by Marié Heese
However, soon bad news arrived from the Egyptian capital: one Gaianus, the preferred candidate of a minority of the electoral college, had seized the Patriarchal throne. The majority of the common citizens supported him, and he had been allowed to parade the streets and move into the official Patriarchal residence.
“But my dear, the man is a Monophysite,” said Justinian, when Theodora brought an impassioned plea that Gaianus should be arrested instead of consecrated, and Father Theodosius properly installed. “Need we be disturbed?”
“He’s a Monophysite, yes, but he is an intolerant fanatic,” said Theodora. “He and his followers are a splinter group – he’ll cause enormous damage to our efforts at reconciliation. And besides, his actions are an affront to our authority. We nominated Theodosius.”
“True,” said Justinian. “If we allow ourselves to be defied with impunity, it would be dangerous. But I can’t possibly recall Belisarius or Mundus from the Italian front.”
“Send Narses,” said Theodora.
“What! A eunuch! With no experience of warfare!”
“He has a great deal of experience of commanding men and planning complicated events,” said Theodora. “He has studied war in theory. He usually puts his finger on the exact errors of judgement when things go wrong in practice.”
“It is true, he has often made extremely pertinent comments,” said Justinian thoughtfully. “Besides, this should not be a major battle.”
“And no matter how successful he is, no matter what he achieves, being a eunuch he can never have ambitions to wrest the throne from us.”
“No, of course not. Very well, then. We’ll send Narses. With a substantial number of troops.”
Narses accepted his marching orders with his usual imperturbable dignity. But Theodora noted a new set to his shoulders and a determined angle to his chin. She watched the departure of his fleet with full confidence in the outcome of the expedition.
King Theodahad had well understood the implications of the murder of Amalasuintha, deposed queen of the Goths. At once he was fearful that Justinian might do what no Eastern Emperor had done since Rome had fallen to the Barbarians: wage war in the Italian peninsula. He sent the best ambassador he could think of to soothe the ire of the Emperor: the Pope, Agapetus.
Agapetus, descendant of one the old aristocratic Roman families, elderly and irascible, spent little energy on an attempt to calm the Emperor’s warlike intentions. In any case, on arrival it was clear to him that preparations for war were already well advanced. Instead, Agapetus himself was bent on doing battle, against the Monophysite apostasy he found in Constantinople.
“I cannot condone the appointment of the Bishop of Trapezus as Patriarch of this see,” he announced to Justinian. “First, a bishop may not move from one see to another. Second, I suspect this bishop of heresy.”
“He is satisfactory to us,” said Justinian. “The throne of Byzantium has found him to be acceptable.”
“He must be satisfactory to me, as the incumbent of the Throne of Saint Peter,” declared Agapetus. “And I suspect him of heresy!”
“Holy Father,” said Theodora, “Bishop Anthimus is a man of great understanding, we have great hopes that he may …”
“If his understanding differs from the Orthodox, it is heretical. And if you, Justinian, do not find that to be so, then you and your consort are also heretical,” said Agapetus.
“I am no heretic!” thundered Justinian. “You overreach yourself, Holy Father! Men have been exiled for less!”
“I have long wanted to meet the great Christian Emperor Justinian,” said Agapetus, “but now I see the tyrant Diocletian before me. Yet I am not afraid of your threats.” He folded his arms, rooted like a tree in his certainty.
“Bring Father Anthimus to us,” ordered Justinian, and two excubitors departed smartly. “Let him answer for himself.”
The recently installed patriarch entered the Triclinium, made prostration to the throne, and then knelt to kiss the Pope’s proffered ring. After that he stood erect, hands folded together, a tall, skinny man with bright blue eyes, dressed in a brown monk’s habit, with his tonsured head bent.
“Bishop Anthimus,” said the Pope, “do you admit two distinct natures in Christ?”
Theodora held her breath. This was a bald and absolute statement of the Dyophysite faith. She knew that Father Anthimus could not in good conscience assent.
There was a long and painful silence.
Then Father Anthimus said, in a firm, resonant voice: “I believe in Christ the Redeemer as the one incarnate nature of God the Word.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Agapetus. “Ah! A Monophysite heretic! As I had suspected! Anathema! I pronounce you anathema! If any one preach to you a gospel besides that which you have received, let him be anathema! And I include in this pronouncement also the former Patriarch of Antioch, Severus, who has, I believe, also been made welcome here!”
Theodora paled. This papal pronouncement meant, she knew, that the very lives of the two holy men whom she respected and with whom she had close bonds were now in danger.
“Let them appear before a council,” ordered the Pope, “and answer to a formal complaint regarding heresy.”
The council duly took up their seats in the tribunal. But there was no one to stand in the docks. Both of the accused had disappeared. As thorough a search as had ever been conducted in the city could find no sign of them.
Pope Agapetus ceremoniously installed a different patriarch in Constantinople: one Menas, a solid Chalcedonian.
Father Severus turned up in Alexandria, then fled to a monastery in the desert where he lived a quiet, studious life. Father Anthimus had completely disappeared. For the time being, Monophysites kept a low profile.
Narses the eunuch: his journal, AD 535
A job well done
1 September, AD 535
Left to himself, I do not think Justinian would have given me a military command. But the Empress has unbounded confidence in me. Of course, she is a small person as I am, and therefore she does not think that small people cannot be effective. She has the further disadvantage of being a woman, while I have that of having been unmanned. Both of us, I think, have overcome our apparent limitations.
Well, I have been invested with all of the authority of the Imperator. I am in possession of a formal document with a lead seal to attest to that. Yet if I cannot, of myself, command respect, it will avail me not at all. It helps that I do not suffer from seasickness. There are few conditions less dignified than that. We sail before a strong following wind and our ships bound forward over the deeps swiftly but not smoothly.
I have brought a portable altar and a small statue of the Virgin Mary, one that I dearly love, for it has a smile that reminds me of the Empress. Every day I kneel before it and I speak of my fears that I will utter to no living person: I fear that I may lack courage when I am actually involved in fighting and that I may fulfil the prophesies of those who told Justinian that he was doing a foolish thing to send a eunuch to wage war. I have begged that the Holy Mother will protect me and that I may return home safely, having succeeded in my task.
Once we make land, military skills will be required. Meanwhile, I must assert my own authority. I have fortunately learned some tricks of leadership that will be helpful, I believe. One simple rule is to learn men’s names. It seems such a little thing, yet it is remarkably significant. Both when chastising and when praising someone, it carries far more power when that someone knows he is recognised as an individual, not merely one of many faceless persons round about. There are mnemonics that one can use, and I do so.
Another is never to be seen to shirk. Officers have perks, and the Supreme Commander in particular has quite a few. Some of those I accept, since they serve to set me apart and invest me with dignity. I have my steward and my well-appointed cabin and I do not sleep in a hammock slung closely underneath the next man’s butt. However, I eat the same food as the men, I drink the same thin beer an
d I stand the dog watches, sometimes the first and sometimes the second one, enduring broken sleep as they must do.
It is particularly important to insist on discipline. As to that, one can never be tolerant of laxness. So, the first time I arrived on deck to take up my post in the small hours, having been woken by the clear clang of the ship’s bell, and discovered that the previous sailor on duty at my post had departed without waiting to be relieved, of course I had to make an example of him. I had him fetched from his hammock and ordered him to be given twenty lashes with a five-strand leather whip.
Simon, his name was. He may have been a Jew. Somehow I could picture him in a synagogue. He was a black-haired young man with a pimply face and the unformed soft mouth of a child, and there were tears on his cheeks when he begged me for mercy. It had been so cold, he sobbed, and he was so sleepy, and he knew I would be coming on the minute.
“I heard the bell, Sire, I heard the bell,” he insisted. “My watch was over.”
“Your watch is never over until you are relieved,” I told him. “You know that. Don’t you know that?”
“Yes, yes, but … but …”
“Twenty lashes,” I said. “Tied to the mast. In full view of the ship’s company, who will all present themselves on deck to witness it. Four lashes will be administered on this ship. Then four more on each of the nearest captains’ vessels. All told, on five different days.”
“Oh, no, Sire! Please, no, please no! Oh God, Sire, rather all at once …”
“You are in no position to bargain. Four lashes per day, spread over five days.”
I ordered, furthermore, that every other day the lashes should be administered by a left-handed seaman, which would ensure that the scores on his back covered more skin. Salt water was to be thrown over him after each punishment.
He had more courage than I gave him credit for. He jumped into the sea only after the fourth day. I have no idea whether he could swim, but it was immaterial in any case. We did not stop nor turn back.
I have had no problems with discipline since.
10 October, AD 535
This task is proving harder than anticipated. I did not set foot on shore without first gathering some intelligence, and it is not good. I thought that Gaianus would not have been properly invested, so that I could escort Theodosius to the altar in the great cathedral and insist that he be consecrated and then ratified by myself, as representative of the Emperor. I also thought that the followers of Gaianus were a small group of extremists who could be easily contained. I was wrong on both counts.
It seems that there is a prescribed ceremony for the new patriarch, a sequence of formal actions that he must carry out, and if this is done, he is considered to be the legitimate successor of the previous one. It is somewhat macabre, but long established and thus powerful.
This is what has to happen: while the deceased patriarch is lying in state, the next incumbent must watch over him. Prayers are chanted to beg the gift of the Holy Spirit. Then the new man must take the hand of the corpse, and place it upon his own head, in a bizarre enactment of a blessing. Then he may remove the pallium, being the most important item of the insignia of office, from the corpse and place it around his own neck while further prayers are chanted. This symbolic action is believed to invest the new patriarch with all the authority of his new office. And indeed, Gaianus did in fact carry out the ritual. So I have a legitimate patriarch to unseat.
Furthermore, the supporters of Gaianus are far greater in number than I expected. The majority of the citizens, it seems, are behind him. This may well be more of a resistance to Constantinople and the authority it exerts over this ancient city than true agreement with the man’s extreme religious views, but either way it is a problem.
I cannot stir up so much trouble that grain shipments are affected. I have no desire to cause famine in Constantinople. Yet neither can I allow a crowd of intransigent Alexandrians to defy the authority of the Emperor. Just as on board ship, discipline is paramount.
Well, tomorrow we will disembark our several thousand troops, and carry out our duty.
13 October, AD 535
The people of Alexandria rose in violent protest and have done their utmost to prevent us from arresting Gaianus, whose actions have made him a traitor to the state. We have had to fight in the streets, battles strongly reminiscent of the Nika riots not so long ago. I forbade the troops from spreading across the city; we had a single focus, I told them, which was to remove Gaianus and install Theodosius. We had no quarrel with the city except in so far as the people resisted us. There would be no rapine, no wanton destruction, no general sacking, no plunder. We had a task to do and we would do what was necessary and no more.
But the resistance has been fierce, the hand-to-hand battles bloody. As during the late riots, women joined in, flinging missiles from the flat rooftops onto the Imperial troops. Strange, truly strange that people should be so passionate about the corruptibility or otherwise of the body of Christ. But indeed, they are obdurate: both sides. A group of furious fanatics have entrenched themselves in one particular quarter and we have not been able to dislodge them.
Very well, then. Fire will be necessary. I have seen the irresistible power of flames. But there is no wind; we’ll be able to target the exact area required. We will burn them out.
15 October, AD 535
We have prevailed. Their Majesties’ candidate Theodosius sits upon the seat of the Patriarch in Alexandria, and Gaianus is bound in chains below, to be taken to Constantinople to face the Emperor. A job, if I say so myself, well done. I think the Empress will be pleased.
Chapter 7: A tremulous joy
Following on the satisfactory outcome of the expedition to Alexandria, the first news from the war in Italy was astonishingly good. Procopius wrote:
Early in December, in this year of Our Lord 535, we landed at Catania on the shore of Sicily. The people recalled that we had treated them decently before, so we received a warm welcome. Only Belisarius knew that this was not merely a stopover, but he did nothing to show aggression, merely conversing with the local leaders of the old Roman populace in an agreeable manner.
Sicily is a most fertile island, with rich farmlands and impressive cities, yet the local people were greatly discontented because of the Gothic rule; they had many complaints, to which Belisarius listened with his customary courtesy. When he judged the time to be right, he announced that he had come to Sicily as the liberator and protector of its citizens. He sent messengers to all the main cities, inviting them to submit to him. This they all did with alacrity, save only Palermo, where the Goths had concentrated. They took refuge behind its strong fortifications and stated their defiance.
Then Belisarius sailed into the harbour of that city, which is not even protected by a boom. Taking up position near the docks, he noticed that the masts of his ships were far higher than the fortifications on land. Belisarius now came up with an extraordinary plan: he had his sailors rig a pulley system between the mainmasts and foremasts, and they hoisted up some lifeboats filled with archers, who could thus command the streets of the town and pick off anyone who ventured outside. He threatened that he would order flaming arrows to be shot if Palermo did not surrender immediately. The townsfolk, in fear of losing all to fire, put pressure on the Goths to yield. This they did, and so we marched into the capital city of Sicily, Syracuse, drums beating, trumpets sounding, and the sun glinting on the golden eagles of our standards, entirely unopposed.
Belisarius distributed largesse from his personal fortune and was hailed as a deliverer.
“It was not the army that truly conquered Sicily,” remarked Narses, “it was the name of Belisarius.”
“Surely there is no other general in history who has thought of such a stratagem,” said Theodora.
“That should give Theodahad something to chew on,” said Justinian. “We have also received a report from Mundus in Dalmatia. He has stormed Spalato.”
Justinian’s secret e
nvoy to Theodahad, sent even before the war began, now returned with an offer: The Gothic king would completely resign his title of kingship and hand over to Justinian the government of all Italy. In return he desired guarantees of a comfortable private life.
“Theodahad wants to live in Constantinople, near a centre of learning, with an assured income and the freedom to study philosophy and write poetry,” reported the envoy.
“Theodahad is a craven disgrace,” said Narses.
Theodora said: “His poetry doesn’t even scan.”
Justinian ordered the envoy to return to Italy at once in order to ratify a treaty in terms of the offer. However, just before he set sail, bad news arrived from Dalmatia. After Mundus had captured Spalato, he had been confronted by a large army of Goths. Fighting had been fierce and the losses heavy on both sides. The Byzantine forces had finally triumphed. But the son of Mundus, who rode in his father’s army, had been killed towards the end of the fighting, and his grief-stricken father had himself been killed pursuing the departing foe. Totally demoralised by the loss of so many of their comrades and their courageous general, the Imperial army, despite being the victors, left the field of battle and went home without even putting a garrison in place. What had been a victory had turned into defeat.
The envoy to Italy sent word that when he arrived at the Gothic court, Theodahad, taking courage from these developments, denied all knowledge of the offer and claimed that it was a forgery; he had never in his life contemplated resigning his authority, he maintained.
Further bad news followed almost directly: a mutiny had taken place in Africa against Solomon, who had taken sanctuary in the Lady Chapel of Gelimer’s palace.
Despotes, there will be a delay, wrote Procopius. Belisarius will have to withdraw his forces from Sicily and move swiftly to subdue the rebels in Africa.
