Justinian

by Ross Laidlaw

  The bishops departed — not in peace, but in a bitter mood of fury and frustration.

  In his official judgement or Judicatum,* Vigilius (as, under pressure from Justinian, he was bound to do) roundly condemned the Three Chapters. But, in a desperate attempt to salvage some scraps of credibility with the Western clergy, he included in the document an addendum avowing his unshakeable attachment to the findings of the Council of Chalcedon — the very assembly which, as Facundus had pointed out, had stated its approval of those selfsame Chapters! Vigilius’ attempt to square this particular circle met with utter failure. Throughout the West, outraged clergy demanded the withdrawal of the Judicatum, the General Synod of African Bishops going so far as to break completely from communion with the Pope until he should agree to do this.

  Far from establishing the unity that Justinian desired, his Edict, in combination with the Synod, then the Judicatum, had created a yawning gulf between the Churches of the East and West that now seemed nigh unbridgeable.

  ‘Well, we did our best, Serenity,’ said Ascidas to Justinian in conciliatory tones, ‘But we failed. It seems there are some battles we are destined not to win, however hard we try. Best perhaps that we accept that, and move on.’ The two men were once again inside Saint Irene’s, a venue that, for some reason, Justinian found soothing to his troubled state of mind.

  ‘I hear what you say, Ascidas,’ replied the emperor. ‘But in this matter, failure cannot be allowed to be an option. The Three Chapters must be universally condemned.’

  ‘Even now, Serenity,’ said the cleric gently, ‘after the Western bishops have forced Vigilius to withdraw his Judicatum?’

  ‘You don’t understand!’ cried the emperor, a note of desperation entering his voice. ‘As Christ’s vicegerent upon earth, it is my duty not only to reunite the Roman Empire, but to ensure unity of faith within that Empire. To achieve the first without the second would be a meaningless accomplishment.’ He stared intently at the other. ‘You can understand that, can’t you? Vigilius must not become a broken reed. I have made him swear an oath, backed up by a signed statement, that he will revisit this whole matter of the Three Chapters with a view to ensuring their condemnation. As a concession to religious sensitivities, however, I have given my permission for the oath to remain secret — for the time being.’

  At that moment, a man attired in palace livery burst into the church. ‘Serenity,’ the official blurted out, ‘the physician urges that you come immediately to the Palace. The Augusta has been taken gravely sick!’

  * i.e. two elements combining in a single entity — ‘as fire and iron come together in a red-hot ingot’, as Leontius puts it.

  ** The treaty was renegotiated in 545.

  † See Chapter 19. To remind the reader: the Monophysites held that Christ had only one, divine, nature; the Chalcedonians that He had two natures — both human and divine.

  * Both Palace and Gate are still extant. (See Notes.)

  * Rome, rather than Constantinople, Antioch, or Alexandria, was held to have the final say in matters of theology.

  ** On 25 January 547.

  * On 29 June 547.

  * Issued on Saturday 11 April 548.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Enter into thy rest, O Empress! The King of Kings and Lord of Lords calleth thee

  Salutation of the master of ceremonies at the funeral of Theodora, 548

  Hurrying through the Palace corridors en route to Theodora’s bedchamber, Justinian was intercepted by Theoctistus, the imperial physician.

  ‘What ails the Empress?’ cried Justinian distractedly. ‘I had no idea anything was amiss. I–I came immediately I received your message.’ Grabbing the other’s arm, he stared with wild-eyed panic into the man’s face. ‘How is she?’

  ‘The Augusta sleeps, Serenity,’ replied the medicus, a grave-faced man of calm demeanour. ‘I have increased her medication. She is very sick, I fear. But, to spare you from worrying, she has insisted these past months, while secluding herself in her summer palace of Hieron, that you were told nothing. Until now, that is.’

  ‘Until now! What does that mean?’

  ‘Her sickness is terminal, I fear, Serenity. She has a cancer in her back — beyond my skill to operate.’

  Theoctistus, formerly the army’s most brilliant surgeon, had saved the life of many a soldier whom other physicians had despaired of helping. When such a one declared a case hopeless. . Nevertheless, Justinian found himself clutching at straws. ‘A cancer — can that not be cut out?’ he gabbled.

  ‘Not in this case, Serenity. It is too deep. Besides, it has now spread,’ he added gently, his face creased with compassion, ‘The best that I can do is ease her pain with a potion I’ve prepared: an infusion of mandragora — poein anasthesian, as we say — to dull the pain. I should warn you, though; its effectiveness will soon diminish rapidly.’

  ‘How long?’ whispered the emperor, a terrible sense of impending loss replacing his initial shock.

  ‘A month at most, Serenity.’

  ‘Will she experience much pain, Theoctistus? Please be frank; I have to know.’

  ‘Very well, Serenity. She is already suffering bouts of severe pain at intervals, which she is enduring with commendable fortitude. These, unfortunately, will increase in frequency and severity. Towards the end, the pain will be unbearable. Unless — ’

  ‘Unless! You said “unless”, Theoctistus! Does that mean what I think it means?’

  ‘I can supply the means, Serenity, to ensure that death comes swiftly and without pain. As a physician, I am constrained by my Hippocratic oath which begins, “First, do no harm”, from administering it myself.’ Glancing keenly at the emperor, he added softly, ‘But perhaps another may.’

  ‘For her sake, I must be strong; I must be strong,’ Justinian repeated to himself as he entered the bedchamber. But, at the sight of that beloved face drained of all colour to a waxy pallor, his resolve crumbled and he broke down.

  ‘You cannot, must not leave me,’ he sobbed. ‘I myself, the Patriarch, all Constantinople, will pray for you. God, the All-Powerful, will surely heed our intercessions and restore you to health.’

  ‘Don’t torture yourself with false hopes, my dear,’ murmured Theodora, summoning a tremulous smile. ‘My time has come. I have accepted that, and so must you. We have been fortunate, you and I. Our married life together has been long and good; not many are so blessed. Besides, our parting will not be forever. Soon, I must be in Heaven, but you will join me there in God’s good time.’ Suddenly, she took a sharp intake of breath and winced, biting her lower lip with such force as to draw blood. After a few moments she relaxed, then whispered, ‘The pain — it strikes suddenly, without warning; but it is gone now. For a while.’

  Cursing himself for being so blindly obsessed with implementing the religious aspect of his Grand Plan that he had been unaware that his wife was sick — Theodora, who had nursed him so devotedly while he lay stricken with the plague, his loyal helpmeet through thick and thin these twenty-three years — Justinian could only hold her hand and gaze at her with helpless love from tear-blurred eyes as she drifted into sleep.

  The time had come. His heart pounding, his breathing shallow and constricted, Justinian was seized with a fit of trembling so violent that he could scarcely hold the phial that Theoctistus had made ready. It contained, in addition to Theodora’s usual medicine, a substance called arsenikon — in a quantity sufficient to cause the patient ‘to pass peacefully away within an hour’, as the medicus had assured him. The memory of the terrible agony he had witnessed Theodora enduring in the last few days had nerved the emperor at last to carry out the task he knew he must perform.

  ‘Time for your morning dose, my love,’ said Justinian in a broken voice, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Had she guessed? he wondered, as he poured the phial’s contents into a cup which he held to her lips. Steadying his shaking hand with hers, she drained the vessel in a single draught.

  ‘Don�
�t weep, my love,’ she murmured, her head falling back on the pillow. ‘We shall meet again in a place where there will be no more tears nor pain, but only joy and peace.’ Her eyes began to close, then opened suddenly. With a smile and a hint of her old spirit, she declared in a low but clear voice, ‘You and I — the barbarian from Thrace and the bear-keeper’s daughter from the Hippodrome, together we showed the world, did we not?’

  ‘We surely did, my dear,’ whispered her husband in choked tones. ‘We showed the world indeed.’

  Stirring awake, Justinian took a few seconds to come to himself. Exhaustion from shock and the strain of the past days must have temporarily overcome him, he told himself. Then he realized that the little hand he held in his was cold. In sudden panic, he bent his ear to her lips, could detect no sound nor sign of breath. The awful truth hit him: Theodora was dead!* — had died while, unforgiveably, he had slept. He felt as though the central pillar of his life had suddenly been knocked away, leaving him, at sixty-six, bereft and utterly alone. The remainder of his life seemed to stretch away before him like a bleak and barren desert. What meaning had his Grand Plan now, when there was no Theodora to share it with?

  A great cry of grief and loss burst from the emperor. To have taken Theodora from him, God must surely have abandoned him — no longer His vicegerent upon earth. The old morale-sapping conviction that he was somehow cursed came flooding back; those who had been close to him had always come to harm — now including Theodora. The dreadful thought occurred to him that, being the instrument of her passing, in the eyes not only of the law but of the Church, he was guilty of the cardinal sin of murder. That he had acted out of love and pity made no difference. For such a terrible deed there could be no absolution. Therefore, for him no entry into Heaven, and thus no prospect of a joyful reunion with Theodora to comfort his declining years. But was not God a kind and loving Father, who would surely stay His Hand from punishing one who had always striven faithfully to serve Him? And had not Christ His Son declared that he who repented should not perish? As he had done before, he would pray to God to give him a sign. On that occasion, his prayer had been answered; surely, this time it would be again. Hope and dread mingling with overwhelming sorrow, he kissed his wife’s cold forehead. Then, after summoning Theoctistus, he made his way towards his private oratory.

  ‘. . and all my life, Lord, I have tried to do Your bidding,’ intoned the emperor. ‘I have set about recovering the West for Rome, the Roman Empire being the vehicle for the spreading of Your Word over all the world. Though the work is yet unfinished, Lord, much has been achieved. Also, I have striven to establish one single faith throughout the Empire, to the end that You be worshipped in a true and fitting manner. I freely own, Lord, that I have not yet succeeded in accomplishing this latter task, but with perseverance and Your aid, hope eventually to illuminate the darkness that presently obscures the minds of many of my subjects.

  ‘And lastly, Lord, I confess to having ended the life of my beloved spouse Theodora. I tell myself I did so out of love, to end her pain. But is it possible, Lord, that I acted out of weakness — to spare myself the distress of witnessing her suffering? If that should be the case, Lord, I truly repent of my great sin, and ask You to look with compassion on Justinian, Your unworthy servant. And that I may truly know You have forgiven me, vouchsafe to me a sign, I beseech You, O Lord.’

  The shadow of the cross upon the altar grew shorter as it moved towards the base, merged briefly with it, then, appearing on the other side, began to lengthen. The distant rumble of the vendors’ carts as they headed for the city gates before they closed signalled the approach of evening. When the light within the oratory grew so dim that the kneeling emperor could no longer read the frieze of prayers inscribed around the window’s architrave, he knew at last no sign would be forthcoming. But perhaps to have hoped for a sign was delusion in the first place, the emperor pondered, as a terrible sense of hopelessness and doubt began to permeate his mind. What if the Resurrection was, after all, a myth, and Jesus just a heap of mouldering bones in some forgotten tomb in Palestine? ‘If Christ be not risen,’ Paul had said, ‘then is your faith vain’. Justinian felt as if a tide of black despair were closing over his head.

  In the Triclinium of the Nineteen Couches, in a long, long line the Roman Empire’s great and good filed past the bier on which Theodora lay: Menas, the Orthodox Patriarch, with a retinue of monks and bearded priests; Pope Vigilius, accompained by his nuncio and Stephen his apocrisiarius; bishops from both East and West; toga-clad senators; patricians; prefects in their robes of office; high government officials; magistrates; generals; and finally, Justinian himself. His vision half obscured by tears, the old emperor looked for the last time on that beloved face — marble-pale, from which all ravages of pain and sickness had, as if by a miracle, disappeared, leaving her countenance serene and beautiful. Was this at last His sign? Justinian wondered, with a surge of desperate hope. With trembling hands he placed around her neck a parting gift — a necklace of magnificent jewels to wear inside the tomb. Then, unable to contain his grief, he burst into uncontrollable sobs, suffering himself to be gently led away from the bier. Mastering himself with a huge effort, he signed to the bearers, who lifted up the bier. In a loud voice, the master of ceremonies called three times, ‘Go forth, O Empress! The King of kings and Lord of lords calleth thee.’

  In slow and solemn procession, the mourners followed the bier down the length of the great hall, out of the Palace, through the Augusteum, along the Mese thronged with silent citizens, through the Fora of Constantine and Theodosius, to the empress’ last resting-place — the Church of the Holy Apostles. Here, while a choir of clergy sang the Office for the Dead, Theodora’s small body was lifted from the bier and gently placed within a porphyry sarcophagus. ‘Enter into thy rest, O Empress!’ declaimed the master of ceremonies, and the enormous lid of the sarcophagus was lowered by pulleys into place. The congregation then dispersed, and Justinian returned to his empty Palace, broken and in tears.

  * She died on the 28 June 548.

  PART V

  THE SLEEPLESS ONE

  AD 552-565

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  As he rode he hurled his javelin into the air and caught it again. . then

  passed it rapidly from hand to hand. . with consummate skill

  Procopius (commenting on Totila’s display of martial skill before the Battle of Busta Gallorum), The Wars of Justinian, after 552

  Seating himself on a marble bench in a little garden in the Palace grounds whither he had been summoned, General Narses awaited the arrival of the emperor. Rumour had it that this was the spot where Justinian had first met, then wooed and won, Theodora; also that, since her death two years before, it had (no doubt on account of its fond associations) become a favourite retreat and a venue for informal interviews.

  Why had Justinian arranged this meeting? Narses wondered. It could hardly be to ask him to take command on any military front. Belisarius (together with the official war historian, Procopius) had recently been recalled from Italy to keep an eye on Lazica, where trouble had again flared up. But he had been replaced by an able general, Germanus, cousin* of Justinian, and his heir-designate. And in Africa, John the Troglite was successfully grinding down Moorish resistance. Perhaps Justinian just wished to have Narses’ views on the way strategies were being handled. If so, the Armenian general had plenty to say about the conduct of the war in Italy.

  In Narses’ view, it had been utter folly on Justinian’s part to have recalled Belisarius. Any semi-competent general could deal with Lazica, but in Italy, where Totila had been making all the running, you needed the best military talent you could find to counter him. The brilliant young Gothic leader had captured a string of strong points across the peninsula, consolidating his support among the Roman population, and raising a powerful fleet. This last had enabled him to capture Sicily, enriching his war-chest with a vast quantity of booty, and ravage the coastal cities of Dalmatia; for th
e first time the Goths had seriously challenged Roman sea-power, previously unassailable. Meanwhile, Belisarius, starved of resources by the imperial government despite increasingly desperate appeals for reinforcements, had barely been able to hold his own.

  The situation fairly reeked of muddle and incompetence. What should have happened, it was clear to Narses, was for Belisarius to have been given sufficient troops; he would then have been able to regain the initiative, perhaps even to the extent of landing a killer blow on his adversary. Instead, despite being recalled to deal with Lazica and appointed Master of Soldiers in the East, he had, incredibly, been kept in the capital as commander of the Palace Guard!

  Things in Italy following the appointment of Germanus as Belisarius’ successor had been even more bizarre, reflected Narses. Germanus was married to Matasuntha, widow of Witigis, and daughter of Amalasuntha whose father had been Theoderic. The plan was that the Western Empire be restored, with Germanus, popular with troops and citizens alike, as its emperor. Also, that some sort of power-sharing deal with Totila’s Goths be negotiated, whereby as well as for the first time sitting in the Senate, Goths would man the army, protecting Italy from invasion by Lombards, Franks, and Alamanni. Any son born to Germanus and Matasuntha would, as a matter of course, become in turn the Western emperor, half-Roman and half-Goth, preserving through his mother the old Amal royal line. Should all this come to pass (and it seemed to Narses there was nothing to prevent it doing so), then, the general thought in disgust, the whole Italian war had been for nothing — a colossal waste of manpower and resources, resulting in the destruction of the country’s infrastructure and the ruin of her people. With Italy the permanent homeland of barbarians, who would also have a major say in running it, Theoderic’s ghost would have surely triumphed. But then, reflected Narses, ever since Theodora had died, Justinian’s grip on affairs had seemed to falter, his policies increasingly lacking in coherence and consistency.