by Marié Heese
But although the rider on the pale horse, Death, had galloped on past the throne of Byzantium without taking the Emperor’s life, it had in passing stolen away much of his strength. It became painfully clear that that fearsome rider had wrested from the Empress the last vestiges of hope that she might yet have had of bearing a successor. Her best efforts, her most seductive wiles availed her naught.
Justinian, exhausted and shamefaced, would not spend the rest of the night in the bed they had used to share. He dressed himself with furious, slow fumbles, putting on an injured dignity with his purple cloak. “I’ll sleep in the Sacred C … Cubicle,” he said. “Alone. You have un … m … manned me.”
“I!” Theodora gasped. “What did I do?”
“You have all but usurped my au … thority,” he said. “You and Narses. I know you think I have become weak, that my … my judgement is not sound. You think you should reign in my stead. You have made another eunuch, between the two of you.”
“Justinian, I … We …”
He fastened the brooch on his shoulder with shaking hands. “I’ll see myself out.” He left her sitting naked and aghast amid the silken sheets.
“We have received a secret communication about Khosrau, Despotes,” reported Narses. “Apparently our ambassadors sent to revive peace talks never reached him. One died along the road, a victim of the plague, and the other did not proceed alone.”
“Why is that a se … secret?”
“No, the secret is this: Khosrau is at present beset by difficulties. Not only have they suffered from the plague as we did, but one of his sons has staged a revolt. It is all he can do to maintain his authority. He’s in a position of weakness, Despotes.”
“Ah. Better not to make peace, better to attack,” said Justinian.
“Exactly. It is a favourable opportunity for us.”
“All our generals in the East must attack Pers … armenia. How many men do we have there?”
“About thirty thousand, Despotes. Under various generals.”
“And the enemy? How many … men?”
“The Persian general Nabedes with four thousand men is holed up at the village of Anglôn, in a strong fortress,” said Narses.
“We must attack it! Take it, and move on!”
“Yes, Despotes. I’ll dispatch marching orders, at once.”
“And send P … Proco … pius,” said Justinian. “Belisarius can do without him here. We need good reports.”
“Yes, Despotes,” said Narses, who had been urged by Theodora to agree with Justinian as often as he could.
“We must make him confident again,” she’d said.
Justinian’s attention was fully engaged by the demands of his still suffering kingdom. She noted that his recollection of recent events was poor. Quite soon, he seemed to have forgotten the vicious wound he had dealt her. Once again, he discussed his plans with her, as calmly and seriously as ever, paying attention to her opinion even if he did not necessarily agree. It was clear that he felt no division between them.
But for her part, she was deeply hurt. She understood that he had suffered and that he had returned from near death to a drastically altered world, not the least of his problems being his own weakened physical state. She knew that the fear and suspicion with which he regarded the world since his recovery was largely engendered by his illness. She realised how important it was to him to be strong again, all-powerful and in control. Nevertheless, he had dealt her an injury that scarred her spirit.
She nursed it in silence. This was not a matter of which she could speak to anyone. Not Indaro and Chrysomallo. Not Antonina. And particularly not Narses. It had to be borne alone; it had to be, eventually, set aside, just as the raging accusation in die midst of his hallucinations had had to be set aside. She could not hold it against him. She loved him still.
But the meetings in the Sigma suite were not renewed.
Having been snatched from the grip of the grim reaper by divine grace, Justinian felt a renewed call to try to unify the still unhappily divided Christian church. He spent many hours, as he had before but now with increased urgency and dedication, reading and studying, delving in ancient documents, sifting through edicts, declarations, treatises and papal bulls. His desk was piled high with scrolls and codices and again his fingers were black with ink, as when he had studied the contradictions of the law before appointing his team of legal experts under Tribonian to sort, clarify and codify the laws.
“We have to find a way to bridge the gulf. One solution for the entire Ecu … mene. But I haven’t a group of well-informed and able religious thinkers to help me work it out,” he lamented to Theodora and his Grand Chamberlain.
“Despotes, think along the lines of warfare,” suggested Narses. “A very effective way of uniting a fractious and divided army is to identify a common enemy. Suddenly their attention is focused externally, and then they are much more receptive to discussions about factors that unify rather than divide.”
Justinian’s face took on a thoughtful cast. “I do believe you have ill … uminated the way forward. Thank you for that. Yes. A common enemy. Of course.”
Chapter 16: Fighting on several fronts
When the new year began, Justinian had a fresh approach to the theological split that had caused so much suffering. He had, he announced, asked the opinion of Archbishop Askidas of Caesarea and their own Patriarch Menas, who both supported his idea. He would issue an edict condemning three heretical documents by writers guilty of Nestorianism.
“That may well align the Chalcedonians and the Monophysites,” said Theodora, a little doubtfully.
“The Despotes clearly intends to undermine the Council of Chalcedon, who rehabilitated two of the writers concerned,” commented Narses. “And thus he would implicitly support the Monophysites. Might work.”
Justinian published the Edict of the Three Chapters in 544, hoping that he had constructed a bridge that would hold steady over time and bring together the warring factions of the Christian church, which had been sundered in bitterness for so long.
Theodora, for her part, felt helpless to promote religious unity. All she could do, meanwhile, was to champion the Monophysite faith to the best of her ability, but it grieved her that she could not accomplish much. Orthodoxy was firmly in the ascendant and Monophysites were being persecuted across the Byzantine realm.
Every adherent of the Monophysite faith knew that the Empress of Byzantium had a sympathetic ear for people who believed as they did, and many a petition for support or succour came to her from religious refugees. She helped where she could.
One such request came from Sheikh Harith ibn Jabala, king of a small buffer state on the borders of the Empire. His people were Christian Arabs of the Monophysite persuasion. He did not come openly, with an entourage, nor was he received in the Triclineum of the Imperial Palace. Instead, he slipped into the Hormisdas Palace by landing a small boat at the foot of the stairs that led up to the terrace, and met Theodora there for a private interview.
It was a misty afternoon in autumn; a cool breeze blew sea air across the gently heaving, pewter-coloured water and stirred the falling leaves of the climbing plants that clung to the palace wall. The Sheikh was a tall, slender man with liquid dark eyes and a curly black beard. His voice had a musical lilt and his manner of speaking was, thought Theodora, almost poetic.
“Despoina, my people are suffering,” he said. “Their plight is desperate. You know that the Imperial Commissioners are active again, now that the plague is passing. They are bent on extirpating all heretics.”
“Meaning Monophysites,” said Theodora with a deep sigh.
“Yes, Despoina. My people are being arrested and often tortured for their beliefs. I fear that they may lose their faith if they must remain, as they are now, shepherdless. We have no more bishops, no more priests, to lead the faithful, to keep their eyes fixed on the True Cross.”
“I feel for you, as you know,” said Theodora. “But what can I possib
ly do?”
“Send us a bishop,” said the Sheikh. “Just one bishop, consecrated in the Monophysite faith. One root, from which a great tree might spring.”
“One man? You think one man could make a difference?”
“There was but one Christ,” said the Sheikh.
Theodora nodded thoughtfully. “I should be able to provide one bishop,” she said. “The problem will be to identify the right one.”
“Strong in faith, but physically strong also,” said the Sheikh. “He must be willing and able to travel all over the Empire, so that he can encourage the faithful, baptise their children, celebrate the Eucharist in their abandoned churches, and ordain new priests in the place of those who have been arrested, imprisoned, and tortured or killed.”
“We need a holy man with exceptional courage,” said Theodora.
“Yes, Despoina. With the courage of a lion and the cunning of a fox. He will be hunted down like some wild creature. We must find an extraordinary man.”
“I think,” said Theodora, “that we must consult Z’ura.”
“Ah. Yes! We have heard of him,” exclaimed the Sheikh. “Even in my country, we have heard the tale of the Pope Agapetus who was unable to cross the water to get to Z’ura’s monastery, that Z’ura cursed him and he then died of a mortified tongue. It is true, is it not, Despoina?”
“It is indeed,” said Theodora.
“Z’ura himself could not be our man?”
“No, he’s too old. But I think he’ll help us find the right person. Cover yourself in your cloak, and come with me.”
The elements did not conspire to keep the Empress and the Sheikh from reaching the monastery of Z’ura, as they had seemed to do when the Pope had tried to cross the Golden Horn to Sykae. There was neither wind nor lightning to keep them away. The day continued calm and misty.
They found the former stylite in a small office with whitewashed walls and little furniture. He made no prostration to the Empress. She did not insist; instead, she stood before him humbly like a petitioner. They explained to him what the situation was, and what was needed. He listened intently.
“But who could be found to undertake such a dangerous mission, we can’t imagine,” said Theodora. “Have you an idea?”
“Jacob,” said Z’ura promptly. “The man from Nisibis.”
“Oh, I remember him,” said Theodora. “Vowed to God at the age of two?”
“The very man,” said Z’ura.
“I gave him a house, as I recall,” said Theodora.
“Yes, but he does not live in it. It was too grand for him, and besides, he is known to be a Monophysite. Even in Constantinople, such men are persecuted.”
“Where will we find him?”
“He is here with me. I am not persecuted, nor is any person in this monastery. The memory of what Pope Agapetus suffered when he tried to attack me is still clear in men’s minds.”
“May we talk to him?”
“I’ll have him fetched.”
The man who reported to the office did not look like someone who could be the saviour of the Monophysite faith. He was extremely thin and simply dressed in a rough-spun tunic. His long black hair straggled onto his narrow shoulders. He walked in and stood quietly, head bent, and listened to the impassioned speech delivered by the Sheikh and the pleas of his empress.
At length, Theodora asked him: “Do you see your way clear to undertake this monumental task? We are asking you to serve the entire Empire.”
“Yes, Despoina,” he said simply. “I have waited for God to call me. I will go.”
“How will you travel?” asked the Sheikh. “We can provide –”
“God will provide,” said Jacob. “I will go on foot. I will do my utmost to lead the faithful. But Despoina, I will have to be consecrated as a bishop, if I am to ordain Monophysite priests.”
“That can be arranged,” said Z’ura. “Among the many holy men resident in the Hormisdas Palace, I believe there may be at least one who has the authority to consecrate a bishop. Or am I mistaken, Despoina?”
“I think you are correct,” said Theodora. “It shall be arranged. But, gentlemen, please – I must insist: the Emperor must not come to hear of this.”
Soon the skinny recluse had been made nominal Bishop of Edessa. Probably he would never be able to take possession of his see, where an Orthodox bishop was already in place, but that did not matter too much. Jacob was given ecumenical authority. He was ready to depart on what seemed an impossible mission.
“You have the roving commission of a Monophysite archbishop,” said Theodora. “Our prayers will accompany you.”
“And mine will accompany you, Despoina,” said Jacob. His clear hazel eyes regarded Theodora with such loving concern that she was, for the moment, rendered speechless. Only Father Timothy, she thought, has ever looked at me like this.
She knelt before the odd figure, who was now draped in ragged clothing. It looked like a collection of threadbare saddle-cloths of asses stitched together. He had rubbed dirt into his hands and feet. He had become, visually, the kind of person one would rather avoid, expecting him to be a smelly old beggar, whining for alms and probably crawling with lice. “Bless me, Father,” she said.
He traced a cross on her forehead. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti,” he said. Then he repeated the blessing in Syriac, the language of her early youth, the language of her parents who had been forced to flee their homeland and who had both died in Constantinople. How did he know, she wondered. How did he know that? The words spoke directly to her heart and made her feel truly blessed.
“Thank you, Father,” she said. “Go with God.”
“And you, my daughter.”
The great pestilence that had almost removed the Emperor from his throne had undermined his authority like a devastating flood sweeping through the foundations of a crumbling palace. It had taken a large toll of the Imperial army holding the provinces in Africa, where the Vandals had been subjugated by Germanus after Belisarius departed to serve in Italy. They had subsequently been governed by Solomon, but in 544, bad news arrived from Africa.
The Moors had joined forces with the Vandals, reported dispatches, and rebelled against the Byzantine Imperium. At the Battle of Cillium the Romans were completely defeated and Solomon was killed.
“Our rule in Africa is on the brink of collapse,” said Justinian, enunciating carefully. He looked weary and beleaguered. “I’ll appoint Sergius to take over.”
“With respect, Despotes, not a good choice,” said Narses. “He’s both incompetent and arrogant, a disastrous combination.”
Justinian, obstinately intent upon gathering up the reins of government again in his own two shaky hands, would not be warned.
When it became clear that Sergius was failing in his task, the Emperor sent the patrician Areobindus to assist him.
“Two incompetents together do not make one able general,” said Narses, but he said it privately to Theodora.
“Oh, God, Narses, he’s just not the man he was before the plague. His judgement has gone. And I can’t argue with him as I used to do, he takes it as a sign that I’m trying to undermine him.” Theodora blinked back tears. “It’s so hard, when he looks at me with such … such suspicious, calculating eyes.”
“Not only at you, Despoina. At me also. One must bear in mind that these feelings are the aftermath of the dreadful disease the Despotes suffered. And also the terrible shock, when he awoke to a decimated kingdom, and found that his wife and his Grand Chamberlain had seemingly usurped his authority. No wonder he suspects threats on every side.”
“So he’s depending on family,” said Theodora. “Sergius is a nephew. Areobindus is married to Praejecta, who’s a niece. If only he would rather send Belisarius!”
Belisarius, however, was at home in Constantinople, awaiting the Emperor’s pleasure. Justinian was still warily keeping his great general under observation. He would not send him to Africa. Sergius and Areobindus wou
ld have to subdue the insurrection without his aid.
From Persarmenia came a dispatch, written by Procopius. It did not tell the Emperor what he would have wished to hear.
The Persians under General Nabedes took up a well-fortified position in the sturdy fort at Anglôn, perched on the side of the steep mountain and surrounded by a small village. Given our numbers we expected that we would be able to overrun it. Yet though our soldiers were physically brought together, they did not agree on one supreme leader. This was a crucial error, and we paid dearly for it.
When we attacked, an ambush of murderous Persians hidden in the village charged out howling. Our vanguard was taken by surprise and driven downhill, and this caused alarm in the regiments coming up behind. Wholesale slaughter resulted. Our troops, I deeply regret to report, cast away their arms, their plunder and alas, their standards, and beat a retreat in complete confusion. So fast and so far did the mounted soldiers gallop in their headlong flight that few of their horses survived. Never have I observed such a military disaster.
“It almost sounds as if we lost more horses than we lost men,” said Narses. “Yet Procopius reports the loss of many lives.”
“And our reputation,” said Theodora. “We were clearly humiliated. Belisarius sees off two hundred thousand Persians with twelve thousand men, but without him, four thousand Persians can rout thirty thousand Imperial troops.”
“One setback only,” said Justinian. “We must keep our heads.”
Meanwhile the war in Italy was also going extremely badly. The Imperial army had beeen beaten back on several fronts, losing almost all the gains made during the previous seven years. A military dispatch rider brought a letter to the Emperor signed by the five generals tasked with conducting the Italian war.
May 544 – Greetings and salutations to the Emperor!
Despotes, we write this missive with heavy hearts. It is our unhappy duty to inform you that we can no longer prosecute the war in Italy. We find ourselves frustrated at every turn. Totila, King of the Goths since the demise of Eraric, is currently laying siege to Naples. The people are suffering famine, but we cannot go to the aid of the Roman garrison there. We do not have sufficient troops. Furthermore, we lack funds to pay the Imperial soldiers, to whom arrears have long been owed. Soon we shall have a problem with deserters.