but recently died down. Tall trees bereft of leaves stood guard around the shuttered house where Hypatius and his wife Mary were attempting to lie low. Several long-departed Roman emperors stared from their plinths at the chaotic scene.
It did not take long for the redhead and his lieutenants to break into the house and drag the master and mistress out to cower at the top of the steps, flanked by two huge urns trailing sprays of leafless ivy.
“Hypatius! Hypatius!” Soon the name had become a chant. The man stood facing his would-be followers with shaking knees. His wife, weeping with fright, clung to his arm. All of their staff had clearly gone to ground.
“We want Hypatius!” screamed a thin woman brandishing a stick. Many male voices echoed her cry.
The redhead addressed the terrified candidate for the throne. “Good Sire, the people want you! The people need you! We will not have that swine, that lying murderer to reign over us!”
“No, no, I cannot … it would not … Justinian will …” moaned Hypatius, making dismissive movements with his pudgy hands.
“Justinian is powerless now. Down with Justinian! We’ll have Hypatius!”
The shout became a wave of sound expressing the collective will that swept Hypatius off his feet and up onto the shoulders of two stalwart men in the livery of a foremost senator’s private army, now filthy with soot.
“Hypatius!” His wife’s despairing cry was engulfed by other voices. “Don’t go with them! Don’t go!”
He could not keep his grasp on her outstretched hand as they bore him down the steps in triumph.
“Don’t go, don’t let them take you away!” she sobbed, on her knees and clutching at an urn. The mob left her collapsed and weeping inaudibly as they shouldered Hypatius out of the garden and along the ruined, smoking streets to the Forum of Constantine.
He could only remain aloft by gripping the hair of his bearers, who staggered onward in grim determination, and finally deposited him on a marble plinth from which the head of Julius Caesar had been knocked off and now lay scattered in splintered shards beneath the feet of the kingmakers. He stood there shaking and looking bilious.
The mob applauded him rapturously.
Cautiously, Hypatius opened his eyes, which had been scrunched shut in abject fear. Close to his makeshift platform, he could see a number of familiar faces. He recognised several foremost senators – in fact, members of the most patrician families. Oh so, he thought. Not merely a rabble. There were distinguished people who seemed to want him to be their emperor. There were some women, even, some of the most snobbish types who had never accepted the peasant and the prostitute on the Roman throne.
One of them had removed a thick golden chain she wore around her neck and handed it to the red-headed fellow, who promptly clambered up, stood towering over the trembling pretender, and wound the chain into a diadem that he placed upon Hypatius’s head. A deafening, sustained roar rolled across the packed forum.
“Ba-si-le-us! Ba-si-le-us!” The chant resounded in his quaking ears. And yet although he protested in words that nobody heard nor would have heeded anyhow, it was a heady feeling to be borne shoulder-high, to be, as it were, enthroned, crowned and hailed as the allmighty one. The shivering in his diaphragm began to diminish. The outcome might yet be a good one, after all.
Yet still he feared – for his very life, because he was, now, undoubtedly the focus of a treasonable rebellion, and should it not succeed, he stood to lose his head. He understood that perfectly. Anxiously he peered around the faces at the level of his feet. Ah, there was that fellow Ephraem, the messenger who had been running to and fro bearing reports on the riots to the Emperor throughout the hours of the past few hectic days. He would be able to gain access to the Sacred Palace – yes, yes, they would let him in.
Awkwardly, Hypatius knelt on his plinth and motioned the round-faced youth to come closer. He had to bend down low, holding his diadem in place, and shout into Ephraem’s ear. “Go to the palace,” he yelled. “Tell the Emperor that I do not – repeat, do not – desire the throne. I am merely playing along. Crowd won’t listen to me. Just playing along. Have you got that?”
“Playing along,” repeated Ephraem, his response faint against the sustained roar surrounding them. “Do not desire the throne.”
“Yes! Yes! Tell them!”
Ephraem nodded and turned to thread his way through the jostling throng. Hypatius stood up and waved hesitantly at his enthusiastic supporters. Well, he had covered himself. He hoped.
The few excubitors still faithfully guarding the palace entrance let the messenger pass. He had been coming and going for days and they knew him well. But before he reached the inner sanctum, he was met by an Imperial secretary whom he knew by sight. A man who worked closely with the eunuch Narses, Head of the Imperial Guard. Another of the beardless ones who held so many offices in the bureaucracy. Tall and thin, with a fluting voice.