Justinian

which seemed to have about it an exciting whiff of heresy. .

Seated as usual at his desk in his tablinum, Justinian racked his brains as to how best to tackle this appalling business of the Kotrigurs. No sooner had he finished the momentous task of restoring the West to the Imperial fold, he told himself, than the Danube frontier — despite being reinforced with a line of massive fortifications — started springing leaks, allowing a seemingly endless tide of barbarians to come flooding in. If it wasn’t Bulgars it was Slavs, if it wasn’t Slavs it was Utigurs, if it wasn’t Utigurs it was Kotrigurs. These last two — fierce Mongol tribes related to the Huns — he had managed, in time-honoured Roman fashion, to play off against each other for an extended period. Now, however, they seemed to have patched up their differences, resulting in the present crisis. With all Roman armies away in Italy or the east, the problem of how to defend the capital was acute. Also, it was becoming personally embarrassing. As ‘Little Father to his People’, an emperor was expected to ensure protection for his subjects in times of peril. Should he, Justinian, be found wanting, his status as God’s Appointed would inevitably be called in question. Meanwhile, the one man who might have been able, if anyone could, to deal with the situation, was absent. Belisarius, now retired, was nowhere to be found, and had left no word as to where he could be contacted. .

In his dream, more radiantly beautiful even than she had been in life, Theodora advanced towards Justinian. Taking him by the hand, she led him silently through the Triclinium of the Nine Couches, out of the Palace, and into the Augusteum. Pointing to the huge bronze equestrian statue of the emperor, arrayed in the panoply of a conquering Roman general, that had recently been installed in the centre of the great square, she turned to Justinian with a smile and murmured, ‘In hoc signo vinces — With this sign you shall conquer.’

Stirring awake, the emperor felt a sharp pang of loss and disappointment. The dream had been so real; in his memory it seemed as though Theodora had actually spoken to him. Suddenly, these sad reflections were replaced by a surge of excitement, as a thought flashed into Justinian’s brain. ‘In hoc signo vinces’: the words that, accompanying a cross in the sky, the symbol of the Christians, Constantine had seen in a vision before going on to defeat his rival Maxentius at the Battle of the Milvian Bridge. At last, God had given him his sign! — the sign that he had prayed in vain for, following the death of his beloved wife. The message of the dream was clear: he, Justinian, was to lead an army in person against the Kotrigurs, an encounter from which he would emerge victorious!

But where was the army to come from? Justinian’s mind raced. With the enemy almost at the gates of the capital, there was no way that any units could get here from their distant postings in time to intervene. There were the Palace Guards of course; but a token force of a few hundred parade soldiers could achieve little against fierce nomad hordes. There was only one solution: he must appeal directly to the citizens of Constantinople and raise a volunteer army — as Fabius had done, in the dark days when Hannibal had wiped out the flower of Rome’s legions. Never mind that for more than a hundred and fifty years, no Roman emperor had commanded troops in battle,* or that he was now seventy-seven; age had not dulled his mind nor sapped his resolve. Summoning the captain of the guard, he strode to the armoury to select the right accoutrements in which to lead his people into battle.

‘Belisarius!’ En route to address his subjects in the Forum of Constantine, Justinian uttered a cry of joyous welcome at the sight of his old general riding towards him at the head of his bodyguard — tough German bucellarii or personal retainers.

‘Came as soon as I heard the news about the Kotrigurs, Serenity,’ declared Belisarius. ‘Been away on a hunting trip in Phrygia, so rather incommunicado, I’m afraid.’

The two embraced warmly, Justinian feeling a rush of affection and gratitude towards this man who, more than any other, had made the dream of a reconstituted Empire into a reality. He also experienced a stab of guilt for ever having listened to Belisarius’ detractors; time and again — as he was indeed demonstrating at this moment — the general had proved his unswerving loyalty towards his emperor.

Entering the great circular forum, dominated by the porphyry column bearing a statue of the city’s founder, the pair, imposing in muscle cuirasses and crested helmets, mounted the tribunal for reviewing troops. The vast crowd assembled in the forum (Palace messengers had been busy spreading the word that the emperor wished to address the citizens) fell silent.

‘People of Constantinople,’ declaimed Justinian, experiencing an exhilarating flow of confidence, ‘I need hardly remind you that we stand today in peril from a savage enemy, both numerous and cruel. Our armies are too far off to help us, so it is to ourselves that we must look for the defence of our city and our families. That you will rise to the occasion I have every confidence, for you are Romans of New Rome, stout of heart and strong of spirit, who will never allow barbarian feet to trample the pavements of our capital. All fit males between the ages of sixteen and sixty, report now to the Arsenal where Belisarius — who, as you see, has joined us in our hour of need — will form you into companies and see that you are issued arms. That done, assemble at the Golden Gate, where Belisarius and I will lead you out against these heathen Kotrigurs. With God upon our side, we cannot fail to be victorious.’

For a few moments silence filled the vast enclosure; then thunderous applause erupted from the audience, moved and uplifted by the sight of their aged emperor and his great general come to their deliverance.

‘Amazing!’ breathed Justinian in admiration, looking at what appeared to be a huge army, arrayed along a ridge of high ground overlooking a tributary of the Athyras. ‘Congratulations, general — a really splendid job. From here, I can’t tell which are real and which are dummies.’

‘Let’s hope Zabergan thinks the same,’ said Belisarius, looking pleased by the emperor’s reaction to his subterfuge. ‘Only one in twenty’s an actual soldier; the rest are made of bundled straw with wooden poles for spears. Well, we’ll soon find out,’ he went on, pointing to a distant pall of dust. ‘That’ll be Zabergan’s van approaching.’

Minutes later, scouts came posting up, confirming Belisarius’ observation. Soon, the Kotrigur host was near enough to enable Justinian to make out details: squat, powerfully built men with flat, Oriental faces, mounted on huge, ill-conformed brutes; on the back of each warrior was slung a powerful-looking bow and a quiverful of long arrows. Obviously unwilling to engage the formidable Roman ‘army’ threatening their flank, the river of horsemen made a wide detour to the side into the tributary’s valley — as Belisarius had intended. Overweight and middle- aged he might be, but the retired general had lost none of his military flair.

‘They’ve fallen for it!’ exclaimed the general, slapping his thigh in glee. ‘Let’s spring our trap, Serenity.’

Spurring along the lip of the valley ahead of the slow-moving enemy column, the two Roman leaders arrived at where the river’s enclosing walls narrowed and steepened to become a gorge. Here, armed with darts and javelins, was stationed a large body of the citizen-militia recruited earlier. Piles of boulders, together with sheaves of extra missiles, had been arranged along the canyon’s edge. Despite his age, and hardly ever having set foot outside the capital these fifty years, Justinian found that he was enjoying immensely this challenging adventure.

Waiting for the Kotrigurs to come in sight, an air of tense expectancy built up among the Romans to a nerve- jangling degree. At last, from around a bend in the river, the nomad van appeared, and soon a densely packed mass of horsemen was drawing level far below.

‘Right lads,’ called Belisarius, ‘let ’em have it!’

A storm of stone and iron burst upon the Kotrigurs. Dropping from the heights, the huge rocks acquired enormous impetus, smashing men and horses to a bloody pulp, while volleys of sharp-tipped shafts skewered their helpless targets by the score. Unable to respond, the nomads milled about in desperate confusion; at last, on retreat being sounded by a horn-blast, they turned and streamed back up the valley, leaving hundreds of casualties strewn upon the floor of the defile.

In a gesture of infinite regret, Zabergan spread his hands, a wry smile creasing his broad Mongol face. ‘My young men — so headstrong, so high-spirited,’ he said to Justinian in apologetic tones. ‘“A spot of cattle-rustling in Thrace”, was all they wanted, so they said. Things got a little out of hand, I fear; I found myself unable to control them.’ And he sighed and shook his great head.

That was rich, thought Justinian, coming from a ruthless despot as feared among his followers as by the targets of his depredations. The two men were seated on cushions in the chief’s yurt, furnished in barbaric splendour with eastern rugs and hangings, weapons of the chase and war, furs, and looted vessels of silver, gold and bronze. Anyone less unable to control his men would be difficult to imagine.

‘Well, let us call your, ah. . “visit” an unfortunate misunderstanding,’ said the emperor, torn between inner mirth and indignation. ‘So, now you wish to take the foedus,* for your people to become