Justinian (20 page)

Sick with fear, Hypatius allowed himself to be carried shoulder-high through the darkening streets to a torch-lit Hippodrome, where it seemed the whole of Constantinople was assembled. A jubilant cheer arose from the multitude, and to shouts of, ‘Long live Hypatius!', the general was installed in the
kathisma.
Then, for want of a diadem, a golden chain (which someone had been wearing as a necklace) was wound around his head, while a purple curtain, in lieu of an imperial robe, was placed upon his shoulders.

Wishing himself anywhere else but in his present position, Hypatius, as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the torches, noticed that among the cheering citizens – conspicuous by their archaic togas or silken robes of office – were large numbers of senators and councillors, many of them known to him. It dawned on the general that his ‘coronation' had been no mere whim of the mob, but had the backing of those who counted in the Empire – the sort of men who alone could provide the stability and leadership essential for any revolution to succeed. This changed everything. Displacing terror, excitement stirred within him; perhaps, after all, he really could become emperor. Suddenly, a cry began to circulate around the stadium, transmuting in an instant, possibility into certainty: ‘Justinian has fled!' Soon the words were taken up by everyone, the Hippodrome resounding with triumphant shouts – ‘Justinian has fled!' . . . ‘The tyrant has gone!' . . . Long live our new emperor – Hypatius Augustus!'

Mixed with relief, a sense of heady euphoria surged through Hypatius. The imperial crown was no more than his due, he told himself. All his life he had worked hard and played by the rules, only to be cheated of the big prizes by lesser men who knew better than he how to play the political game. With his impeccable credentials of noble birth and royal blood, it was
he
, not that barbarian nobody Justin, who should have succeeded Anastasius, as it was
he
who should have been promoted to the top job in the army –
Magister Militum Praesentalis
,
*
instead of being fobbed off with command of the Army of the East. Even the charge of that remote posting he had twice had to surrender – first, temporarily, to Justinian over that Dhu-Nuwas business, and now, permanently, to that young whippersnapper Belisarius.

Savouring the moment, Hypatius stood and raised his hand in
adlocutio
– the imperial gesture of address. A hush spread throughout his vast audience.

‘Fellow Romans,' he declaimed, ‘– you have honoured me by making me your emperor. I swear to you before God, that my chief concern will always be to serve you to the utmost of my ability. Also, you have my solemn promise that never again will you have to suffer the brutality of a Eudaemon, the injustice of a Tribonian, or the rapacity of a John of Cappadocia. They will go – as Justinian, their master, has already gone. Good riddance to them all, I say, as together we begin a new and happier chapter in the annals of New Rome.'

The tumultuous applause that greeted his speech was music to Hypatius' ears, wiping out in an instant the many disappointments and frustrations endured throughout a long career.

Meanwhile, in the Palace – virtually empty now that its normal population of courtiers and senators had been dismissed – an eerie silence reigned. Apart from a tiny band of those still loyal to the emperor, its only occupants were now the Palace Guard and German mercenaries waiting in their quarters, a few
silentiarii
stalking the deserted corridors like ghosts, and a downstairs tribe of footmen, maids, and cooks, among whom an air of ribald insubordination to their royal master was beginning to prevail.

In Justinian's
tablinum
, besides the emperor himself, were assembled: Theodora, Belisarius and Mundus, John the Cappadocian, the young lawyer Procopius and the chronicler Count Marcellinus – both experienced stenographers whose function was to record any minutes, and finally, to act as scouts and messengers, two trusted
agentes in rebus
: special agents whose job could cover anything from spying to diplomacy. The sound of cheering from the nearby Hippodrome did nothing to lighten the mood of despondency verging on despair, which hung like a dark cloud over the meeting. One of the
agentes
– a coal-black Nubian named Crixus, had just returned from the Hippodrome to report the ‘coronation' of Hypatius.

‘Serenity – it takes a wise general to know when he's beaten,' stated Mundus gently, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had followed Crixus' account, and which suggested that few present would disagree with what the general now said. ‘Perhaps it's time to leave the field.'

‘Mundus is right,' declared the Cappadocian bluntly. ‘Grasp the nettle,
Serenity – sail tonight for Heraclea Pontica on the southern shore of the Euxine.
*
You'd be safe there – for the time being at least.'

‘And close enough to the capital, Serenity, to launch a counter-coup when the time is right,' suggested Procopius.

‘Thank you, my friend – I appreciate that you're trying to let me down lightly,' responded Justinian in gloomy tones. ‘But I think we all know that if I leave, I won't be coming back. I have, reluctantly, to agree with Mundus and the prefect that flight now seems the only option.'

‘Before we all decide to write off our chances,' put in Belisarius, ‘there is one possibility that may be worth exploring.'

‘Go on,' the emperor invited.

‘Thanks to Crixus here,' Belisarius went on, to a suddenly animated audience, ‘we know that Hypatius is at present holding court in the
kathisma
, enjoying the acclamation of his “subjects”. As we know, a short passage leads from the Palace to the spiral staircase which opens into the royal box. If I were to lead a hand-picked group of my Germans along that route to the
kathisma
, we could surprise Hypatius and either arrest or kill him. With its head cut off, the revolt would surely die.'

‘I like it!' exclaimed Mundus. ‘Like all good plans it's simple, and seems to me to have an excellent chance of succeeding. I think we should accept it.'

‘I agree,' said Justinian, perceptibly brightening. He looked around the gathering. ‘If you all back Belisarius' idea, which I think is a brilliant one, then let us wish him good luck and God speed.' He turned to Belisarius. ‘You have our permission to proceed. Bring back Hypatius alive, if possible.'

If he was quick, Procopius thought, as he hurried through the corridors towards the quarters of the Palace Guard, he'd just have time to warn Marcellus before Belisarius set out with his Germans. So far, things were working out nicely for his plan of revenge against that
meretrix sordida
,
**
Theodora. Subsisting in exiled poverty in some God-forgotten corner of the Empire, she'd have plenty of time to regret the day she'd turned him down, and given him a nasty bite to boot. The wound had turned septic, taking weeks to heal; he could have lost the hand. Pity his scheme necessarily involved taking down her pathetic lap-dog of a husband too – ‘collateral damage', to use army-speak. He bore Justinian no particular ill-will,
but Julianus had promised him Tribonian's job in the event of the coup succeeding. A man had to look out for himself, after all; no one else, for sure, was going to. Starting that false rumour about Justinian having fled was a master-stroke of his, Procopius reflected. Without it, he doubted if that geriatric ditherer Hypatius would have willingly accepted his imperial role. Now however, all could be in jeopardy – thanks to that wretched brainwave of Belisarius. He quickened his pace . . .

‘I'm sorry, Serenity,' said Belisarius, looking uncharacteristically crestfallen. ‘We found our way blocked by the Palace Guard; they're obviously just waiting for an opportunity to switch sides. To take them on wouldn't have achieved anything; and they'd have been able to warn Hypatius. It's a mystery to me how they found out about our plan.'

‘I think it may be time to go, Serenity,' said Mundus, speaking with quiet urgency. ‘At least you'll leave in safety; Belisarius and I will make sure of that.'

‘I'm touched by your loyalty – by the loyalty of all of you,' Justinian responded, struggling to keep his voice from breaking as he looked around the little group. ‘A fallen emperor is fortunate to have such faithful friends. Those who wish to stay may do so with my blessing. The rest of us should now prepare to leave.'

Theodora, who had remained silent throughout the whole meeting, suddenly rose to her feet.

‘I know it's not supposed to be a woman's place to speak in a men's council,' she declared in quiet but clear tones. ‘However, the present situation allows convention to be waived, I think. You are for flight? Well, there are the ships, there's the sea; life and safety yours for the choosing. But ask yourselves – what sort of life would that be? A life of shameful exile in a distant land. Sooner or later, death must come to us all. Speaking for myself, I would not wish to live deprived of my imperial robe. There is a saying – a true one, I believe – that the purple is a glorious winding sheet.
*
'

She sat down amid a stunned silence, in which the men avoided each other's eyes in shamefaced embarrassment. Flight, which minutes before had seemed the only option, now, thanks to the galvanizing effect of Theodora's rousing little speech, appeared out of the question.

Soon, an alternative plan was being thrashed out. Leading the Germans in two separate parties, Belisarius and Mundus would circumnavigate the
Hippodrome, then enter via the gates at either end. The obvious risk was that such large bodies of men would be detected and the alarm raised before they could complete the manoeuvre. But desperate situations call for desperate measures.

‘I'll just make sure the coast's clear,' murmured Procopius, as the plan's final details were being discussed. ‘We don't want anyone learning what's afoot.' And he slipped out of the
tablinum
. Hypatius and his followers must be warned, he thought. He had not gone ten paces however, when he felt his shoulder gripped from behind, then found himself spun violently round to face the
agens
, Crixus.

‘Get your hand off me, you black –' Procopius broke off with a gasp of pain, as the other's fingers dug into the soft flesh of his upper arm.

‘And just where did you think you were heading?' enquired the huge Nubian softly. ‘The Hippodrome, perhaps? I've had my eye on you, sonny. Who tipped off the Palace Guard, I wonder? We'll just go back and join the others, shall we?'

In the flickering torchlight of their great drill-hall, with a frisson of pride and affection Belisarius surveyed his men – blond giants, each protected by
Spangenhelm
(the conical, segmented helmet favoured by Teutonic races) and hauberk of ring-mail or lamellar plates, small bars of iron laced together. All were armed with
spathae
, long and deadly Roman swords, equally effective for cutting or thrusting. Shields were being left behind; these would not be needed. Germans, the general reflected, so long as they were individually recruited, and subjected to Roman discipline and training, made the best soldiers in the world – utterly loyal, fearless, and ferocious fighters. (Federate troops: whole tribes enrolled for Rome under their own leaders, were a different matter. Greedy, treacherous, and unreliable, they had played no small part in bringing down the Western Empire.)

‘Right, lads – let's be off,' Belisarius called softly. Followed by the silent files of mercenaries under their
dekarchs
or squad leaders, he led the way out of the Palace, giving the Guards' quarters a wide berth.

Rendezvousing with Mundus and his Heruls (from a particularly fierce Germanic tribe) at the smoking rubble of the Chalke, Belisarius whispered to his fellow general, ‘We both count to a thousand, then enter. That'll give us more than enough time to get into position, and allow us both to strike at the same time. All right?'

Mundus nodded, and the two forces – each nearly a thousand strong – set off in opposite directions. Picking their way in the darkness over
smouldering ruins without making a sound was no easy task, but Belisarius' Germans managed it superbly. Long before the count was up, he and his men were assembled outside the Hippodrome's Nekra Gate.
*
From inside the stadium's towering walls arose a deafening hubbub of jubilant shouting.

‘Nine hundred and ninety-nine . . . one thousand,' murmured Belisarius to himself. Raising an arm, he pointed to the entrance of the Nekra Gate. Briefed in advance, his men knew exactly what to do; in silence, they filed through the entrance into the torchlit Hippodrome.

As the crowds inside the vast space became aware of the grim ranks of mailed Germans, the shouting died away, to be replaced by a horrified silence – a silence that gave way to screams of pain and terror, as the Germans began their grim task. The crisis had escalated far beyond the point where reason and restraint might have proved effective; now only a lethal lesson could bring the people to their senses.

Trapped in a huddled mass between the troops of Belisarius and Mundus, the citizenry stood no chance. Unlike the street-fighting of the day before, where the mob could escape down narrow alleys to regroup or bombard their opponents from the rooftops, here, squashed together in an open space, they were as sheep for the slaughter. The Hippodrome became a bloody killing-ground, as the Germans – to whom from their youth fighting and slaughter were activities to be relished – steadily advanced, hacking and thrusting with a terrible, machine-like efficiency. At last the two generals called off their men – blood-bespattered, and exhausted by their efforts – allowing the terrified survivors to flee to the safety of their homes, leaving thirty thousand corpses strewn like broken dolls upon the racetrack.