by Ross Laidlaw
From Procopius Caesariensis, Chronicler, to Anicius Julianus, Senator, greetings.
Dear ‘Cato’, your plan to have ‘Catullus’ persuade J. to send Narses to the aid of B. has succeeded beyond expectations! N.’s arrival has really set the cat among the pigeons; to mix my metaphors, the general staff here are fighting like ferrets in a sack — some supporting B., some N. In consequence, the Golden Boy’s lustre is now badly tarnished; he’s had to give way to N. (who has our Dear Leader’s ear, it would seem), and lead a force to Ariminum to relieve John ‘the Sanguinary’. (Honestly — the names these Germans give themselves; he’s the nephew of General Vitalian, a Goth who, you’ll remember better than myself, once tried to bring down Emperor Anastasius, then threw his hat in the ring when the old man became a god, as we used to say.) How odd that B. and N. should, thus far, be acting against type — N. all for pushing on, B. for holding back. Unfortunately, B. performed quite brilliantly at Ariminum — quite his old dashing self — and forced Witigis to call off the siege.
Though far from being finished, Witigis has rather gone to pieces since being forced to pull back from Rome. You know these barbarians — easily demoralized when things go wrong. His judgement’s been affected; in a fit of furor Teutonicus he’s had some important Roman hostages killed — a batch of senators he’s been carting around with him as a sort of mobile insurance policy. Which is bad news for us as, predictably, Roman opinion is hardening against the Goths. That venerable old Roman, Cassiodorus, has even resigned in protest from his post of Secretary to the Gothic Council. He’s what you’d call a ‘national treasure’, so unfortunately his opinion carries considerable clout throughout Italy.
News just in — Mediolanum* is in Roman hands once more. Without consulting N. (which means he’s in hot water again), B. sent a seaborne column up the west coast to Liguria, to harry the Goths from the rear. Though little more than a reconnaissancein-force, they’ve managed to capture Italy’s second city without a blow being struck. It seems the citizens — inflamed by the anti-Gothic feeling sweeping Italy thanks to the murder of those senators — threw open the gates to them. Witigis is reported to be furious, breathing fire and slaughter and denouncing the Mediolanese as traitors (against Goths?). With the help of a Frankish army from Gaul (what’s he playing at? — the Franks are simply looking for an excuse to extend their territory), he’s now besieged the place, vowing to put all inside to the sword. So perhaps Golden Boy has bitten off more than he can chew; let’s hope so.
‘Horatius’ knows to collect this from the drop-off point — by the Arch of Trajan near the waterfront. A short trip for him; your base at Fanum’s not thirty miles up the road from here. Vale.
Written at the Praetorium of Ancona, IV Kalendas Augusti, A.R.U.C. the two hundred and ninth.**
Post Scriptum
Narses’ Heruls are a gift — picking endless fights with B.’s Greeks, whom they regard as a bunch of softies. The centenarii* have their hands full keeping the two lots apart. Ferocious fighters the Heruls may be, but in combined operations they’re a total liability, refusing to obey orders from any officers other than their own. What fun!
‘I hear you’ve given orders for a relieving force to set out for Mediolanum!’ Narses accused Belisarius as the two generals, followed by their staff, filed into the officers’ mess in Ancona — now the permanent headquarters of the Roman Army in Italy.
‘The city must be relieved, Narses — its people are starving; we can’t not help.’ Taking his place beside the Armenian at the dinner table, Belisarius went on, a note of desperate appeal entering his voice. ‘Surely you can see that. We can’t allow the place to fall — especially as Witigis has threatened to massacre the inhabitants. I assumed I could take your permission for granted when I gave the order. If, by omitting to do so I’ve given offence, then I apologize.’
‘Your conduct goes beyond a mere breach of good manners, Belisarius,’ replied the Armenian in coldly formal tones. ‘In matters of strategic planning I insist on being consulted. You will cancel the order immediately.’
‘But — by now the expedition will be nearing Sena Gallica!’ cried Belisarius disbelievingly.
‘A mere twenty miles; send a fast rider to recall them.’
‘This is intolerable!’ shouted Belisarius, giving way to a rare burst of fury. ‘Only months ago, you insisted — against my judgement — that I relieve Ariminum. Now, you try to stop me doing the same for Mediolanum. I’m beginning to think, Narses, that this is more about personal animosity towards myself, than anything to do with military requirements.’
Casual conversation around the table died away into fascinated silence, as the other officers became aware of the spat developing between their two commanders.
‘That’s rubbish, and you know it,’ replied the other evenly. ‘By relieving Ariminum we not only retained the initiative, we were able to push forward our front line. With Mediolanum, the situation’s completely different. The place is two hundred miles north-west from here. To hang on to it, we’d have to stretch our lines of communication to breaking-point. In effect, it would mean having to start up a second front.’
‘So much for your theory of Blitzkrieg,’ retorted Belisarius bitterly.
‘Now you’re being deliberately obtuse,’ sighed Narses. ‘Lighting war involves pushing forward from an already advancing front. Until we’ve consolidated our position in Central Italy — Auximum and Faesulae* especially, need to be reduced — that won’t be possible.’
‘So — you’re happy then to see Mediolanum given over to fire and sword. With the slaughter of its innocent inhabitants on your conscience, I hope you’ll be able to live with yourself!’
‘My conscience? I would remind you, Belisarius, that this is a problem solely of your making.’ With a steady hand, Narses poured himself a goblet of wine. Taking a sip, he went on, ‘But we are wasting time. Will you send that order for the recall of your force, or would you prefer that I pull rank on you and do so for myself?’
From Anicius Julianus, Senator, to Procopius Caesariensis, Chronicler, Ave.
Dear ‘Regulus’, friend in Libertas, with B.’s capture of Ravenna in a bloodless coup, it would appear, on the face of it, that Libertas has failed: half the Western Empire recovered and Justinian still on his throne — stronger than ever, it might seem.
I suppose, with hindsight, we succeeded too well with Narses. The squabbling and backbiting that resulted from his transfer to Italy worked spectacularly well, resulting as it did in a fatally divided command. The ensuing paralysis caused Mediolanum to fall to the Goths (half a million put to the sword and the city razed to the ground!), which, unfortunately, caused J. to think again and have N. recalled. Since when, as we know, with his leadership no longer challenged and the field to himself, B. was able to polish off Witigis — since pensioned off by J., like Gelimer. (Doesn’t it make you sick the way we treat defeated barbarian leaders these days? When Rome was Rome, Witigis would have been crucified like Spartacus, or strangled in public like Vercingetorix.) That was a master-stroke of B. — pretending to go along with W.’s suggestion that provided he split with J. and called off the war, the Goths would recognize him as Western emperor in a power-sharing deal. Once B. was allowed into Ravenna and showed his true colours after the Goths surrendered, it was of course too late for poor old W. — who’d had the wool well and truly pulled over his eyes.
I said above that Libertas might appear to have failed. It would however be premature, I think, to throw in the towel — for two reasons. Firstly, B.’s success in Italy may be built on sand. The Goths have not been defeated militarily, only tricked into surrender. Even with Witigis now out of the picture, there are other potential Gothic leaders waiting in the wings — Urais in Ticinum* and Hildebad in Verona, for example, neither of whom have yet lain down their arms. With Belisarius (accompanied by yourself, of course) recalled from Italy, leaving General Vitalius, a competent second-rater, in charge, a Gothic resurgence can by
no means be ruled out. Congratulations by the way on your ‘poison pen’ campaign. Your letters to our beloved emperor suggesting that B. seriously toyed with accepting Witigis’ offer to recognize him as Western emperor — like Julius Caesar when Anthony offered him the crown — had the desired effect. They planted the seed of suspicion in J.’s mind (always fertile ground for doubt to germinate), to the extent of persuading him to withdraw B. — just in case. .
My second reason for suggesting that the cause of Libertas may not be dead is this. Last year, as my spies found out, Witigis, seeing defeat staring him in the face, made a desperate appeal to Khusro, the new Great King of Persia. His envoys carried the message that if Italy were reconquered by Belisarius, the Roman Empire would then be strong enough to renew hostilities with Persia — notwithstanding that the Treaty of Eternal Peace was still in force. In other words, W. was suggesting that Khusro launch a pre-emptive strike against the Empire, while Rome still had its hands full in Italy. Even with W. now gone and Italy in Roman hands again, the war might well flare up once more, as I’ve pointed out. So W.’s appeal could still make sense in terms of what’s in it for Khusro.
All in all, my dear Procopius, the Friends of Libertas may yet have all to play for, and, who knows, you may find yourself ere long back in Italy with B. I have entrusted delivery of this missive to ‘Gracchus’, who will no doubt find you ensconced within the Imperial Palace at Constantinople.
Written at Fanum, Flaminia et Picenum (once more a province of the Roman Empire!), IV Ides Februarii, in the Year of the Consul Basillus.** (Wonder of wonders, it looks as if J. may have undergone a change of heart regarding consigning the consulship to history.)
‘Does the capture of Ravenna, Lord, mean that You look with favour on Justinianus, Your unworthy son? With Italy as well as Africa now Roman once again, Your servant has recovered half the Western Empire. Much still remains to be done, of course — the barbarians cleared from Gaul and Spain, and the light of Your true faith, Orthodox Catholicism, made to triumph over the false creeds of the Monophysites and Arians, throughout the Empire. If, as Constantine and Augustine averred, the mission of the Imperium Romanum is to spread and safeguard Christianity over all the world, then perhaps I can dare to hope that You have indeed chosen me, to be the humble instrument for furthering Your great design for the salvation of mankind.’ Cold and stiff, Justinian shifted his aching knees on the marble floor of Hagia Sophia’s nave, where he had spent the night in prayer.
‘There have been times, Lord,’ the emperor intoned, continuing his orisons, ‘when I feared that You had withdrawn your favour from me, that I was indeed in some way cursed: as if the Furies of legend — those dreadful winged maidens whose locks are twisting serpents and whose eyes drip blood — had been sent by Fate to prescribe the course that I must follow. For example, Lord, when I sent Narses to aid Belisarius in Italy, and their quarrel resulted in the destruction of Milan and the massacre of its people. Have I, Lord, been indirectly guilty of the death of half a million souls? At times I think I must have been, for my conscience continues to torment me. Through timidity and hesitation, Lord, the faults that cost the lives of Atawulf and Valerian my friends, I would have let the Goths keep Italy from the Padus to the Alps, had not Belisarius turned a deaf ear to my instructions to abandon the siege of Ravenna and make terms with Witigis. And was I wrong, Lord, to listen to rumours reported to me by Procopius, that Belisarius thought to make himself Emperor of the West — rumours that caused me to recall him? Have I thereby been guilty of a grave injustice against one who is a good and faithful servant?
‘Perhaps I am a weak and broken vessel, Lord, one who is unworthy to be emperor. I think at times of Amalasuntha and Silverius. And then I wonder, Lord, if I should renounce Theodora, my beloved wife, who, as woman, is tainted with the sin of Eve, and whose transgressions I connived at. If however, Lord, You have indeed chosen Justinian, despite his manifest and many frailties, to be Your Appointed Instrument, I would humbly pray that you vouchsafe to him a sign — as once You did to Constantine of blessed memory.’
Justinian opened his eyes and waited, in an agony of hope and doubt. From outside the church, the faint stir of the awakening city came to the emperor’s ears. The creak and rumble of the vendors’ carts told him that the gates in the Wall of Theodosius had been opened. It must be dawn; the realization was confirmed by the dim radiance beginning to suffuse the nave’s interior.
Then, suddenly, the sun’s rays burst through the windows surrounding the base of the great dome, to bathe the kneeling figure in golden light. Here was his sign, Justinian told himself, sobbing with relief and gratitude. He — Justinianus Augustus, Restitutor Orbis Romani — was indeed God’s Chosen One.
But perhaps, as the emperor Commodus — at the height of his power foreseeing his own downfall, observed — the gods were laughing. In Persia, Khusro was contemplating ending the Treaty of Eternal Peace with Rome; in Italy, an unknown young Goth called Totila determined to resist the Roman conquerors; and in far-off Aethiopia, carried in the fur of rats, a tiny creature spreading death and desolation on an unimagined scale began its journey down the Nile towards the Roman diocese of Egypt.
* In March 538.
** Rimini.
* Senigallia, Urbino, Pesaro.
* Milan.
** 29 July 538.
* Sergeants — not to be confused with centuriones, a much higher, but by this time, obsolescent rank.
* Osimo and Fiesole.
* Pavia.
** 10 February 540. (See Notes.)
TWENTY-ONE
Embrace, O king! the favourable moment; the East is left without defence,
while the armies of Justinian and his renowned general are detained in the
distant regions of the West
Appeal of Witigis’ envoys to Khusro, 539
In the throne room of the great royal palace at Dastagerd on the Euphrates, a tall, handsome young man gazed intently on a bust of Emperor Justinian. ‘We are rivals you and I,’ Khusro, Great King of Persia, murmured to himself, ‘although you may not know it yet. In the age-old contest between Persia and Rome, it is surely Persia that is destined to emerge superior. Let us weigh up your strengths and weaknesses, my enemy.’
The young king peered closely at the bronze features, whose likeness to their subject’s the sculptor had captured with amazing skill from coins and medals bearing the emperor’s image brought back from a Constantinople celebrating the triumph of Belisarius. ‘I see kindness there, and will; also ambition and a desire to rule justly and well. But what you imagine to be best for your people may not be what they themselves desire. You are determined to recover Rome’s Empire of the West, and to establish one Orthodox faith throughout your realm. But in striving for these ends you risk two things. Firstly, overstretching your resources, thus weakening your Eastern Empire; secondly, dividing your subjects into two warring camps — Orthodox and Monophysite. Persia, on the other hand, has no such problems: we have no lost empire to waste treasure in reconquering, nor are we plagued by divisive religious policies. Zoroastrians, Jews, and Christians, at liberty to follow their own creeds, all have enriched our realm by the free exercise of their varied talents.’
Khusro chuckled to himself at the thought of how an observer watching his monarch address a mute lump of bronze might react. He continued to study the metal face, looking to discern further character traits. ‘I see self-doubt, I think. Which suggests that your drive to achieve will be compromised by uncertainty. In the coming struggle, Justinian, it is I, Khusro, who will prove to be the winner. Your character is flawed, your realm riven by potential fault-lines. Old age is waiting in the wings, and soon the years will sap your strength and your resolve. It will be a contest between a young lion and a tired old bull.’ Smiling in anticipation, Khusro fondled the jewelled pommel of his sword. Drawing the weapon, he stood it upright between his knees, a sign to his generals, who would soon be arriving, that they should prepare for war.
Entering the chamber, Khusro’s captains knelt before the three symbolic thrones which, at a lower level, faced the one on which the monarch sat. One was for the Roman emperor, one for the chief ruler of the Central Asian khanates, the third for the emperor of China — against the time when these potentates would come to pay homage to the King of Kings.
‘Rise,’ commanded Khusro. ‘As you see, the sword is drawn. We will make war again against our ancient enemy.’
‘Would that be wise, Great King?’ enquired the elderly Surena,* Isadh-Gushnasp, the only civilian in the group, whose wisdom and experience alone entitled him to express his views without reserve. ‘The Treaty of Eternal Peace still stands; it should not, perhaps, be lightly broken.’
‘“The word of a Persian noble is his bond”,’ the king responded, quoting a maxim of the ruling caste, whose guiding principles were honour, truthfulness, and courtesy. ‘That is true — on a personal level. But at times relations between rival states demand a more, let us say, ‘flexible’ approach. And any ending of the Peace need not be permanent — only long enough for certain pressing issues to be resolved.’
‘These issues — the disputed territories of Lazica, Armenia, Mesopotamia, and Syria**?’
‘Precisely, my Surena. It is my view, as it has long been that of my predecessors, that the balance of power in these regions has for too many years been tilted in Rome’s favour. Once the scales are readjusted to an even level, Rome and Persia can sign the treaty once again.’
‘But give the word, Great King!’ exclaimed a grey-haired general, ‘and we shall raze Constantinople and bring you the hide of this Justinian — as once we served Valerian.’†
