Justinian

by Ross Laidlaw

  John was right, thought Justinian, as a tremendously exciting and liberating conviction slowly began to form in his mind. Could it be by mere chance that a barbarian lad from the backwoods of Dardania had become emperor of New Rome? Surely something so unprecedented, so astonishing, could only be evidence of divine intention? — as it must also have been God’s purpose, to send him Theodora in his hour of need.

  Elated and enthused by this sudden revelation, Justinian dismissed the prefect with instructions to implement with all speed the measures he had proposed. Then he sent word, via his Master of Offices, to all senators and councillors presently residing in the capital or its vicinity, to attend him in the Magnaura three days hence.

  ‘It’s outrageous!’ quavered old Methodius, the Caput Senatus, as the senators and councillors filed out of the audience chamber. ‘He hasn’t even the decency to tell us in the Senate House that we’re surplus to requirements.’

  ‘Jumped-up nobody,’ declared a councillor. ‘Anastasius, or even Zeno — that hick from Isauria — would never have behaved like that.’

  ‘Just who does he think he is?’ stormed a silver-haired senator. ‘Presuming he can run the Empire without consulting us — the people’s representatives. So much for S.P.Q.R.* Let’s face it, gentlemen — it seems we’re now to live under a totalitarian autocracy.’

  ‘Tyranny, more like,’ put in another senator, adding darkly, ‘A pity those nephews of Anastasius — Hypatius, Probus, and Pompeius — were passed over as possible successors. Any one of them would be ten times better than Justinian. At least he’d have been one of us.’

  Another influential faction to be bitterly offended when Justinian ended his association with its members was the Blues. ‘Thinks just because he’s on the throne, he can chuck us aside like an old shoe,’ complained the manager of the Blues to his inner circle of henchmen. ‘He’s conveniently forgetting it was us who helped to put him there. Well, boys, two can play at that game. We can make it hot for him in the Hippodrome — very hot indeed. Come the racing season, what say we do just that? Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed!’ the others roared in unison.

  In furtherance of achieving his goal of religious uniformity, Justinian began a dialogue with the Monophysites. True to his promise to Theodora, the persecution of the sect was relaxed, exiles permitted to return, and Monophysite leaders, especially Timothy and Severus, invited to attend a religious conference in the capital, to be chaired by Justinian himself. By the conclusion of the synod, a face-saving formula (carefully avoiding the expression ‘two natures’, and emphasizing the ‘one person’ of the Trinity) had been cobbled together, with which Justinian declared himself satisfied. More fudge than solution, its chief effect was to enrage the leaders of Orthodox Catholicism (the Empire’s official creed), who saw it as a shameful giving in to heretics.

  Also dismayed and outraged as a result of the emperor’s religious policy were intellectuals throughout the Empire (collectively, a powerful group capable of influencing public opinion), when (the sale of its assets providing a welcome bonus to the Treasury), the ancient University of Athens was closed.* Because the institution contained the famous Academy — where Plato and Aristotle had once held court — it was seen by Justinian as a bastion of pagan thought. Its two leading professors, Damascius and Simplicius, along with five of their colleagues, thereupon accepted an invitation from the Peacock Throne to come and teach in Persia. Their acceptance constituted a massive and humiliating snub, not only to Justinian himself, but to the whole Roman Empire whose supposedly enlightened values he was held to represent.

  John of Cappadocia, a spiteful man of humble origins, needed no encouragement to set about his task with relish, seeing as a bonus the chance to get even with the upper classes, whose aspersions in the past he had endured with impotent resentment. Arriving one day with his retinue of compulsores — thugs whose function was to ‘persuade’ reluctant citizens to settle their tax dues — at the estate, in the Anatolian province of Galatia, of one Maxentius, a wealthy landowner, John marched into the villa, and confronted the owner partaking of his prandium or midday meal.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ demanded Maxentius, rising, his fine patrician features dark with anger. ‘How dare you burst into my house uninvited.’

  ‘Tax defaults sir, I’m afraid,’ murmured the prefect in an apologetic-sounding voice. ‘You seem to have overlooked declaring some of your assets. An oversight, I’m sure sir. Perhaps you’d care to clear things up?’

  ‘See my steward, if you must,’ snapped the other. ‘You’ll find my tax returns all logged and paid in full.’

  ‘But only for this estate, sir,’ persisted John in reasonable tones. He shook his head regretfully. ‘You see, we know all about those warehouses in Tarsus, and your. . “understanding”, shall we call it, with the harbourmaster. Very co-operative he proved — after two of his fingers got broken. Nasty accident. All those Chinese silks smuggled in from Persia, those amphorae of olive oil from Crete, wines from Syria. . Want me to go on, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ blustered Maxentius, his face suddenly turning pale.

  ‘Tut, tut.’ John sucked in his cheeks and wagged an admonitory finger. ‘That wasn’t very wise, if I may say so, sir.’ He nodded to his followers who, removing cudgels from their belts, advanced towards the landowner.

  ‘I’m a decurion — a leading citizen!’ cried Maxentius. ‘You can’t touch me — it’s against the law.’

  ‘No longer, I’m afraid, sir. Times, they are a-changing. All tax evaders, whatever their rank, are now liable for physical coercion. But only if they prove. . ah, “unaccommodating”, let us say. .’

  Ten minutes later, Maxentius, now with two cracked ribs and bruises purpling his face, signed a list of his undeclared assets with the appropriate amount of tax entered beside each item.

  ‘Collect what’s owing from my steward,’ mumbled Maxentius between split and swollen lips.

  ‘Thank you, sir. You’ve really been most helpful.’

  In the second year of what could virtually be called their joint reign, Justinian and Theodora received news that Antioch had been devastated by a terrible earthquake. Generous and compassionate by nature, they hastened to disburse from the Res Privata and the Sacrae Largitiones — the Private and Public Purses — vast amounts of money to rebuild both the stricken city and the lives of its inhabitants. An individual beneficiary from their largesse was Macedonia. ‘We must do all we can to help our friend,’ Justinian declared to his spouse. ‘While her house is being restored and her business rehabilitated, she must come and live in the Imperial Palace.’

  Theodora looked forward to the arrival of her former lover with a mixture of delight and trepidation. The deep love she had for Justinian was the steady glow or rather than the roaring flames of eros which she had experienced with Macedonia. When they met again, would those flames rekindle and consume them both, causing them to consummate a mutual passion? She had never been unfaithful to Justinian, nor had she been tempted in the slightest to form any liaison outwith marriage. So far. But would any resumption of her affair with Macedonia constitute adultery? Probably not — at least in the strict legal sense, she thought.

  In Roman Law, the question of adultery only arose when the progeny of a marriage could be shown to be other than the father’s by his spouse. So long as legitimate inheritance was not threatened, liaisons outwith marriage, though strongly disapproved of by the Church, could not be held to be adulterous. Even so. . Theodora made up her mind that she and Macedonia would resume their relationship as dear friends, and nothing more. She would not do anything that might be held to betray Justinian or cause him hurt. Anyway, temptation would be kept at arms’s length; the month being July, Theodora was, as usual, residing in her summer palace at Hieron, a small town on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus.

  Assuming that Macedonia would be given the use of a suite in the Imperial Palace in the capital, Th
eodora was taken aback when Justinian suggested that Macedonia join Theodora at Hieron. ‘You two have years of gossip to catch up on,’ he declared with a fond smile. ‘Living in the palace on her own, poor Macedonia would soon get bored, despite your no doubt frequent visits.’

  Accordingly, after a formal reception for Macedonia followed by a grand dinner at the palace (a tinglingly polite affair), the two women were conveyed by litter and private ferry to Hieron. At last, after Macedonia had been introduced to the household, and the slaves had unpacked her luggage in her suite, she and Theodora found themselves alone — in the luxurious surroundings of the cubiculum or bedroom assigned to Macedonia. With the restraints imposed by the presence of others now removed, Theodora suddenly felt at a loss as to how to proceed.

  ‘Is everything to your liking?’ she asked her guest hesitantly.

  Macedonia did not answer. Instead, she held out her arms and murmured softly, ‘Come.’

  Her former resolution crumbling in an instant, Theodora flew into Macedonia’s embrace. Their mouths locked hungrily; then, with a tender urgency, they removed each other’s clothes and gazed in longing at one another’s naked bodies.

  ‘It’s been a long time, darling,’ said Macedonia, her eyes glowing with desire.

  ‘Too long,’ whispered Theodora, and traced her fingers across the other’s breasts. Shuddering with delight, Macedonia reciprocated the gesture, then, when both were fully aroused, led Theodora to the bed and lay on top of her, reversed, her mouth against her partner’s vulva. Theodora gasped in rapture as the other’s flickering tongue caressed her clitoris. Engulfed in waves of unimaginable pleasure, she performed the same service on her lover, both climaxing together with cries of ecstasy. Satiated and happy, they lay long in each other’s arms exchanging news and kisses, until at last sleep claimed them. .

  Waking before dawn, Theodora slipped out of bed taking care not to wake her sleeping companion. Tormented with guilt, she forewent her usual early morning routine (breakfast in bed, bathing, making up her face and doing her hair with the help of several maids, dressing, choosing jewellery) and, clad in a simple tunic over which she threw a cloak, slipped out of the palace undetected and made her way to Hieron’s quayside. Here, she hired a boatman to ferry her across the Bosphorus to the Harbour of Phosphorion on the Golden Horn.

  Last night had been a moment of madness, she told herself — wonderful, delicious madness; but it must not be repeated. She could not live with herself, she thought, unless she made a clean breast of her affair with Macedonia to Justinian. A keystone of their marriage had always been complete honesty. Surely he would understand and forgive, especially as sex had never been an important aspect of their relationship. On the other hand it was conceivable he might be outraged, even seek to divorce her. It was a risk she felt she had to take.

  Entering the city via St Barbara’s Gate just as it was opening, she threaded the narrow lanes of the Fourth Region — already stirring into life as metal-workers, blacksmiths, carpenters and other craftsmen began to ply their trades, everywhere the clink of tools sounding from their workshops. Traversing the wide spaces of Region V with its granaries and oil stores, and the mouth-watering smell of new-baked bread wafting to her nostrils from the public bakeries, she crossed an invisible boundary into Region I — home of the court, the aristocracy, and the great offices of state. Not having risen so early for many years, she had forgotten just how beautiful Constantinople could appear at this hour, before the streets filled up with noisy crowds and vendors. Away to her right, the topmost tier of arches of the Aqueduct of Valens along with the statues atop the columns in the fora of Constantine and Theodosius, flamed in the dawn rays, while before her rose the shining marble walls of the Palace and the Hippodrome, overtopped by the towering elegance of Hagia Sophia.

  ‘Augusta,’ murmured the sleepy porter at the Chalke — the grand entrance to the Palace, clearly surprised to see the empress informally dressed and seeking admittance at such an early hour. After passing through the great bronze doors then negotiating the building’s labyrinth of corridors and walkways, she found Justinian — ‘the Sleepless One’, as he was known — at work already in his private study, surrounded by a clutter of codices and scrolls. An elegantly dressed and pleasant-faced man was seated at a desk beside the emperor’s. Both rose. Theodora’s heart began to race at the thought of what she was about to disclose to her husband.

  ‘My dear — what a delightful surprise!’ exclaimed Justinian, his expression welcoming. ‘This is Tribonian, the Empire’s most distinguished jurist.’ (The other man bowed, and gave a charming smile.) ‘He and I have started a tremendously important task, something that has never before been attempted — nothing less than a complete reform of Roman Law.’ Justinian’s voice was vibrant with excitement and enthusiasm. ‘Our Code will totally replace that of Theodosius II, now a century old, a mere mechanical compilation of imperial decrees. The new corpus will go far, far beyond that — a complete re-drafting, removing all uncertainties and contradictions in previous enactments, and scrapping irrelevant archaisms.’ He clapped Tribonian on the shoulder. ‘This paragon assures me that all will be complete in eighteen months.’* He shook his head in un-comprehending admiration. ‘Incredible. Now my dear, what was it that you wished to see me about?’

  For once, Theodora’s courage failed her. Seeing her husband so happy and absorbed over a project that she knew had long been dear to his heart, she could not bear to spoil his mood. What she had to say would keep until a more appropriate occasion. ‘Oh, I just came here on a whim,’ she said lightly. ‘For some reason I couldn’t sleep, so I thought to see our city in its morning raiment. A little adventure, if you like.’

  ‘The vagaries of women,’ sighed Justinian to Tribonian, with a smile and a shrug of simulated helplessness. ‘You must be hungry, my dear,’ he said, turning back to Theodora. ‘Perhaps you’d like to order breakfast for us both — to be served in the garden where we used to hold our meetings.’

  ‘Oh my dear, I cannot tell you how relieved I am you did not tell him!’ Macedonia exclaimed, after Theodora had rejoined her later that day, and confessed what she had planned to do. ‘Not so much because it would have jeopardized our own relationship, but that it could have come between yourself and him. Men, far more than women, tend to be sensitive and insecure where their self-image is concerned. Most husbands, learning that their wives had done what we have, would — however irrationally — feel jealous and diminished. From what you tell me of Justinian, he may well be above such sentiments, but I would not like to bank on it.’

  Taking Theodora’s hand, Macedonia looked imploringly into her eyes. ‘Darling, you do not have to choose between us. Your husband and I are not in competition for your love. I think it was a Chinese sage, one Kung Fu-tze,** who said that for a serene and happy life free of inner conflict, the wise person should keep the different aspects of his life in separate compartments. In former times, Greek women were free to love each other outwith marriage. Soon, my dear, I must return to Antioch; we may not meet again for many months. So let us take what joy of each other the Gods allow us, while we may.’

  ‘Very well, my love,’ said Theodora softly, slipping an arm around the other’s waist. ‘I’ll say nothing to Justinian. You have convinced me — almost — that keeping silence is the best and wisest course. Anyway, I don’t think I could bear to give you up.’ She laughed tremulously, and went on. ‘I shall do as you suggest, and put our love in a box marked ‘Macedonia’. It’ll be our special secret.’

  Aided by unscrupulous subordinates, with names like ‘Alexander the Scissors’ or ‘John the Leaden-Jawed’ attesting their unpopularity, John of Cappadocia pressed on apace with his drive to fill the Treasury. Tax defaulters were treated with callous disregard for individual circumstances: one Petronius — a respected citizen of Philadelphia — was chained in a stable and beaten, until he had agreed to hand over the family jewels in lieu of payment of a supposed new tax on inhe
rited wealth; in the same town, an old soldier hanged himself after being tortured to force him to pay up, despite being destitute. Far from being exceptional, such examples were typical of the lengths to which the prefect and his enforcers were prepared to go, in order to keep the revenue from taxes flowing in.

  A regimen of swingeing cuts was visited upon the civil service. To squeals of anguished but ineffectual protest, mass sackings with savage pruning of departments became the order of the day. When the administration had been purged of all excessive fat, the prefect directed his economizing zeal towards the cursus publicus. The state postal service was not so much trimmed as virtually destroyed, leaving the infrastructure of but one route intact — that of the strategically important highway from Constantinople to the Persian frontier. On all other roads throughout the Empire, the following were totally abandoned: maintenance, relays of horses, postal stations, the hire of vehicles for travel or transport. The effect of this particular cost-cutting measure was immediate and disastrous. Farmers in the inland provinces were suddenly deprived of the means (on which they had relied for centuries) of conveying their goods to the ports, whence they were shipped to Constantinople and other centres. With the cost of private transport beyond the reach of the majority, many were reduced to trying to carry their goods to the ports themselves. .

  Staring at the roadside corpse, a half-spilled sack of corn beside it (the sixth such he had encountered that morning), Basil — a small farmer from the province of Lydia, en route to Ephesus — lowered the heavy bale from his shoulders to the ground. He turned towards his wife, several paces behind and tottering beneath the weight of an enormous sack of grain. ‘Enough,’ he declared bitterly. ‘We will turn back now — unless we wish to end up like one of these.’ And he indicated the body on the road.