by Marié Heese
“You have a message for the Emperor?” the man demanded, barring the heavy, ornately carved double doors that led to the private apartments where the royal party lived and now had sheltered for a week.
“Yes,” said Ephraem, somewhat out of breath from his fast dash and his excitement at being involved in such dramatic events. “A very important message. Very important indeed. You must let me pass.”
The secretary tilted his head. “Alas,” he said, “you arrive too late.”
“Too late?” Ephraem was puzzled. Could the Emperor have been assassinated? Too late?
“Aye, too late. Justinian and Theodora have fled the palace and left the city. Already they have set sail for Heraclea Pontica.”
Ah, a last sanctuary on the shore of the Black Sea, where they might expect to find supporters loyal to the crown, thought Ephraem. That would leave the field clear for an alternative emperor, if indeed it were true.
“Do you know this for certain?” he demanded. “They have definitely left?”
The man bridled. “I have the news from Narses himself, Head of the Imperial Guard. He may be depended upon, absolutely.”
“They are bound for Heraclea Pontica, you say?”
“Left directly, after being so grievously insulted in the Hippodrome. It is hardly surprising. There were ships waiting, anchored in the Golden Horn. They are beyond reach of any messenger, even … ” the man looked the rather bedraggled Ephraem up and down, “even one as important as yourself.”
“Right. I have heard you. Thanks,” and Ephraem set off at a fast trot to the Forum. These were momentous times, he thought, and he himself was a key player. He was helping to make history. He struggled through the riotous bystanders and waved to attract the attention of Hypatius, who bent down to listen to the words shouted excitedly into his willing ear.
“Justinian has gone,” Ephraem bellowed. “Sailed away directly. Bound for Heraclea Pontica.”
“Gone?” repeated Hypatius. “Are you sure of this?”
“Definitely gone. Clearly, God wishes you to reign.”
Hypatius stood up. His head was spinning. He clutched the arm of the red-headed leader of the mob, who had such a loud voice that he had become Hypatius’s hurriedly appointed mandator. The Emperor elect’s highpitched voice, with a tendency to crack under strain, had long since given way to a hoarse whisper. He passed on the news, standing on his toes.
The man waved his arms above his head and whistled piercingly for silence. Grudgingly, the noise level died down as the crowd realised that there was something to be heard.
“The lying murderer and his whore have left!” The announcement was met with wild applause. “Fled with their tails between their legs! They have sailed away!”
Rapturous joy. Howls of glee. New calls: “Hypatius! Hypatius! We want Emperor Hypatius!”
This call sounded extraordinarily sweet to the fat little person standing on the broken plinth. His breast swelled with pride. Yes, he thought, after all, I do have royal blood. Justinian is but a peasant and he does not belong on the throne. I do. Holding on to his improvised diadem, which kept threatening to slip off his head, he acknowledged the reverberating cheers.
Now some men bearing a sedan chair were struggling through the unruly crowd. One of the patrician senators standing near the plinth motioned to Hypatius to descend.
“Come, Sire,” he shouted. “Come now! We must present our new emperor to the people. You must be properly installed and hailed as Thrice August! We must take you to the Hippodrome!”
Of course, thought Hypatius. He should take his place in the Kathisma. That was where the Emperor was always announced. He clambered into the sedan chair, was hoisted onto the shoulders of the bearers, and began his triumphant procession to the very seat of power. Thrice August, he thought. It had a regal ring. Already his waves to the bobbing heads around him had a touch of hauteur. Of condescension. He was the king.
Seventh interlude: The Nika revolt continues, 18 January, AD 532
Narses the eunuch: his journal
In the year of Our Lord 532, January 18
Time passed. Slowly. Theodora has one handmaiden left, although “maiden” is not the word; she is an aged crone who has stubbornly remained while all the other servants have fled. Theodora went to give her orders about packing.
This afternoon an excubitor faithful to Justinian brought the latest report of the rebellion, his dire news confirmed by cheering from the Hippodrome that reached the palace like a wave crashing on the shore.
After a while, Theodora came back and joined me in front of the window where (it seemed an age ago) we had stood together to look at the crimson moon when the riots first began. She leaned her forehead against the pane, looking very tired.
My love, I thought. My love. I said: “It is a hard time, Despoina.”
“I don’t know what will become of everybody … my friends, my refugees … or, for that matter, Belisarius and Antonina …”
“I very much doubt that Belisarius will transfer his allegiance to a usurper. But they will have to decide.”
“She has borne a girl child, did you hear? A difficult birth. She’s past the age when one should have babies.”
“I heard.” I also heard the aching note of envy in her tone. “Fortunately she’s safe in Bithynia, with the baby.”
“What will you do, Narses?” she asked. “Will you serve a different emperor?”
“No, Despoina. I am sworn to serve Justinian.”
“You’ll come with us?” She sounded surprised.
“Yes, Despoina,” I said. I will go where you go. I must be where you are. Always.
“We had such dreams,” she said. “So many plans. So many things that we were going to do. For the best, for the people. So … many plans.”
The sound of cheering voices from the Hippodrome reached our ears. There must be a multitude, I thought. Packed into the stadium, acclaiming a coward and a fool.
“I believe,” I said cautiously, “that the rebels may have overplayed their hand. I’ve had a message: they have acted out a coronation in the Hippodrome.”
Her black eyes narrowed. “Hypatius?”
I nodded. “Best of a sorry lot. It seems that he is enjoying his … sudden elevation.”
She gave a short laugh. “He is pathetic. Truly, the Empire would fare better under crazy Caligula’s horse. Well. So he has committed himself to treason.”
“Indeed he has. Now his life is forfeit … if we were to win.”
She stared at me intently. “And could we win? Surely by now it is too late?”
“Despoina, we are no longer fighting the wind. Only a mob, without a true leader. A random group of disaffected aristocrats and hungry peasants, bolstered by a limited number of actual fighting men. We could still win, if we keep the faith.”
Belisarius entered the triclinium. He addressed Justinian, who was seated at a table with Eudaemon and Tribonian, all three glumly silent. “Despotes,” said the general, “the captain has sent word. It is time. You should come quickly.”
The men reluctantly came to their feet.
So, I thought, at last it has come to this.
Then Theodora turned away from the window and stepped into the centre of the large hall. “Gentlemen,” she said, raising her voice so that everyone looked at her in surprise. “I ask your pardon for speaking here. I know it is not customary for a woman in the company of men, especially such very distinguished men, to express her views. But in a situation of extreme danger, such as the one in which we find ourselves today, what does it matter if one woman, for a moment, breaks the rules?”
She had everyone’s undivided attention. Procopius sat with his mouth hanging open. Justinian stared at her in complete astonishment.
“My lords, I do not believe – nor will you, I am certain, if you stop for one moment to think it through – I do not believe that flight is the right choice here and now, if ever it is. One may gain safety, that is true. But on
ly for a time, since all of us must die one day. Flee as we may, we cannot flee from death.”
Belisarius nodded at this. Some of the others winced. I wanted to applaud.
Theodora continued. Her voice was clear and resonant, but she kept it low, so that it seemed more a conversation than a speech. “The question is, what do we stand to gain? And what to lose? We may gain our lives, for a short space of time. But we will lose our kingdom. We go to exile. I, for one, cannot accept that. I cannot see myself, who have been Empress, being cast down, nameless, among the common folk. I, who have been raised so high, will resist with my dying breath being brought low again.” She turned to Justinian. “My Lord, if you wish to save your life, there is the sea. The ships await. But first, please ask yourself: would you not choose death above ignoble safety? Above exile and futility?”
In the silent room, the cheering in the Hippodrome could be faintly heard.
Theodora said: “As for myself, I agree with the old saying: The purple makes an excellent winding-sheet.”
At first nobody spoke. The men stared sheepishly at each other. I could have shouted out my adoration and agreement. But I made no sound, spoke not a word. I know my place.
Everybody’s eyes turned to Justinian. He threw out his hands as if to say, can one believe this extraordinary woman? Then he walked over to her, took her hand and stood by her side. “The Empress has spoken true,” he said in firm tones. “Her courage shames us all. We refuse to be beaten and hounded from our city. This crisis must be met, with as much force as required.”
Having gained courage, he gathered the men together to plan action. “Narses, you too. We need your help.” Suddenly everyone seemed to have taken heart. Procopius shut his mouth and reached for his pen.
Cappadocian John, pragmatic and ruthless, cut to the crux: “Right now the mob is contained. Physically, I mean. They are piled into the Hippodrome. This gives us an excellent opportunity.”
Mundus said: “But still, it’s an enormous crowd, brave with success. They’ll fight fiercely.”
“Their strength comes from the Greens and Blues working together,” observed Justinian. “We need to weaken them by driving in a wedge.”
I understood him at once. “A wedge of gold,” I said.
The Emperor looked at me. “Narses, would you be willing to go into the Hippodrome with a bag of solidi? Unobtrusively?”
I will enter a hungry lion’s den, I thought, to keep my lady safe. What I said, was: “Yes, Despotes.”
Justinian said: “We’ll need men afterwards who owe us allegiance. Narses, you must go and talk to the leaders of the Blues. Get them out of the way, get as many members of their faction as possible out of there. Then, as soon as you are out of the way, Belisarius and Mundus can attack.”
Belisarius agreed. “Pincer movement,” he said. “Element of surprise. We can chop them up.”
Mundus said: “We’ll have bought the Blues, and cut the heart out of the Greens. Excellent, Despotes. It should work. But we must be quick.”
We had a plan. Justinian gave orders for the solidi to be brought from the treasury.
I donned my slave’s cloak and manner and slipped out with the heavy bag of gold clutched in both hands. I was not armed, for a slave bears no arms, and in any case, what chance would one slight eunuch have against a hundred thousand men? One man with a sword would be enough to end my life. Yet I went gladly, for at last I had something to offer my beloved, something more than words: a deed that might help to keep her on the throne.
Out I went, into a chilly, smokeladen day. The thick air made me cough. I was not stopped. Nobody noticed me. Inside the buzzing Hippodrome all eyes were focused on the Kathisma. I could see the figures, like those in a puppet show: Hypatius, his brother Pompeius at his side, and a red-headed giant who seemed to be directing proceedings.
I wriggled my way through the press of people directly to the Blues’ section, and sought out their demarch, whom I knew well. I sat down next to him. In a quiet tone, I outlined the plan to him. I reminded him that Justinian had always supported his faction. Now he was giving them an opportunity to escape being cut down by the mercenaries, who even as we spoke were drawing near. Besides, I said, Hypatius is a Green. As Emperor he will favour them. Also, he is a coward and a fool. He simply can’t reign, nor will he. Get your men out of here, I urged. This cannot end well.
He heard me out and I could see that he was wavering. Then I undid the drawstring of the bag that now rested on my knees. I allowed him a glimpse of the glinting gold. That decided him. His avid hands reached out and clamped onto the bag. He spoke against the baying of the crowd: “Leave it to me. The section leaders are close by. Each one will get his share and we’ll spread the word.”
“Be quick, then.”
I watched as he wormed his way along the ranks, bent heads conferring, furtive hands clutching and disappearing. I saw that one by one the Blues were scrambling for the exits. The die was cast. It was time for me too to disappear.
Chapter 25: Carnage
After the small eunuch had left bearing the bag of gold, Belisarius and Mundus prepared for action with grim resolve; they were determined that this day would finally see them triumph, come what may.
“We must move fast and decisively,” said Belisarius, “so that we descend on them while they’re still in the Hippodrome. Sitting ducks.”
“Pincer movement, as you said, only way,” said Mundus. “No quarter given.”
“None. This has to be the end of it. And – memorably,” said Belisarius. This time, he was adamant: there would be no turning back.
Now the two leaders mustered every single available soldier and outlined the plan. Since the back connection to the Hippodrome was held by palace guards who might be sympathetic to the rebels, they would all exit from the palace through the blackened wreck of the Chalkê. Then they would separate; Belisarius was to lead the attack from the western entrance, Mundus from the Nekra Gate at the opposite end. Speed, silence, discipline, surprise and utter ruthlessness would be the order of the day.
The imposing Brazen House had been reduced to rubble; what had remained of the enormous brass doors after the fire was brought under control had been removed, probably by looters. Nothing was left of the sumptuous tapestries and damask hangings, the silver candelabra, the sculptures, the precious vases and the inlaid furniture that had greeted awed visitors at the entrance to the palace in the past. The ornamental pillars of porphyry, the purple marble so beloved of emperors, were stained and nicked. No court official bearing the great key, accompanied by a retinue of guards and lesser office bearers, was now required to let them out with due ceremony. The Goths in their military boots stomped across the filthy, cracked mosaic of the floor and out into the equally filthy street, noticing nothing.
It was already late afternoon, and the lowering clouds blocked the pale sun from the stricken city. Few people were about, since almost everyone had either fled or rushed into the Hippodrome. An old woman shuffled along clutching a bundle of hopefully useful things snatched from the general wreckage. She paid no more attention to the dark mass of soldiers emerging into the street at a fast trot than they had to the ruined mosaic beneath their feet. In a niche that had held a torch a blind beggar huddled in complete confusion, bereft of his child guide, hearing a menacing sound that made no sense, his body remembering structures that were no more. It would be, thought Belisarius, a good day for rats.
Now the Goths headed west through the charred remains of the buildings around the Augusteum; the going was uneven and rough, but they moved as quickly and as quietly as they could. Mundus took his Heruls along the deserted streets to the opposite gate of the Hippodrome as silently and stealthily as lions creeping up on their prey. No voice cried out in warning, no shout gave the alarm. Both generals soon reached their appointed entrances. From the interior of the great circus arena a subdued roar could be heard.
Belisarius and his men filed into the portico apportioned
to the Blues, to the right of the Kathisma. He noted that the small figure of Narses had reached the Nekra Gate. “Now,” he barked. With practised precision, the Goths formed up into battle order and stepped forward. Without warning, there they were in full view of the astounded crowd. In the sudden, shocked silence the hiss and rattle of steel sounded as the grim mercenaries drew their swords. The command to attack rang out.
The murderous Goths proceeded to stab and slash their way forward. Those people closest to the advancing ranks of soldiers screamed in panic and turned to flee, shoving and elbowing those behind them, trampling those who fell in their desperate urge to escape. In the surging press of terrified people there was no room for those among them who had weapons even to take what they had in hand, let alone engage the determined, ruthlessly efficient agents of death. There was a mindless rush, a stampede of animals smelling slaughter, smelling mortality; and now Mundus and his Heruls charged through the eastern gate, bellowing a battle cry. There was nowhere to hide.
Above the melee, in the Kathisma, Hypatius and Pompeius and their newly acquired entourage found their nostrils suddenly assaulted by the smell of fresh blood. The raucous supportive cheers from the stands had turned into howls of pain and terror. In one dreadful moment Hypatius was transformed from Emperor to fugitive. The brothers clutched at each other, groaning in dismay, as the circus below changed into a charnel house. Their red-headed bodyguard and mandator sat down very suddenly, pasty-faced, and retched.
In the palace, Justinian and Theodora, with Eudaemon and Tribonian and Cappadocian John, awaited news of events. Narses had not yet returned. Justinian and Theodora stood at the window hand in hand, unable to see what was happening but nonetheless staring out at the drifting smoke and the swiftly darkening sky. Eudaemon looked as stolid as usual, prepared to meet whatever might be his fate. Tribonian sat at a table throwing the dice discarded by Hypatius and Pompeius all by himself, apparently matching his right hand against his left, alternately nodding and shaking his head. Cappadocian John was eating dates, spitting the pips accurately into a priceless alabaster vase some distance away.
