Justinian

by Ross Laidlaw

  For the Goths it was a famous victory.* News of it spread rapidly; men flocked to join Totila’s standard and within days his army had quadrupled in strength. Badly mauled though still intact, the Roman army withdrew south towards Florentia,** via the long Mugello valley. Here, Totila ambushed them, winning a second — and decisive — victory. Too distracted and demoralized to send out scouts, strung out in a straggling column along the length of the defile, the Romans fell easy prey to the Goths charging down upon them from the heights. Having sustained serious losses, the Roman army now broke up into separate sections (each commanded by a different general), which proceeded to take refuge in the fortresses of central Italy. Here, apprehensive and rudderless, they remained bottled up to lick their wounds.

  Meanwhile, nothing less than a social revolution was sweeping the peninsula. All over Italy, those who had suffered the consequences of Justinian’s ‘liberation’: the merchants, the urban middle classes, and the peasants — ground between the upper and nether millstones of Alexander ‘the Scissors’ ruthless tax machine, and the casual plundering of East Roman troops — hailed Totila as a saviour. Like a second Spartacus, the young monarch divided up the great estates among the tenants, sweeping away crippling rents and corvees; freeing the slaves, who willingly enrolled in his army; cleansing the civil service of the corrupt and greedy officials who had run the administration very much with an eye to their own profit, and staffing it instead with humble Romans. Within a few short months, apart from Rome, Ravenna, and a few towns on the coast or in the central Apennines, the whole of Italy had fallen to the Goths. Only the senatorial class held out against Totila. To these, the young ‘barbarian’ continued to extend an olive branch (for he hoped eventually to bring them round), treating with kindness and respect all aristocrats who fell into his hands. Meanwhile the expulsion of landlords, freeing of slaves and ending of abuses went on apace, with ordinary Romans everywhere enthusiastically supporting their charismatic new champion.

  Shock and consternation clubbed Justinian when he received the news of what was happening in Italy. His Grand Plan, it seemed, was fast unravelling; perhaps, he conceded to himself, it had been a mistake to alternate the command among his generals. Radical steps must be taken to stop the rot before it was too late. Belisarius, unfortunately, could not be spared, what with a newly aggressive Persia under Khusro threatening the eastern frontier. His generals in Italy, even tough old veterans like Bessas, had proved a sorely disappointing lot. None of them, it appeared, was capable of taking on this Totila. But perhaps there was one man, presently here in Constantinople, who might be equal to the task — a certain Maximinus.

  Maximinus, a senator and courtier, had recently come to the emperor’s attention by the sound advice he had offered to officials at the Treasury — advice which had helped to fill the void in fiscal policy resulting from the departure of John of Cappadocia. Wit, poet, man of culture and sophistication, to say nothing of his administrative skills, this second Petronius Arbiter possessed the sort of over-arching intelligence that perhaps made him the ideal person to tackle the Hydra-headed crisis that had blown up in Italy. The more he thought about it, the more Justinian convinced himself that Maximimus was the man to send. Granted, he lacked military experience, but perhaps, given the recent woeful performance of the generals, that might even be an advantage; Maximinus would be coming to the job with a fresh, objective outlook, and no baggage.

  But before The Prodigy could be dispatched to Italy, calamity — on a scale unprecedented in its reach and terror — struck the Empire’s eastern provinces. .

  * Faenza in Tuscany.

  * A king who is merely a figurehead. (See Aesop’s Fables.)

  * Treviso.

  * Belisarius had taken the heavy cavalry with him to the east, leaving behind only light horse — suitable for scouting or skirmishing, but useless against enemy en masse.

  * The Battle of Faventia/Faenza was fought in the spring of 542.

  ** Florence.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  During these times there was a pestilence by which the whole human race

  came near to being annihilated

  Procopius, The Wars of Justinian, after 552

  ‘They say the pestilence ’as got to Syria,’ declared a lighterman to the patrons of Damian’s, a wine shop near the Harbour of Phosphorion at the entrance to the Golden Horn.

  ‘Stale news, mate,’ chipped in a packer from the horrea, the rows of warehouses for storing grain that lined the wharves. ‘It’s now in Phrygia. Three hundred miles to go, and then it’s our turn.’

  ‘The Bosphorus’ll stop it,’ murmured a coppersmith hopefully.

  ‘Oh, really,’ scoffed a seaman. ‘If it’s come a thousand miles from Egypt, stands to reason a puddle of water won’t make any difference.’

  ‘Repent, all ye — for the Day of Judgement is at hand!’ bawled Scripture Simon, a burly stevedore celebrated for his extempore hellfire harangues. ‘That dread day, when the Last Trump shall sound and the graves give up their dead, and Christ shall divide the sheep from the — ’

  ‘Stuff a sponge in it, Simon,’ sighed the bartender. ‘What with the pestilence and the End of the World coming, we’d best not waste any more drinking time. Next orders, gentlemen.’

  ‘In view of the fact that the pestilence is now in Chalcedon, a mere mile across the Bosphorus,’ Cyril, princeps or head of the University of Constantinople, addressed his staff assembled in a lecture hall, ‘I have decided, for obvious health reasons, to close this institution. I trust you all concur.’

  There followed a general nodding of heads and mutter of agreement.

  ‘Do we know anything about the causes of the pestilence?’ enquired the Chair of Law, ‘or what precautions can be taken to reduce the risk of infection?’

  ‘The answer to both your questions is, sadly, “no”,’ replied Cyril, whose sturdy frame and ruddy complexion suggested more a prosperous peasant than an academic. ‘All I can tell you, you most likely know already. Namely, that it seems to be quite indiscriminate and arbitrary as to whom it strikes. That thus far it has caused death on a devastating scale wherever it has spread, with whole towns and villages depopulated. That beyond total isolation from one’s fellow-men, there is no known safeguard against catching the disease. Nor is there any cure; one either recovers, or, in the case of at least two-thirds of those affected, succumbs. As to its cause — some subtle distemper in the air?; “cadaveric poisoning” or touching of a corpse? One can only guess.’

  ‘The writer John of Ephesus suggests there may be some association with rats,’ observed a grammarian. ‘He relates how large numbers of the rodents have often been seen in places affected by the plague.’

  ‘Coincidence, I’d say,’ replied the princeps. ‘The pestilence is naturally most prevalent in densely populated centres where risk of contagion, if that is indeed how it is spread, is highest. Id est, in towns and cities, whose refuse dumps attract rats in large numbers. Anyway, only a tiny proportion of plague victims could have received a rat bite, which virtually rules out any direct connection.’

  ‘I’ve heard that, prior to infection, some sufferers have had dreams of headless figures sitting in bronze boats and holding bronze staves, moving across the sea towards them,’ put in the librarian.

  ‘Sounds as if they had too much wine with a heavy dinner,’ responded Cyril, to general laughter.

  ‘I was only repeating what I’d heard,’ countered the librarian defensively. ‘By what symptoms then, should we recognize the onset of the disease?’

  ‘Like yourself, I can only repeat hearsay. Apparently, a mild fever is followed by the appearance of bubones — gross swellings in the groin and armpits, or black pustules breaking out all over the body. In the latter case, or in the event of the bubones turning gangrenous, the patient swiftly dies. But should the bubones discharge pus, the inflammation is relieved and the patient soon recovers.’

  ‘Perhaps the Almighty has a lesson for u
s here, whose meaning we should endeavour to interpret,’ declared a professor of Theology — one of a new breed of appointees, chosen as much for their subscription to strict Chalcedonian Orthodoxy, as for their professional qualifications.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ snapped Cyril, a classically educated rationalist of the old school. ‘Let’s stick to facts, not bring in mumbo-jumbo.’

  ‘I don’t imagine the emperor or Patriarch would be impressed by that remark,’ retorted the professor, colouring.

  ‘I rather think they’ll soon have more urgent matters to occupy their minds,’ said Cyril wearily. ‘As will we all. I therefore bring this meeting to a close, and hope to see you all again when, God willing, the pestilence shall have run its course.’

  In the summer of that year,* the plague leapt across the Bosphorus and battened on the capital. In the maze of close-packed houses, especially the poorer quarters, it spread like wildfire seemingly through contagion, the appearance of the swellings usually amounting to a death-sentence. The symptoms were invariably the same, and most of those infected died in agony within a few days, or even on the same day that the symptoms manifested themselves.

  The death-rate escalated swiftly — from five thousand in a day, to ten thousand, to sixteen thousand on the worst day of all. Disposal of the dead became a nigh-insuperable problem. To deal with this distasteful task, Justinian appointed an imperial private secretary named Theodore. Theodore’s solution was to dig vast burial pits at the suburb of Sykae across the Golden Horn. But so relentless was the torrent of fresh corpses that these rapidly filled up; in desperation, Theodore then resorted to pulling off the roofs of the towers of the suburb’s walls, and filling them with the dead. In consequence, whenever the wind blew from the north, an appalling stench from Sykae pervaded Constantinople, whose inhabitants cowered in their houses, too terrified to venture out in case they caught the plague. Countless homes throughout the city became charnel houses, in which their dead inmates lay rotting for lack of anyone brave enough to bury them.

  And then, just when it seemed that things could get no worse, the emperor himself became infected by the plague. Justinian was hardly popular. Many recalled with bitterness the harsh government policies which had provoked the Nika riots, and the brutality with which these had been suppressed. And the tax burden to sustain the wars in Africa, Italy, and Persia had borne heavily on almost everyone. But as Roman emperor, who was also Christ’s vicegerent upon earth, he was seen by Roman citizens as their champion against the forces of evil and barbarism that constituted an ever-present threat to the survival of the Empire. In allowing the pestilence to strike down their emperor, had God withdrawn His favour from the Romans? And if this could happen to Justinian, the highest in the land, then what hope was there for anyone? If scent could be an attribute of prayer, then the odour of the orisons arising for the safety of their emperor would have overwhelmed the stink of rotting corpses from across the Golden Horn.

  With Justinian confined to a sick-bed and expected to succumb, to Theodora devolved the running of the Roman world. A woman distracted by grief over the death of a lover she adored, concerned for a husband gravely ill, and inexperienced in the conduct of high politics, now found herself in charge of an empire extending from Atlantic to Euphrates, from the Alps to Aethiopia, and numbering (prior to the pestilence) perhaps a hundred million souls.

  From Procopius Caesariensis, Chronicler, to Anicius Julianus, Senator, greetings.

  Dear ‘Cato’, friend in Libertas, although I have heard nothing from you in all the time since Ravenna fell to Belisarius (ending what has turned out to be only the first phase of the Gothic War), I allow myself to hope and trust a) that you are safe and in good health, and b) that I may soon hear from you again in your capacity of head of Libertas, now that Totila is sweeping all before him. Assuming both will prove to be the case, I shall inform you of those matters relevant to the Cause which I am competent to comment on that have transpired since last we corresponded. Much of what I have to tell you I daresay you’ll have heard about already, but to insure against lacunae I shall omit nothing of substance.

  Justinian unfortunately did not die (his death from pestilence would have made Libertas virtually redundant!), but during the months that he was sick Theodora, bless her, inadvertently gave our Cause a tremendous boost. How? By emasculating Belisarius, the one man who could have stopped Totila! (The plague having spread to Persia, Khusro suspended hostilities with Rome, thus ending the need for B’s presence on that front.) Allow me to elucidate.

  As very few recover from plague (this visitation is estimated to have killed 300,000 in Constantinople alone — a third of the capital) everyone assumed Justinian was going to die. So it was only common sense on Belisarius’ part, as one of the Empire’s movers and shakers, to plan ahead against developments arising from the emperor’s demise. Having (quite rightly) little faith that Theodora would make a sensible choice of successor, he let it be known that the appointment of an emperor could only happen with the concurrence of himself and the army commanders — otherwise there would be a very real risk of civil war. Of course Theodora, the silly bitch, who can only ever see things from a personal point of view, construed this as an insult and proceeded to confiscate B’s fortune, dismiss his corps of personal retainers, and all but have him flung in gaol (which is what she did to poor old Buzes, B’s second-in-command).

  Even after he turned the corner healthwise, Justinian had to convalesce and let Theodora carry on as regent. With Belisarius available but in disgrace, the emperor, lacking the guts to contravene Theodora, was forced to send his original choice, Maximinus, to Italy in order to sort out Totila. Well, although a disaster for Justinian, Maximinus proved a perfect gift for us. An indecisive ditherer, he let Totila run rings round him, allowing the Goths to capture Naples, thus giving Totila a port and power-base of immense strategic value for the whole of southern Italy.

  By this time, Justinian had recovered sufficiently to take up the reins of power once again. Finding at last the courage to override Theodora, he reinstated Belisarius (much to the empress’ chagrin), recalled the hapless Maximinus, and despatched B. (with yours truly in tow) to Ravenna to try to rectify the situation in Italy. Predictably, our wise and far-sighted emperor had neglected to provide the general with sufficient troops or supplies to achieve anything, forcing B. to appeal to J. for reinforcements, and to the Romans to abandon their allegiance to Totila and come over to his side. A plea which, in view of the ‘benefits’ conferred by Roman reoccupation, needless to say fell on deaf ears. While B. cooled his heels waiting for reinforcements to arrive, Totila was able to take the last few fortresses in central Italy and go on to besiege Rome itself.

  Meanwhile, you’ll be interested to know, while my superior was fuming impotently in Ravenna, I contrived to stir things up in Africa again. Via my contacts in the diocese, I persuaded Guntarith — a Roman general of Vandal origins (whose troops, surprise, surprise, were in arrears of pay) — to combine with rebel Moorish chiefs to mount an insurrection against Roman rule. Knowing you’ll honour my pledge when you resume command of Libertas, I took the liberty of promising to back any revolt with funds. I’m pleased to say they took me at my word, with the result that Artabanus, Magister Militum in Africa, now has his hands full with mutinying soldiery and Moorish insurgents. As for the war in Italy, I’ll spare you the details — a dreary catalogue of sieges, counter-sieges, sorties, and manoeuvrings, the consequence of Belisarius taking to the field again as a result of his long-awaited reinforcements eventually arriving. Suffice to say that the campaign is taking a terrible toll on the civilian population and the land itself, with many areas reverting to uncultivated waste, and starvation becoming endemic. (The plus side of all this misery, from our point of view, is that it’s fast turning Justinian into a hate figure.)

  I’ve saved the best till last. Again, as a result of promises of payment on my part, via contacts inside Rome, I persuaded a unit of Isaurian soldi
ers (minus pay, as usual) to open the Porta Asinaria.* In rushed the Goths and, I’m pleased to report, the Eternal City is now in Totila’s hands.

  In full confidence that I will hear from you ere long, I shall leave this at our old collection-point at Cecilia Metella on the Via Appia, for your agens to pick up. (This, I imagine, is what you would expect me to do, assuming me to be in the vicinity of Rome with Belisarius.) Vale.

  Written at Portus** XIII Kalendas Januarii, in the year from the Founding of New Rome the two hundred and seventeenth.†

  Post Scriptum

  My cover, by the way, seems rock-solid. At the height of his sickness, I was summoned by the emperor who told me that he wished to reward those who had stood by him at moments of crisis. (I suppose he was thinking — ha! ha! — of my ‘services’ during the Nika affair.) He said (speaking in a dreadful croaking whisper) that after the war, when my services as official historian could be relinquished, he would make me Prefect of Constantinople. Or, should he die, he had left instructions as to my promotion. I confess that I was touched, also that I felt almost sorry for the old fox to see him lying there — a wasted skeleton, like one of those hideous things in the catacombs of Rome. I was also, being in close proximity to one of its victims, absolutely terrified of catching the plague. But you can’t ignore an imperial command. Theodora too (who, to her credit, had nursed him faithfully throughout his sickness) looked at death’s door — hollow-eyed and ravaged from worry, also lack of sleep — and, this is just guesswork on my part, perhaps some hidden malady that was sapping her constitution.