Justinian

Mandator, they remained indifferent.

The final race of the day, the twenty-second, ended without the emperor breaking his silence. The Demarchs, abandoning their appeals to spare the fugitives, suddenly began to shout, ‘Long live the humane Greens and Blues!’ — an unprecedented show of co-operation, clearly evidence of a pre- arranged plan. Again and again, the cry was repeated, the Hippodrome erupting into a deafening uproar as the crowd joined in. Suddenly, a new, and chilling, watchword rose above the din: ‘Nika! — Conquer.’ This was incitement to revolt; as if animated by a single mind, the crowd, chanting its new-found war cry, ‘Nika! Nika! Nika!’, began streaming from the Hippodrome, intent on forcing the authorities to answer its demands.

Bewildered, Justinian turned to the prefect. ‘Eudaemon — what’s happening?’

‘Their patience has finally snapped, Serenity. I did try to warn you. No telling what they’ll do in the mood they’re in now. You must return at once to the Palace; meanwhile, I’ll go to the Praetorium and try to stall things. What shall I say to them?’

Dismayed and alarmed by the course events were taking, Justinian hesitated. Then he remembered: had he not received assurance he was God’s Appointed? As his actions were determined by Jehovah’s Will, surely then he need not fear their consequences? With confidence flooding back, he answered Eudaemon’s query, ‘Why — tell them nothing, of course.’

‘But Serenity!’

‘Courage, friend. We mustn’t waver now. If we stand firm, the people will be made to realize there’s nothing to be gained by violence or noisy demonstration.’

The pair descended the spiral staircase behind the kathisma to the short passage connecting the Palace to the Hippodrome. While Justinian summoned the courtiers and Palace Guard, the prefect, shaking his head in despair, set out for the nearby Praetorium. He was met by a dishevelled Phocas heading towards him from that building.

‘Get back, sir!’ shouted the optio. ‘There’s nothing you can do. The mob’s broken into the Praetorium, freed the prisoners from the cells, and killed any vigiles who tried to stop them. I barely escaped with my own life. Look — they’ve set fire to the place!’ And he pointed back to where lurid flames were shooting up against the evening sky.

The two men retreated to the Palace — not a moment too soon, as it transpired. Hardly had they been admitted via a postern gate than the mob, satisfied that the Praetorium was well ablaze, surged into the Augusteum — the great square before the Palace — shouting for the prefect and the emperor to appear. Their demands being met by silence, the mob — chanting, ‘Nika! Nika! Nika!’ — vented its frustration by setting fire to the Chalke.

With the gatehouse an inferno, its great bronze doors reduced to pools of molten metal, the rampaging crowds, intoxicated by their own unpunished daring, moved on to fresh targets. ‘Nika! Nika! Nika!’ Soon the huge church of Hagia Sophia was engulfed in flames, followed by the Senate House. ‘Nika! Nika! Nika!’ At last, after setting fire to some public buildings on the Mese, the mob dispersed in the small hours, sated with violence and tired out by the day’s excitement.

Meanwhile, the Guards — more decorative than belligerent — instead of confronting the attackers had remained inside the Palace, preferring discretion to valour.

Within their private suite, God’s Appointed, his earlier confidence now badly shaken, cried out to the empress, ‘God has abandoned me, Theodora! The people turn against me; the Guards’ loyalty is suspect; I feel I cannot trust the courtiers and senators within the Palace! If I am still His Chosen One, then why is all this happening?’

‘God has not abandoned you, my dear,’ Theodora said firmly, taking Justinian’s hands in hers. ‘Merely tested you, as He tested Job, or His own Son when Satan tempted Him upon the mountain. Tomorrow, you must face the people; listen to what they have to say. It would appear they may have suffered grave injustices — carried out in your name by unworthy ministers. Promise to put things right, and all may yet be well.’

Comforted, ‘the Sleepless One’ retired to bed, to snatch an hour or two of rest against the challenge of the coming day.

That same night, in another part of Region I, in the house of Methodius the Caput Senatus, there took place a meeting of senators, councillors, and great landowners. A distinguished- looking aristocrat was addressing the assembly. ‘Gentlemen — the Greens and Blues have served us well by stirring up the plebs against Justinian’s regime,’ declared the speaker, one Gaius Anicius Julianus, a senator who, from the moment of its convening, had stamped his personality on the gathering. (Julianus was a member of the great West Roman family, the Anicii, and a refugee from an Italy under Ostrogothic rule.) ‘But what they have created is only a riot, which, by its nature, will soon burn itself out. Before that happens, we must build upon the popular discontent to bring about — ’

‘A revolution?’ interrupted old Methodius. He sounded horrified. ‘That’s not the way we do things in the East, Anicius.’

‘Usurpation by ambitious generals — that was long the curse of the Western Empire,’ conceded Julianus. ‘The resulting instability undoubtedly weakened the state, helping to pave the way for the barbarian invasions. But sometimes, for the general good, it becomes necessary to remove a bad emperor. Think of Nero, Caligula, or Commodus.’

‘But those were monstrous tyrants,’ objected a councillor. ‘Justinian hardly fits that mould.’

‘Agreed. But what perhaps is worse — the man’s obsessive. Preoccupied with grandiose building schemes, and plans to re-conquer the West. Which all costs money — vast amounts of it. But as long as he gets it, he seems oblivious to how it’s obtained, and all the misery that’s causing.’

‘You have a plan?’ This from Maxentius, a landed magnate who had suffered at the hands of John of Cappadocia’s compulsores.

‘Indeed I have. The time is perfect for a coup. Justinian is hated. And he’s weak; all units of the army are absent from the capital, bar a few thousand German mercenaries and the Palace Guard. We can discount the last- mentioned — toy soldiers of dubious loyalty, who’ll come over to us if they see we’re winning. As will most senators and courtiers within the Palace, fellow aristocrats all. There are excellent candidates to replace Justinian: the three nephews of Anastasius, all here in Constantinople — true Romans like ourselves, and of our class. Hypatius is probably the best choice — popular, and a successful general. We must, however, discount him, also his brother Pompeius, both presently immured within the Palace, where they’ll obviously remain until the streets are safe. Which leaves the third nephew — Probus.’

‘And is Probus aware of his imminent promotion to the purple?’ asked a senator drily.

‘Not yet; nor must he become so.’ Julianus looked intently round his audience, to emphasize the point. ‘Probus is a cautious man, who wouldn’t voluntarily seize the throne. He must be elevated to it by a fait accompli. Tomorrow, in the Hippodrome, if we proclaim him emperor and the plebs support us — which they will — he’d hardly then be in a position to refuse.’

‘And would you be willing to take on the role of Nymphidius?’* Methodius enquired of Julianus.

‘Provided a majority of you being in favour of my plan agree that I should do so, replied the Anician, with a modest inclination of the head.

‘Then I nominate Julianus as our spokesman,’ declared Methodius. ‘If any disagree, then let him raise his hand.’

No hand was lifted.

* Conquer.

* Organiser of the races.

* The praetorian prefect who proclaimed Nero deposed, in favour of Galba.

TWELVE