Justinian

by Ross Laidlaw

  Suddenly, the emperor’s glittering self-image as God’s Appointed Vice-gerent upon Earth seemed less convincing than it had a few short months before. His old demons of self-doubt, which he had thought banished forever, began once more to stir within the dark recesses of his mind. And with self-doubt revived his old fear that he was in some way cursed, that the price of allegiance to Justinian was — as with Milan and now with Antioch — fated to be catastrophe and death.

  The news about Antioch threw Theodora into an agony of uncertainty as to the fate of her beloved Macedonia. Had she perished in the slaughter? Or was she among the captives taken into exile in Persia? If the latter, then a personal appeal by a Roman empress to the Great King would surely be effective in securing her release. Convincing herself that Macedonia was now safely in Persia, she was about to send an ambassador to Khusro, when her hopes were cruelly dashed.

  An aged nun, weary and travel-stained (‘bearing urgent news for the empress’ ears alone’, according to the Comes Domesticorum who interviewed her), arrived one day at the Imperial Palace and was granted an audience with the empress. Theodora’s anguished howl of misery when she heard that Macedonia was dead was audible in every part of the palace close to the audience chamber. Sister Agnes, departing with a handsome ‘dowry’ (her entree to the Metanoia* of which she was to become Mother Superior), would say nothing when asked about the cause of Theodora’s distress. For days, the empress stayed immured within her private suite, unapproachable even by the emperor, her only contact an expert limner. Between them, the empress and the artist created a likeness of Macedonia for delivery to the mosaicists adorning the Church of Sanctus Vitalius in Ravenna (then under construction, to celebrate the reintegration of Italy into the Roman Empire) with two panels depicting separately, Justinian and Theodora together with their suites. The instructions accompanying the portrait — showing a pretty, heart-shaped face, full of compassion and a lively intelligence — stated that it was to be the model for the female figure immediately to the left of the empress in the panel. ‘And so, my love,’ Theodora murmured sadly, all her tears long since wept out, ‘now you and I will be together for all time.’

  When at last she emerged into public life once more, many noted that the empress had changed — afflicted from then on by some secret sorrow. Some later went so far as to suggest that the seeds of the sickness that would in a few years strike her down were sown at this time.

  With Belisarius now posted to the east, Justinian’s morale began to recover. His all-conquering general would surely teach that presumptuous young puppy, Khusro, a lesson he would not easily forget. Meanwhile, Gubazes, king of the disputed territory of Lazica** (encouraged by the collapse of Roman prestige as a result of Khusro’s Syrian campaign, and resentful of the efficiency of Roman tax-collectors), had invited the Great King to replace Roman with Persian sovereignty. Khusro was only too willing to oblige; a Persian army swept through Lazica,† defeated the Roman forces there, and captured the fortified port of Petra, giving them an outlet on the Black Sea.

  But with Belisarius at the head of a mighty Roman army (swollen with troops no longer needed in Italy) advancing into Persian Mesopotamia, it looked as if the Great King’s rashness in challenging the might of Rome was about to incur its just deserts. And for a time, this seemed indeed to be the scenario that was destined to unfold. On swept the Romans unop-posed, past Nisibis whose huge garrison dared not emerge to challenge them, to take the great fortress city of Sisaurana on the Tigris. And then, just as it seemed poised to descend on Lazica, the Roman advance stalled. . To everyone’s amazement and consternation (none more so than the emperor’s), Belisarius now proceeded to march his army back to Roman territory!

  Speculation as to the reasons for the general’s withdrawal was rife, wild, and fevered. The consensus was that distressing news had reached Belisarius concerning the conduct of his wife, Antonina. Normally, she accompanied him on campaign, but on this occasion, so the story went, had chosen to remain in Constantinople, in order to resume a longstanding and passionate affair with a young man called Theodosius (her own adopted son!) — a liaison that Belisarius had fondly imagined to have run its course. His forbearance tested beyond endurance, the general, it was thought, had finally snapped, and was now determined to confront his wife and discover the truth, or otherwise, of the rumours concerning her.*

  To Justinian, it began to seem that God had indeed decided to withdraw His favour from His former Chosen One, especially as the stalemate on the eastern front coincided with the downfall of Justinian’s invaluable finance minister, John of Cappadocia (engineered by his arch-enemy Theodora, who managed to link his name with a plot against the emperor**). The Cappadocian’s genius for raising money had helped provide the enormous financial resources needed for Justinian’s campaigns. Thus his disgrace and dismissal constituted both a major political defeat for the emperor (inflicted by his wife!), and a severe blow to his confidence. After much soul-searching however, he was able to comfort himself with the reflection that the major constituent of his Grand Plan — namely the recovery of Africa and Italy for the Roman Empire — was solidly intact.

  But that reassuring consolation was about to be shattered. .

  * Or Convent of Repentance — a refuge, founded by Theodora, for women forced into prostitution.

  ** Georgia.

  † In the spring of 541.

  * They proved, alas, to be only too well-founded.

  ** For this, also Antonina’s unbelievably steamy and tangled affair with Theodosius, see Notes for Chapter 19.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Recover for us dominion over Italy

  Plea of the Goths to Totila on electing him their king, 541

  ‘Know anything about this new king the Goths have just elected for themselves?’ Artabazus — commander-in-chief of the Field Army of Italy (an Armenian, as his olive complexion and delicate aquiline features hinted) — asked Bessas, his second-in command. The latter was an elderly Goth from Thrace, a veteran of many campaigns stretching back to Anastasius’ clashes with the Persians. The two men were seated in the commander’s pavilion near Faventia in Tuscia,* overlooking a smiling landscape — undulating hills clothed in forests of chestnut, valleys chequered with vineyards and olive groves. Around the pavilion the tents of the army stretched in orderly rows, the soldiers sleeping, cleaning kit, preparing supper, or, in the case of the younger ones, just skylarking.

  ‘Not much,’ grunted Bessas in reply, his battle-scarred old face framed by grizzled locks, worn long in the German fashion. ‘Except that he’s the nephew of Hildebad, the king the Goths chose after Belisarius left Italy eighteen months ago. Didn’t last long. Jealousy among the Gothic leaders, I heard, led to his assassination last year. Replaced by one Eraric, who wasn’t even a Goth, but a Rugian.’

  ‘And his reign was even shorter,’ observed Artabazus with a grin. ‘Murdered after five months. ‘That was when the Goths found out he was planning to cede their newly recreated kingdom to Justinian — in return for a fat pension and being allowed to settle in Constantinople as a patrician. Shades of Gelimer and Witigis. Anyway, what about this nephew of Hildebad?’

  ‘Young man, name of Totila. Scarcely out of his teens.’

  ‘This just gets better and better,’ chuckled Artabazus. ‘I’d give him even less time than Eraric. To a Goth, being ruled by an untried boy is only marginally better than being ruled by a woman. And that’s total anathema. You’ve only got to think of Amalasuntha and her poisonous offspring, Athalaric.’

  ‘In the case of Totila, I wouldn’t be too sure,’ mused Bessas. ‘They say he’s mature beyond his years; also he seems to have held some sort of command under his uncle. The Goths appear to think highly of him. And, what’s perhaps more worrying, so do many Romans, who have yet to be persuaded of the benefits of being back in the Empire. And who can blame them? What with Justinian’s army of tax-collectors hell-bent on making up for lost time, and our soldiers forced to turn to loo
ting to supplement arrears of pay. If Totila succeeds in stamping his authority on his people, we could be in trouble. Both from the Goths and the Romans.’ The old warrior frowned and shook his head. ‘Whatever was Vitalius thinking about to let the Goths start up their kingship once again? Once you’ve beaten him, the one thing you don’t do with a German is give him a second chance. I should know — I’m German myself.’

  ‘Perhaps Vitalius wasn’t in charge long enough to stop the Goths regrouping,’ the other pointed out. ‘Or perhaps he thought that letting them elect their own King Log* would be enough to keep them quiet for the nonce. Our emperor’s crazy plan of switching around the top command hasn’t exactly helped. He was terrified, you know, that Belisarius would accept when the Goths offered to recognize him as Western emperor. Hence Justinian’s present policy of divide and rule regarding his generals. The man’s paranoid, afraid of his own shadow; you didn’t hear me say that, by the way. You yourself were appointed Magister Militum for a time, after Vitalius. Now it seems it’s my turn. Well, one thing I am determined to do before I’m phased out, is to nip this Gothic resurgence in the bud — before it has a chance to become a real threat.’

  ‘Totila’s army’s only ten miles north from here, according to the scouts’ report. You mean to take him on?’

  ‘I should say! A scratch force of only a few thousand Goths?’ Artabazus laughed scornfully. ‘He’s serving himself up to us on a plate. We should be able to bring him to battle tomorrow, when the Army of Italy will make short work of him. Then we can put an end to this nonsense of a renewed Gothic kingdom, once and for all.’

  That night, Totila encamped his five thousand Goths — all that were brave (or desperate?) enough to follow him — at the head of a valley overlooking the Romans’ position.

  ‘At least three times our number,’ murmured Aligern, looking down at the distant rows of ‘butterflies’ glowing in the late sun — the eight-man leather tents the Romans carried on campaign. Aligern was an elder statesman, kinsman of the murdered Hildebad, and loyal supporter of that monarch’s nephew and successor. ‘It will take cunning as well as courage on our part, if we hope to have any chance of beating them.’ He glanced keenly at the tall, golden-haired young king standing beside him. ‘It may be Sire, that — for the present — discretion is the better part of valour. There would be no shame in withdrawing in order to build up our forces against a future, more evenly matched encounter. If we choose to fight them now, and are defeated — ’ Aligern shrugged, then added with a grim smile, ‘It would be the end of the Ostrogothic nation. Think well, Sire, before deciding.’

  Cunning as well as courage, Totila repeated to himself. Courage — his men had that in overflowing measure. If bravery alone could win the day, victory was theirs. As with all Germans, every Gothic male was a warrior, schooled in the use of arms, nurtured on a tradition of heroic deeds and contempt for danger. But, again like all Germans, each Gothic warrior was eager for personal glory, and impatient of discipline. A trait that could have spelt disaster when, as his uncle’s swordbearer in his first command, he had taken Trabesium,* the only Roman-occupied fortification north of the Padus. He remembered when he had led his men against that mighty fortress on its rock two years ago. .

  Perceiving some inner quality of self-belief or leadership in his nephew, Hildebad had let the boy take charge of the assault. Totila had found himself cajoling tough warriors two, or even three times his own age, into abandoning their desire to launch a head-on attack on the place — an action that would have proved suicidal against the town’s strong garrison and massive walls. Instead, with a blend of tact, humour, and firmness, he had persuaded them to accept an alternative manoeuvre — ascending, under cover of night, a steep path leading to an unguarded postern gate. The enterprise called for courage (clearly, the garrison thought the postern not worth the trouble of defending, thanks to its being sited above a precipitous ascent), teamwork, and, the hardest thing of all to instil in Germans — discipline. In addressing his men, Totila discovered that he had that most precious of gifts a leader can possess — charisma, the quality that makes men want to follow another, someone who can, by enthusiasm and example, unite his followers into a band of brothers sharing a common goal.

  The operation had proceeded without a hitch, with Trabesium falling to the Goths.

  ‘I have decided, Aligern,’ Totila replied to his senior lieutenant. ‘Tomorrow, we must fight them. If we retreat now, our men will lose heart and begin to disperse. Any reputation I possess would soon be lost, and I’d probably end up sharing the same fate as my uncle or Eraric. Besides, I don’t believe the odds against us are as great as they might seem. The Army of Italy certainly outnumbers us — greatly so. But what of its quality? Belisarius has taken the cream of his troops to the east, leaving mainly mercenary units behind. Men whose only motive is gain, and who value their hides far above whatever cause they fight for. A hundred and sixty years ago, our ancestors defeated a vastly superior Roman army at Adrianople. Let us emulate their tactics.’

  ‘Which were?’ Aligern’s tone sounded somewhat less pessimistic than before.

  ‘Essentially, the following. Instead of the usual wild charge, the Goths — under their leader, Fritigern — formed a defensive line against the Romans, who advanced in close order. A suprise cavalry attack by the Goths smashed into the Roman left wing, causing confusion and disorder with men being pushed back into each other, so that they were unable to manoeuvre. The Gothic line now advanced against the Roman ranks, jamming them even more closely together. Result — slaughter, then rout. So, what we must do is this. .’

  ‘Archers,’ groaned Aligern to Totila the following morning, as a long line of unarmoured men formed up in front of the Roman army. In what seemed almost a casual, unconcerned manner, they advanced in open order up the valley towards the Gothic line — a double row of spearmen forming a wall of shields flanked by woods, across the valley’s head. Clad in undyed linen tunics with indigo government roundels at hip and shoulder, bows and quivers slung carelessly on backs, the Roman archers looked curiously unthreatening. Yet both Gothic leaders knew just how devastating and demoralizing arrow-fire could prove, unless countered effectively.

  ‘Once that lot starts shooting, it’s going to take all your authority to stop our fellows from going after them,’ observed Aligern. ‘Which, of course, is what the Romans hope we’ll do.’

  ‘They must just stand and take it. As long as the men stay behind their shields, they’ll be all right — barring a few inevitable casualties; we must accept that. So long as we don’t react, they’ll call off their archers soon enough.’

  So long as we don’t react, the young king repeated to himself. Everything depended on the Goths maintaining discipline, something that ran counter to their nature, but whose importance he had striven with every fibre to make them understand. While the shield-wall stayed intact, the enemy would be unable, on a narrow front, to bring his advantage of superior numbers to bear. Then, provided we can hold him. .

  A hundred paces in front of the Goths’ formation, the archers halted then formed up in an extended line. Unhurriedly, they strung their bows — powerful, recurved, composite affairs of laminated wood and horn — nocked arrows, raised their shooting-arms to a steep angle, and drew the shafts to an anchor-point at the chin. Suddenly, they no longer looked innocuous, but deadly.

  With a soft, whirring sound a flight of arrows arced towards the Gothic line, racing its speeding shadow on the ground to strike the wall of shields with a ripple of thuds. One or two andbahtos — retainers — cried out in pain or slumped to the ground; the great majority remained unharmed. After enduring several volleys however, the Goths began to grow restive, their line showing the first signs of losing cohesion, as individual warriors fought their instinct to rush forward and close with these cowards who dared fight only from a distance. Sensing the danger, Totila, golden hair swinging about his shoulders, strode along the line urging restraint, an arrow
clanging off his Spangenhelm, while two others smacked into his shield. His words had the desired effect; everywhere, the shield-wall firmed and straightened.

  Except at one point near the centre. Here, a group of Goths rushed forward. With the incline in their favour, they could expect to catch their tormentors before the archers could run back to the protection of their army. Instead there came a blur of movement in the Roman ranks, which opened to allow passage for a cloud of horsemen. Though only light cavalry, they were more than capable of dealing with an isolated group of the enemy.* Galloping through the scattering archers they were among the Goths in a flash, thrusting and slashing with their long spathae till not a man remained alive. It was a chilling, and salutary, object-lesson. Thereafter, no one in the shield-wall needed further encouragement to stay in line.

  A trumpet sounded, recalling the archers and the horse. Now the Roman infantry rolled forward — rank upon rank of mailed soldiers, moving as one like some grim machine, or monster clad in iron scales. With a deafening clash the two lines came together, when began a deadly shoving-match, with victory destined for the side that did not break. The Goths — big fair-haired men — had the slope in their favour, while the woods at either end of their line meant that they could not be outflanked. Against this, their formation was only two deep compared with the Romans’ six; most were unarmoured, relying for protection solely on their oval wooden shields. Gradually, the greater weight of the Roman line began to tell; slowly, fighting stubbornly every yard of the way, the Goths found themselves being forced back.

  Then, just when it seemed that a Roman victory was inevitable, the surprise that Totila had planned all along was sprung. Away to the flank, concealed from view until the moment it was needed, was the cream of Totila’s force — a body of heavy lancers, several hundred strong, armoured and equipped from the armoury of Trabesium, after that city’s capture. Now, thundering up the valley from its mouth they smashed into the Romans from behind, inflicting massive carnage and causing widespread confusion. Desperately pushing forward to escape those terrible lance-points, the rear ranks caused the ones in front to become jammed together. Soon the whole army had become a close-packed, struggling mass, in which men were unable to lift their weapons, or, losing their footing, were trodden underfoot to suffocate. In such a situation panic spreads like wildfire, and this scenario was no exception. With shocking suddenness, the Roman army broke and fled, not stopping in their flight until reaching safety behind the strong walls of Faventia.