When Justinian Met Theodora – Part 3

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Hello and welcome to Conflicted, the history podcast where we talk about the struggles that shaped us, the tough questions that they pose, and why we should care about any of it.

Conflicted is a member of the Evergreen Podcasts Network; and as always, I’m your host, Zach Cornwell.

You are listening to Part 3 of a multi-part series on the life and times of Justinian and Theodora, rulers of the Byzantine Empire in the mid- 6^th century AD.

Before we get into the show, I need to issue a small correction to something I said last episode. In Part 2, we spent some time discussing a religious schism between two branches of the Christian church – the Orthodox party and the Monophysite movement. Well, several listeners have pointed out that my pronunciation of that heretical sect, the “Monophysites”, was in fact, heretical unto itself. The correct way to pronounce that term is “Mon-OFF-i-cites.”

So instead of plowing ahead with my heretical pronunciation, I will conform to the accepted version. And to the helpful listeners who set me straight, [seriously] thanks for the heads up.  

With that bit of housekeeping out of the way, let’s dust off this story and get down to business. Today’s episode is going to be a bit longer than previous installments. We have a lot of ground to cover, both in terms of chronological time and geographic distance. This episode is going to take us all over the Mediterranean world, and span about 8 years.

8 years for THEM that is, just [under] two hours for us ;)

But before we jump in, let’s very, VERY briefly recap what happened in the previous episode, so we can get in the right headspace and have certain key details fresh in our memory.

Last time, in Part 2, we saw Justinian and Theodora, newly crowned rulers of Byzantium, step into their roles as Emperor and Empress. For Theodora, that meant long baths, luxurious meals, and silk sheets – more comfort than she had ever known growing up in the underbelly of Constantinople. For Justinian, it meant pursuing an ambitious and aggressive new vision for the Eastern Roman Empire. Like many rulers throughout history, Justinian had an unhealthy fixation on the ‘good old days’; He dreamed of reconquering the lost territories of the Western Roman Empire – Italy, Sicily, and North Africa – which had fallen to barbarian armies in the previous century.

But to do that, he needed cash – and lots of it. So, Justinian hired a financial wizard named John the Cappadocian to serve as his chief tax collector. John was good with money. Or rather, he was good with other people’s money. Specifically, helping them part with it. After all, money offered temptation. And temptation was the gateway to sin. The Christian thing to do, John reasoned, was to relieve them of that temptation. Naturally, this energetic taxation policy did not sit well with the average Byzantine citizen. As Antony Bridge writes:

“No one likes being taxed, and it is even less enjoyable if it is done callously, ruthlessly, and with brutal efficiency by a man like John the Cappadocian.”

This taxation policy, combined with other factors like controversial new legislation, a demoralizing war with Persia, and a botched public execution, culminated in a full-on insurrection against Justinian in 532 AD.

The infamous Nika Riots.

The truth was, Justinian did not really understand how unpopular he was at the time. Call it arrogance, ignorance, or negligence, the emperor was absolutely blindsided by Nika. Once things started happening, they happened very, very fast. The powerful chariot-racing factions, the Greens and the Blues, put aside their hatred of each other in favor of a SHARED hatred for Justinian’s regime. In January of 532, a protest became a riot became a city-wide orgy of arson and murder. In a handful of days, half the city’s monuments had been burnt to ash. Things got so bad, that the emperor actually considered running away altogether, loading up a boat with treasure and fleeing across the Bosphorus to wait out the storm.

And he would have done it too, had it not been for the timely intervention of his wife, Theodora. The Empress, unwilling to slide back down the social ladder, roused the Imperial council to action. She told Justinian to man up, harden his heart, and put this thing down by force. Better to die an Emperor, she said, than wither away as an exiled has-been. Theodora’s words had a sort of magical effect, and after her big speech, Justinian’s council was ready to fight.

To do that [the actual] fighting, Justinian turned to a man named Belisarius. A talented soldier and veteran of the Persian front, Belisarius was Justinian’s close friend and favorite military commander. When the chips were down, you could always count on Belisarius to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. And that’s exactly what he did. The General gathered his best soldiers, and [Zero Dark Thirty-style] quietly surrounded the Hippodrome, where the majority of the insurrectionists – about 30,000 people or so - were gathered. Once they were in position, Belisarius locked the entrances/gates/doors, drew his sword, and told his soldiers to go to work / do what they do best. As Nick Holmes writes:

“Belisarius’ men were veterans. Trained killers who had defeated the Persian Immortals at the battle of Dara. A mob of civilians could not resist their onslaught, even if many of the young men in the Circus Factions thought they were tough.”

By the end of the day, tens of thousands of people were dead, the Nika Riots were over, and Justinian’s throne was safe and secure / no longer at risk. An argument could be made, that without Theodora’s intervention and Belisarius’ tactical skill, Justinian the Great would’ve been Justinian the Gone. Like all effective rulers, the people around the big chair are often as (or more) important than the person sitting in it.

And that, more or less, is where we left off last time.

In this episode, we’re going to move into a period that’s considered to be the Golden Age of Justinian and Theodora’s reign. From about 532-540 AD. During this era, they were at the height of their power, pursuing a bold new political agenda, and completely, madly in love. However, if you look closely enough at any Golden Age, there’s always a little tarnish around the edges, and this period is no exception. Underneath the imperial propaganda, there was intrigue, betrayal, and a whole lot of death.

So in other words, it’s a really great story.

And now that we’re primed and ready to go, we can get things started.

Welcome to When Justinian Met Theodora – Part 3.

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It’s the fall of 533 AD.

About 18 months after the Nika Riots.  

We’re in the Mediterranean Sea, that vast and well-traveled expanse of water separating Europe from Africa. And somewhere in that sea, a ship is sailing. And on that ship, there is a young man. And in front of that young man is a desk. And on that desk is a piece of parchment.

As the ship pitches from side to side, the man’s breakfast threatens an encore. But despite the waves of nausea rising and falling with every dip of the prow, he remains focused. The stalwart galley bobs through the blue….no, that’s not right. The virtuous vessel cuts through the waves…no, that’s not right either. The intrepid transport heaves through the briny… no-no-no.

The young man’s quill scratches out another abortive phrase on the damp parchment.

Once again, writer’s block is plaguing his mind. Scribe’s block, might be the more accurate term. This bilious young man is a scribe. Not a famous one, though. Not yet. But someday, his name will be lauded in the annals of literature. Someday, everyone will know the name “Procopius.”

And now, at long last, we meet the author of the Secret History. Our primary source for the bulk of this human drama. Unlike most historians, Procopius is both penman and participant in this story. He was actually there. Through him, we are a single degree of separation from these remote and enigmatic figures. Procopius knew the pitch of the Theodora’s voice, the feel of Belisarius handshake, the smell of the throne room and the taste of dust kicked up in the Hippodrome.  

He saw it all, and thankfully for us, he saw fit to write it down.

Procopius’ ambitious daydreams are suddenly interrupted by the movement of his inkpot. As the ship rocks from side to side, the little container slides across his desk like a runaway luge. He catches it just before it falls. Another almost-casualty of the sea. He thanks God for his quick reflexes. This far from home, good ink is hard to find. Back in Constantinople, Procopius did not want for luxuries and comforts. He was, relatively, a pretty important guy. Probably the most important scribe in all the Empire.

After all, what other writer can claim to occupy the inner circles of the Imperial council? Okay, fine, there were several others. But only Procopius is attached to the great general Belisarius. Terror of Persian front. Savior of the City. Butcher of the Hippodrome. Procopius’ face twists in disgust.  In life, we don’t get to choose our parents, our bodies, or our bosses. And while Procopius didn’t care much for Belisarius, the young general was a saint compared to HIS bosses: the Emperor and Empress.  

At the thought of THOSE two people, Procopius’ stomach turns. Whether it is seasickness or revulsion, he cannot tell. On the record, Procopius thinks that Emperor Justinian and Empress Theodora are wise and benevolent sovereigns, keepers of the flame of civilization. But OFF the record, he thinks they are monsters. Demons. Literally.

Procopius had never seen a demon, even though the Bible said they were everywhere, hiding in the hearts of the wicked, plucking the strings of lust, vanity, and pride. Maybe demons were just metaphors, rhetorical inventions that angels had concocted with golden quills. But when Procopius was hired by Belisarius to be his official scribe, and accompanied him to court for the first time, Procopius learned that demons were very, very real.

The court was full of them. Everywhere he looked, a deadly sin stared back. The gluttonous tax collector, John the Cappadocian. The greedy lawyer, Tribonian. The wrathful eunuch spymaster Narses. And at the head of hell’s court, directing the profane assembly, was the demon king and his demon-queen. Pride and Lust. Lucifer and Lilith.

Justinian and Theodora.

Procopius shuddered at the thought of them. Who else but demons would do what they had done? Who else but demons would order the murder of 30,000 innocent people? 18 months earlier, in January of 532, the Nika Riots had ended in a bloodbath. Procopius’ own boss, the mighty Belisarius, stood ankle-deep in guts and viscera, while defenseless protestors were hacked into human hamburger. Sure, the mob had burned down half the city, but to kill each and every one of them? It seemed like…excessive force.

Excess of course, was Justinian’s modus operandi. For a man who would not permit himself more than a few hours sleep and a flavorless salad for breakfast, the Emperor sure knew how to spend money, time, and lives.

Nika had ended with a huge portion of the city’s population carved up like cattle to preserve Justinian’s dynasty. If it’s true that each person is a world, a unique cluster of memories experiences, and relationships, then the emperor committed a monstrous deed that day. He snuffed out so many worlds in a single / one/ that smoke-scented afternoon.

But the proof of the emperor’s demonhood did not end there. In his brief time at court, Procopius had heard some very alarming stories. Strange and eerie accounts that he would not dare put to paper, at least not yet. But many years later, Procopius would write down what others had told him. Stories about a demon prowling the palace in human skin:

Some who have been in Justinian's company in the palace very late at night, men with a clear conscience, have thought that in his place they have beheld a strange and devilish form. One of them said that Justinian suddenly arose from his royal throne and walked about (although, indeed, he never could sit still for long), and that at that moment his head disappeared, while the rest of his body still seemed to move to and fro. The man who beheld this stood trembling and troubled in mind, not knowing how to believe his eyes. Afterwards the head joined the body again, and united itself to the parts from which it had so strangely been severed.

Another declared that he stood beside Justinian as he sat, and of a sudden his face turned into a shapeless mass of flesh, without either eyebrows or eyes in their proper places, or anything else which makes a man recognizable; but after a while he saw the form of his face come back again. What I write here I did not see myself, but I heard it told by men who were positive that they had seen it.

In the hot, stifling hull of the ship, Procopius feels a chill creep over his skin. / feels a cold sweat rise/bubble up through his pores. He rubs his eyes, puts down the quill, and secures the inkpot. He needs fresh air. He needs to see the sky. Cursing his landlubber legs, the scribe wobbles his way up the steps and onto the upper decks. A gust of wind blows his hair back, and the cries of seabirds fill his ears. As the ship pitches over a squall, he feels the nausea rising up again. Men weren’t meant to travel across large bodies of water, Procopius thinks, not unless their name is Jesus, and they’re traveling on foot. As he clings to the starboard rail, the scribe peers out at the horizon, and sees…ships.

Hundreds and hundreds of ships. So many ships, he can barely see the water they’re sailing on.

If Procopius were to sit there and count every single one, he would’ve eventually arrived at the figure of 592. There are more ships in this fleet than years since the birth of Christ. All of them sailing to a shared destination. And as many a sailor will tell you, there’s only one reason that 592 ships get together and sail in the same direction.

And that reason is WAR.

Emperor Justinian’s grand plan to reconquer the lost territories of old Rome is finally in motion, and our new friend Procopius is smack dab in the middle of it. Like a war correspondent choppering into Vietnam for the very first time, this young scribe is more than a little apprehensive. All fried nerves and cold sweat and loose bowels. Any day now, they will arrive. Any day now, battle will join and blood will flow.

Ten weeks earlier, all 592 of these ships had been moored in the harbor of Constantinople, sails tucked, oars stowed, drums silent. It was the largest Byzantine armada assembled in living memory, a “once-in-a-century event”, according to David Alan Parnell. And onto these ships poured a torrent of human cargo. 10,000 infantrymen, 5,000 cavalrymen, 2,000 marines, and a core retinue of elite guardsmen. Not to mention all the horses, the supplies, the siege engines and the weapons. After all, when reconquering the known world, you do not pack light.

And all of these ships, soldiers, and supplies were pulled back tight as a bowstring, aimed like an arrow at a very specific target, several hundred miles to the West. This expeditionary force, the instrument of the emperor’s lifelong ambition, is bound for the North African coast.

To the kingdom of the Vandals.

WHO ARE THE VANDALS?

These days, under the United States penal code, if the cops catch you breaking a window, tagging a wall with graffiti, or carving your name into a public bench, you might get hit with a “vandalism” charge. Well, that term, “vandalism”, has very old roots. It comes from an ancient Germanic tribe called the Vandals. The Vandals, you see, were very good at breaking other people’s stuff, hence the etymological legacy, but instead of stop signs and park benches, the OG Vandals ransacked / broke Rome itself.

In 533 A.D – the ‘present day’ of our story - the Vandals rule over a rich and powerful kingdom in modern-day Tunisia. But they had not always been powerful or kings for that matter. The Vandal’s path to prosperity had been very long and difficult indeed, stretching back centuries.

“Who are we, Dad?” a young Vandal prince might’ve asked his father. “Where do we come from?” “Well, my son,” the Vandal king might’ve answered, stroking an impressive blonde beard, “our people were born deep in the black forests of Germania, more than 2,000 miles from here. For many generations, we were a small but proud tribe of wandering warriors, content in our ways, comfortable in our ignorance.

But everything changed when the Romans came.

With their olive skin, square shields and strange laws, they seemed so very different from us. So…barbaric. But despite our differences, the Romans wanted to be friends. And for many years, we were friends. We fought their enemies, defended their frontiers, even adopted their dead God, the Christ. But then, the world began to change. And not for the better. Horsemen from the Eastern Steppes, the Huns, drove us out of our lands. To survive, we had to flee deeper into Roman territory, but the Romans did not want us there. It was then we learned the difference between the word ‘friend’ and ‘employee’. The Romans said, ‘turn back and go home’. But home means death, we said. ‘Then die fighting for Rome,’ they said. Instead, we decided to die fighting for ourselves.

For decades, we hacked a path through the Roman empire, searching for a place to lay down our swords and call home. We fought our way through Germania, through Gaul, across the Pyrenees and down into Spain. Those were black days, my son, full of murder and rage, large appetites and so many little graves. As we rampaged across the Roman empire, seeing it from the inside for the first time, we realized just how weak it was. Like an old wooden house, teeming with termites and rot. All of their wealth/treasure guarded by sick old dogs who’d forgotten how to fight. We took it all, son. We pillaged and plundered and picked them clean. And one day, we woke up and realized we’d plundered all the way across the straights of Gibraltar, onto the African continent.

In those days, Roman eagles still flew over North Africa, but not for long. Our wandering warband, now 80,000 strong, besieged the Roman city of Carthage. It fell quickly, and like the hermit crabs you like to find down by the shore, we settled into that shell and made it our home. Finally, after all that aimless pillage, we’d found a place to call our own.

But the Romans could not live with their shame, could not abide defeat. They sent army after army to dislodge us, but every one we crushed. And then one day, we decided to put the old dog down once and for all. In 455, (almost one hundred years ago) the Vandal army sailed to Rome, the Eternal City itself, and in a fortnight, we seized it and sacked it and stripped it of all its treasures. We weren’t the first army to conquer Rome of course, nor do I think will we be the last, but after that, Old Rome was finished.

“And that, my son,” The Vandal King might’ve said, ‘is the story of us.”

BELISARIUS & ANTONINA

Procopius knew the story of the Vandals well. Everyone in the Byzantine world did. By 533 AD, the Vandal Kingdom in North Africa had existed for more than a century, dominating the Western Mediterranean from their capital at Carthage.

But now, Procopius, thinks, the remarkable story of the Vandals is hurtling towards a bloody conclusion. Emperor Justinian the First, Lord of the Earth and Master of New Rome, has decided to take back the lands the Vandals stole from the Western Roman Empire. And to lead this expedition against the Barbarians, Justinian has chosen his most loyal servant, his deadliest/ favorite attack dog.

General Belisarius.

Procopius casts his eye towards the prow of the ship and sees the General silhouetted against the sky, cape fluttering cinematically. Clutching the rail, the scribe wobbles over to his Boss.

“Whale watching, my lord?”

Belisarius turns and frowns, “I am not whale watching, Procopius. In any case, they do not breach the surface very often and are quite difficult to see.”

Procopius smiles politely. Belisarius had a sense of humor, but only just a sense. He probably thought “irony’ was a word to describe his sword. His attempt at levity deflated, Procopius takes a different tack.

“How’d you sleep last night, my lord? Well, I trust?”

Belisarius continues staring at the glittering horizon. “I will sleep well when Rome’s enemies are dead and vanquished.”

It’s been 10 weeks of this, Procopius realizes, 10 weeks of moldy bread, open ocean and a marble statue for a traveling companion. A single ship could’ve made the journey from Constantinople to Carthage in a matter of weeks, but a 592-ship armada is the nautical equivalent of a herd of cats. It takes patience, finesse, and the understanding that you’re going to lose a few along the way.

After the Byzantine fleet departed from Constantinople in June of 533 AD, it zigged and zagged across the Mediterranean, making several pit-stops and supply drops in Greece, the Aegean Islands and Sicily. And now, two-and-a-half months out of Constantinople, they are closing in on their destination.

Procopius’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a new presence on deck. He watches a slender, suntanned arm coil around Belisarius chest like a python. The arm is attached to a beautiful woman, who plants a peck on the General’s cheek.

“Hello boys. Are we there yet?”

Enter Belisarius’ better half.

The ultimate party girl of Byzantium.

The Real Housewife of Constantinople herself: Antonina. That’s A-N-T-O-N-I-N-A.

Procopius bows low to conceal his reflexive distaste, and pops back up with a fraudulent grin. “My lady,” he says, “you’re up early.”

Antonina swats away his greeting with a flick of her wrist. “Unfortunately, yess - I am.” she snaps, “But who can sleep on this heap of driftwood. It’s the drums for me. Absolutely incessant. And the oarsmen rowing and chanting and hollering all day long. It’s exhausting.”

Procopius briefly fantasizes about shoving her overboard. “Well,” he responds, “You could’ve always stayed back at court in Constantinople, my lady. The Empress does love your company.”

Antonina scoffs, “Stay behind? And miss my darling husband’s victory over the barbarians? Not on your life.” She squeezes Belisarius deltoid/shoulder, “Just imagine it! Toasting wine in the palaces of old Carthage! And my big strong husband clapping those Vandal squatters in chains.” She bites her lower lip, “It’ll be magnificent. And as for YOU, scribe – I hope you’re taking meticulous notes. I want every little detail of my husband’s victory documented for the ages.”

Procopius nods, “Oh, I won’t leave out a thing.”

->

When he wrote the Secret History many years later, Procopius had some choice words to describe Antonina.

“In order that the Belisarius should never be left by himself, at which time he might come to his senses, cast off her enchantments, and form a more realistic opinion of her, she made a point of accompanying him to the ends of the earth.”

Antonina was, in his estimation, damaged goods. Just like the Empress Theodora, Antonina had come from a disreputable background in the entertainment industry. The daughter of chariot drivers, Antonina lived “a lewd life” before Belisarius scooped her out of the gutter. Both the Emperor and his favorite general had a thing for wounded, dirty birds, apparently. Naturally, Antonina and the Empress became fast friends at court. They were, Procopius thought, two peas in a porneion. But while Theodora’s wild side had been tempered by religion, Antonina was shameless in her debauchery. Whereas the Empress had one child from a previous relationship, but Antonina had several. Belisarius was not even her first husband. From what Procopius had heard, the first Mr. Antonina had died prematurely. Probably a suicide, he thought. But not even General Belisarius could make an honest woman out of her; once Antonina got her hooks into the young soldier, she made a “confirmed fool” of him by having many “adulterous connections.”

Yes, the rumors around Antonina were thicker than flies and considerably harder to kill.

Now whether any of that is true or not…we just don’t know. But Procopius is our only eyewitness source for these people. At times, the Secret History starts to sound like a reality show where only one participant gets to shit-talk to the camera. It is not an exaggeration to say that Procopius hated Belisarius and Antonina. And yet, he was there at every stage of their lives, every big milestone, scribbling in the corner, sulking with the silent contempt of a subordinate.

And has it happens, Belisarius’ first big career milestone is just now peeking over the horizon. The General hushes his wife and scribe with a wave of his hand. Antonina asks “What is it, my love?”

Belisarius’ face parts in a rare smile/grin. “We’re here.”

Shielding his eyes, Procopius, squints into the distance. And there, just to the southwest, he sees it. The faintest smudge of beige. The first sign of land in weeks.

We’re here, Procopius breathes, we made it.  

North Africa.

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It’s 533 AD.

We’re in Constantinople, the capital of the Byzantine Empire.

If you recall, the last time we visited this city, it was on fire.

It’s been about a year and half since the Nika Riots, the popular insurrection that almost toppled Justinian’s regime and quite literally toppled some of the city’s biggest landmarks. In a single week, hundreds of years of history went up in smoke. The Praetorium, the Baths of Alexander, the hospitals of Eubulus and Sampson – all burnt to a crisp. If the Byzantines had a property insurance industry, it would’ve been in free fall.

But the most tragic architectural casualty in the eyes of many, was the Church of the Holy Wisdom - the Hagia Sophia. In one terrible night, a basilica that had stood for 100 years was reduced to, as Procopius put it, “a charred mass of ruins.” As a metaphor for Justinian’s regime, it was devastating. Something ostensibly so grand and strong and regal, revealed to be fragile and easily destroyed. Combined with the 30,000 dead bodies in the Hippodrome, Nika was PR disaster.

And so, even as flames reduced to glowing embers, Justinian’s stopwatch mind was already working on a PR solution. He needed to rebuild; that was clear. But more importantly, he needed to awe. To win back the hearts and minds and respect of Constantinople, the Emperor needed a symbol. Something that would demonstrate his greatness and deific infallibility. Something that would stand the test of time, long after he’d disintegrated into a skeleton-shaped pile of dust. As Bettany Hughes puts it:

“Following the debacle of the riots Justinian now needed to prove who was boss.”

So, Justinian decided that he would not only rebuild the Hagia Sophia; he would construct the most magnificent church the world had ever seen.

No expense was spared. Architects were assembled, mathematicians were mobilized, building crews were contracted. According to one 9^th century source:

“There were a hundred master craftsmen, and each one whom had a hundred men, so that all together there were ten thousand, Fifty master craftsmen with their people were building the right-hand side, and the other fifty were like-wise building the left-hand side, so that the work would proceed quickly, in competition and haste.”

To adorn this new church, raw materials were imported from every corner of the empire. Gold and sapphires and mother-of-pearl, granite and marble and silver – All of it piled high, melted down, hammered and chiseled into godly shapes. Justinian, of course, was just following the same instinct that every modern megachurch pastor holds in his gawdy little heart. The Lord’s House must be, above all things, very, very shiny.

But as he set about constructing the Hagia Sophia, Justinian ran into a little problem.

And her name was Anna.

According to that same 9^th century source, Anna was a widow who owned a house in the central district of Constantinople. We don’t know if it was big house or a little house, a nice house or shabby house - but it was her house. A house that had miraculously survived the Nika Riots and the weeklong orgy of arson. It was the house she’d raised her children in, the house her husband had died in, the house she would die in someday.

But there was just one small issue. Her house was directly in the path of the Hagia Sophia construction zone. In other words, If Justinian wanted to build his church to the size and specifications he envisioned, he had to go through Anna. The humble widow suddenly found herself sitting on one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in the ancient world. But when the emperor’s agents came to her home, imploring her to sell the land…she refused.

This is my house, she said. And I’m not going to uproot my existence and let you bulldoze the best years of my life just to make your church a little wider. In the days and weeks that followed, the Palace tried every manner of persuasion. Smiles and lavish prices, frowns and threats of violence – but still, Anna held firm. Finally, to silence the solicitors once and for all, she made an outrageous demand. A joke, for all intents and purposes. I will sell my house, she said, when the emperor personally comes here and asks me.

Well, one day, as Anna was hanging clothes or kneading bread or scrubbing dishes, she hears a knock at the door. She opens the latch, just a crack, and suddenly her home is filled with large men, plainclothes Praetorians with daggers on their hips and murder in their eyes. So, she raises her chin, this is how the emperor gets what he wants. But then, the sentinels’ part like a troupe of synchronized swimmers, and a middle-aged, slightly chubby, curly-haired man steps into the light. He smiles, “And what do YOU want, Anna?’

Anna is not an idiot. You don’t survive to adulthood in Constantinople without learning the value of context clues. She drops to her knees like they’ve been kicked out from under her. “Emperor Justinian,” her voice shakes, “Welcome to my home.”

“It’s a very nice home,” the Emperor runs a hand along a worn wooden beam. “I can see why you don’t want to part with it.”

“I don’t want to see it destroyed.” She dares to say.

“I’m not going to destroy it,” Justinian replies, “I’m going to make it a part of something bigger. Imagine it, Anna. I want you to close your eyes and see what I see. Imagine a church that is not merely huge, but which soars to a height to match the sky, looking down on the remainder of the city. Imagine a golden dome atop a basilica sheathed in white marble – proportions in perfect harmony, with neither excess nor deficiency. Imagine heaven on earth, Anna – as close as we’ve ever come. And your house, this place where we stand right now, is going to be a part of it. Can you see it, Anna?

Tears in her eyes, the widow nods “I can see it.”

“So, Anna, will you let me buy your house”

 “Yes,” she says, “But on one condition. When I die, I want to be buried in this new church of yours. I want my bones to rest where my house once stood.”

“Done,” the emperor says. And with that, Anna’s house made way for the reconstruction of the Hagia Sophia.

The story of Anna the widow and her very special real estate deal comes to us from a medieval source called the Patria [P-A-T-R-I-A]. And like most stories from that well-traveled volume, it is in all likelihood apocryphal. A folk tale passed down from generation to generation, adding color and drama to a pivotal moment in Byzantine history. But just because it probably didn’t happen, doesn’t mean it’s not true. The essential truth at the heart of that story is well-documented: Justinian was deeply, deeply invested in the reconstruction of the Hagia Sophia. And he would do absolutely anything to bring his vision to life.

There are other stories from the Patria about reluctant sellers. People who were not so lucky as Anna. In these other stories, Justinian throws people in jail, intimidates them, hurts them or humiliates them. One by one, all the holdouts fold. But whatever happened and whoever it happened to, once the real estate was acquired, construction on the new Hagia Sophia commenced unimpeded.

It took six years, tens of thousands of laborers, and the equivalent of 1.1 billion dollars, but on December 27^thof 537 AD, the Hagia Sophia was completed and consecrated. When Justinian saw the finished result, he is reported to have exclaimed, in spontaneous excitement: “Solomon, I have outdone thee!”

This was a reference to King Solomon, who built the first temple in Jerusalem about 1500 years before Justinian was born. It was quite the boast, but for those in attendance, it was kinda hard to argue with him. As Peter Sarris writes:

“The somewhat drab outer appearance of Hagia Sophia today preserves the outward form of the Justinianic church, but none of its luster. The sixth-century original, recent archaeological excavations have confirmed, was clad with sheets of white marble that would have reflected the beams of the sun like a beacon of holiness, drawing in the faithful and illuminating the heart of the greatest city in the Roman world.

This was as nothing, however, compared to its spectacular interior, today muffled and occluded by blocked-out windows, scaffolding, carpets, and screens. For many centuries prior to the Ottoman conquest, the effect of entering this church—beholding the sunlight streaming in through its glass windows, hearing the divine liturgy being chanted in Greek by throngs of priests and the assembled ranks of the faithful, the scents of the incense wafting on the air, its smoke rising majestically to the upper reaches of its vaults and galleries—was deemed one of the most spiritually overpowering experiences a Christian could encounter. [...]

When it was finally completed, Hagia Sophia, some ninety-seven meters long and seventy meters wide, was probably the largest building in the world. The ‘scale and height of its great dome’, it has been noted, ‘remained unsurpassed until the Renaissance version of Saint Peter’s in Rome was completed in the sixteenth century.’27 It has been estimated that it was large enough to accommodate some sixteen thousand worshippers at any one time.

Its internal height is equivalent to that of a fifteen-story building. The central dome rested on four massive piers (each over twenty-three meters tall) propped aloft a series of pendentives, with arch resting upon arch. As Procopius wrote, rising above the central circle of the church was ‘an enormous spherical dome, which makes the building exceptionally beautiful’. He continued: ‘It seems not to be founded on solid masonry, but to be suspended from heaven by a golden chain… and so to cover the space. All of these elements, marvelously fitted together in mid-air, suspended on one another and reposing only on the parts adjacent to them, produce a unified and most remarkable harmony in the work.’

Very few monuments from Justinian’s time remain, but the Hagia Sophia is still standing to this day. You can get on a plane to Istanbul, hop a cab to the old city and place your hand against the same stone that Justinian himself inspected at the construction site. And if you go inside, gaze up toward the ceiling and squint, you can just make out a pair of monograms at the top of the supporting columns. Carved like lover’s initials into a secret tree, you will see the names of Justinian and Theodora chiseled into the marble.

During the heyday of the Byzantine Empire, the Hagia Sophia was a place for people to send up their prayers to the Christian God. To close their eyes, bow their heads, and have a conversation with the alleged creator of the universe.

Unfortunately, in the winter of 533 A.D, not all those prayers are being answered.

THEODORA’S PRAYER

Somewhere, in a dark, solitary corner of the Imperial Palace, an urgent prayer is being sent up to the Heavens.

Theodora, all-powerful Empress of the Eastern Roman Empire, clasps her hands together and sinks to her knees. She is praying, squeezing her palms together so tight, it’s like she’s trying to crush something between them.

“Please, God. Please.”

Her eyes are red. Her cheeks are wet. Her chest is tight with the encroaching threat of sobs. She is, in a word, desperate. But Theodora is also extremely grateful; grateful that she is alone. Only God gets to see this part of her. This frailty, this weakness, this pitiful yearning.   

After all, what right does she have to ask God for anything more at this point? He has showered her with gifts. A devoted husband. Wealth beyond her wildest dreams. Power beyond comprehension. And yet, she wants something else. Just one more thing just one last little thing.

Theodora wants a baby.

By 533 AD, it’s been almost 8 years since Justinian and Theodora said “I do”; and yet, the royal couple has not been able to conceive a child. Theodora has tried everything. She’s tried every position in her erotic rolodex, exhausted every scrap of brothel knowledge, every bend, curve, angle and rhythm. And when Justinian shuddered and slumped, as he always did, she prayed that this time would be THE time. The time that a bit of amorous friction would quicken and become Justinian the 2^nd. …But it never, ever did.

Theodora knew she wasn’t barren or infertile. She’d given birth to a daughter in 518 AD. But that was years ago – the girl was about 12 or 13 years old now, living comfortably with relatives. In other words, Theodora’s body isn’t what it used to be.

The irony of it all was like a bitter slime on her tongue. For that chump Hecebolus – cruel, fumbling, fickle Hecebolus – her womb had been a spring garden. But for Justinian, the love of her life, she was a dead/salted field. Or maybe Justinian was infertile; without modern testing it was impossible to know for sure. As time went on, and no pregnancy materialized/was forthcoming, the Empress grasped for even the smallest shred of hope. As Paolo Cesaretti writes:

“Theodora, once an expert in contraceptives, now discreetly ordered a search for fertility-inducing amulets and concoctions: blood from a rabbit, goose fat, even turpentine. People in the imperial entourage whispered suggestions. Others consulted stars and horoscopes. Still others shook their heads, convinced that it was God’s punishment for Justinian’s erotic and legislative hubris.”

At night, lying in bed next to the sleeping Justinian, Theodora stares at the ceiling. Alone in the dark, her mind hatches paranoid visions of the future. History, she knows, is littered with wicker baskets full of the heads of Queens who could not provide an heir for their Kings.

An Empress has many duties, but she only has one job. And that job is to produce the next link in the dynastic chain. And after 8 years of trying - 8 years of dropping prayers down a wishing well and not once hearing a splash - Theodora is coming to terms with the fact that she has failed. God was either punishing her or not listening at all. She wasn’t sure which of those two possibilities was more terrifying. /scared her more

It was true, Justinian loved his wife unconditionally. More than life itself; he had always been a husband first and an Emperor second. But every husband has his limits. And Justinian is so, so ambitious, Theodora thinks. He wants the whole world to remember his name forever. How can that happen without an heir? Without a continuation of his bloodline? He’s out there building churches and sending forth armies, and I can’t even give him a healthy baby? Maybe in a moment of weakness, he might seek out younger, more fertile contingencies. Maybe he already had? A sort of royal insurance policy. No, Theodora thinks, no he wouldn’t dare.

If Justinian had any side flings or slam pieces, Theodora would root them out and split them open like spring chickens. But he would never do that to her. He would never betray her like that…or would he/right? Even the most devoted couples harbor the occasional doubt…and alone with her thoughts in the dark, Theodora feels her stomach churn with anxiety.

->

But fertility issues are not the only thing troubling her. These days, something else occupies the lion’s share of her prayers. She squeezes her hands together even tighter, strangling an old grudge. These days, Theodora is not only praying for a life; she is praying for a death.

“God, please”, she whispers, “if you have the time, if you’re really up there, please do one other thing for me. Kill John the Cappadocian. Do it with lightning, do it with disease, do it with a falling brick for all I care, but please kill that fucking tax collector.”

BEEF WITH JOHN

Although Justinian had unceremoniously removed John from his post during the Nika debacle, the Cappadocian’s political exile did not last long. Less than a year after the Riots, John was reinstated as Praetorian Prefect, Count of the Sacred Largesse, and Chief Financial Minister.

In her old line of work, Theodora had met some very bad Johns. But in her 34 years on this mortal coil, the Cappadocian was the worst John of them all. Armored in the Emperor’s favor, unchastened by his brush with unemployment, the Cappadocian pursued his draconian tax policies with renewed vigor. As James Allan Evans writes:

“Theodora’s most rancorous animosity was directed against John the Cappadocian. John was an uncultured man with no respect for the traditions of the praetorian prefect’s office, and he was rumored to be a secret pagan, but that was probably hostile gossip, for a charge of paganism, if proved, would have ended his career. Yet he was an efficient tax collector, and Justinian valued his services. He had been forced to sacrifice him during the Nika revolt in January 532. But by 18 October of the same year he was back in office, and in the latter half of the decade he undertook a reform program to reduce bureaucratic waste, thereby making a host of enemies, for the bureaucracy was the educated elite’s road to wealth. For Byzantium’s equivalent of the chattering classes, John was an ogre. Yet when John spoke, Justinian heeded.”

“Much of what he did was good,” says Antony Bridge, “he dismissed a number of lazy and inefficient civil servants; he put a stop to a host of little private rackets and fiddles; he forebade many wasteful and extravagant practices; he abolished some jobs altogether, either because they were comfortable sinecures, or because they overlapped unnecessarily with others; and he made some stringent economies. But some of the measures he took were ill-judged, and one or two were was disastrous.”

At his core, the Cappadocian was a cost-cutter. He looked at the Byzantine government and saw a bloated whale riddled with waste and inefficiency. So, like a corporate consultant whose success is measured by the complexity of an Excel spreadsheet, John started slashing costs. One thing he deemed especially redundant was the postal system. Naturally, this hit to an existing and vital infrastructure created some problems. As Paolo Cesaretti writes:

“The public post not only guaranteed speedy communications, but also affected the supply of all kinds of raw materials and staples. The results of its elimination were disastrous for rural industry, a productive base that contributed food and tax revenue to the empire. The owners of large estates, who had been accustomed to “sell[ing] their excess crops,” now saw “their crops rotting on their hands and going to waste.”6 The small landowners bore the brunt of the new situation, since they supplied the city markets. Unable to afford the cost of private transportation, the farmers (both men and women) trudged along the roads of the empire carrying their crops on their backs in the “Asiatic mode of production” (as economists call it today). Overcome by fatigue, many lay down and died on the road.”

And so, once again, the tide of public opinion turned sharply against John. As Cesaretti continues:

“The slanderous rumors intensified: John was getting rich; John was a drunk; John had an infamous retinue of jesters and prostitutes both male and female; he was a heathen who pretended to say Christian prayers while actually reciting magical pagan formulas. The rumors and accusations were not so different from those that once circulated about Theodora. In time, John and the empress would grow to be enemies, but they were both victims (for different reasons) of hostile preconceptions among those who considered themselves decent and upright citizens.”

John’s policies were causing considerably financial pain throughout the Empire, true, but that’s not why Theodora hated him. She didn’t care about starving farmers or John’s nocturnal activities. She hated the Cappadocian because he began to threaten her position and offend her pride.

At court, John did not show Theodora the proper respect. He was too coarse for comfort - rude, dismissive, and discourteous. But worst of all, Theodora’s informants in the Palace told her that John was beginning to slander her to Justinian personally, to whisper things in his ear. 

If any other person in the world spoke badly about Theodora, Justinian would’ve snipped out their tongue in a heartbeat. But when it came to John, the Emperor was uniquely lenient. Time after time, Theodora begged him to get rid of the Cappadocian, and time and time again, Justinian refused. John is crude, boorish even, he acknowledged, but he is a financial genius, Theodora. I know you two don’t get along, but sometimes we have to work with distasteful people for the greater good. I love you, but don’t bring this up to me again. The Cappadocian stays; end of discussion.

Short of divine intervention, John wasn’t going anywhere. And although God may work in mysterious ways, sometimes he works too slowly. Theodora unclasps her hands, and stops praying.

If God wouldn’t strike down the Cappadocian, she would have to do it herself. If it took her a month, a year, a decade – Theodora resolved to destroy John one way or another.

---- MUSIC BREAK -----

It’s the summer of 534 A.D.

A bronze disc is peeking/breaking over the horizon, casting a golden glow on the red-roof skyline of Constantinople. After a quiet, peaceful and (mostly) arson-free night, the city is waking up.

Yes, it’s a new day in New Rome.

But it’s not just any ‘ol day… Today is very special day.

All across the city, people leap from their beds, pull on their clothes, and rush out into the street. It’s the middle of summer, but it feels like Christmas morning. The merchants are selling. The priests are singing. Even the pickpockets are up early. After all, no one wants to miss the big event/celebration.

If the occupants of the Byzantine capitol know how to do one thing well, it is ‘gather in large groups and yell very loudly’. And today, they’re prepared to yell themselves hoarse. Because today, they are welcoming home a hero.

Heroes weren’t necessarily hard to find Constantinople. All you had to do was look around. In every forum, every square, every church, a hero was looking down with white marble eyes, frozen forever in some gallant pose. Warriors, demigods, martyrs - dead heroes were everywhere in Byzantium; it was living heroes that were in short supply. But those days are over now; the Byzantines have a true-blue, flesh & blood war hero striding in their midst.

After 10 long months at war, General Belisarius has returned from North Africa.

And like any seasoned world traveler, he has brought home a few souvenirs.

Back in the days of the old Roman republic, military generals who had achieved a great victory were sometimes rewarded with an event called a ‘triumph’.

A triumph, essentially, is a very large parade. The honored general gets to paint his face red like Zeus, ride through the streets in a chariot, and bask in the adoration of Rome’s grateful subjects. Third-world dictators and Ferrari owners have tried to recreate this feeling with mixed results. Triumphs were all the rage back in Rome’s golden age, but after the Republic became an Empire, triumphs fell out of fashion. The Caesars did not like to share the spotlight. As a general rule, they felt it was unwise to elevate powerful commanders with a very large armies and popular support; Men like that tend to get ideas.  

And that is why Belisarius’ triumph in 534 A.D. was such an exciting event.

Something like this had not happened in almost 600 years.

To resurrect a tradition that old, that sacrosanct, you have to do something pretty impressive. Something spectacular, in fact. And Belisarius most certainly did. Overnight, he has become the most famous man in the Mediterranean world, aside from Emperor Justinian, of course. As the crowds crush together in the street, pushing and shoving and standing on tiptoes, everyone wants to catch a glimpse of the great man.

And then, they see him.

Byzantium’s perfect knight, sheathed in sparkling armor and strutting down main street at the head of a massive parade. A triumph is not just a celebration; it’s a showcase. Look at me, look at my soldiers, look at all the treasure we’ve taken, and all the people we’ve taken it from. Behind General Belisarius, winding through the streets of Constantinople, is a procession of unimaginable wealth. Cartloads of gold, silver and precious gems. Slaves tied together like strings of garlic, sporting exotic blonde beards and muscular bodies. But the most impressive piece of plunder is walking right next to Belisarius, shambling forward like a whipped dog. 

The Vandal King.

A man named Gelimer.

Defeated, captured, and brought to Byzantium in shackles.

As Belisarius swaggers through Constantinople, having what is arguably the best day of his life, the last 10 months come back to him in flashes. Like a sort of mental highlight reel.

When Belisarius and his army of 18,000 men first made landfall in North Africa in September of 533, they expected to find a barbarian horde waiting for them on the beach. But to their pleasant surprise, the Tunisian dunes were as quiet as a tomb. In that moment, Belisarius could not believe his luck; The Vandal Kingdom had no idea it was being invaded.  

Yes, the General was in his element. The element of surprise.

Wasting no time, Belisarius had his entire army disembark, form up ranks, and march like hell towards the Vandal capitol of Carthage. Now when an enemy army is rampaging through your countryside, news travels pretty fast. Once the Vandals realized that a Byzantine army was, well, vandalizing their home, they mobilized quickly to defend it. In Carthage, bells were clanging, armories were emptying, and warrior husbands were kissing their wives goodbye.

On September 13^th, 533, the Vandal and Byzantine armies met at a place called Ad Decimum. “Ad Decimum” means ‘the tenth mile post’ in Latin. In other words, they were only ten miles from the walls of Carthage. And it was here, at a glorified highway sign, that the fate of the Mediterranean world was decided.

The Vandals were old-school Germanic warriors. Their battle strategy consisted of riding horses towards the people they were trying to kill, and inserting sharp objects into those people (skin) until they either stopped moving or ran away. There’s nothing wrong with this strategy. It’s a classic. Tried & true.

It’s just that Belisarius had a better one.

When I say “picture a Roman soldier”, the image that probably leaps to mind is the classic ‘legionary’ look. Rectangular shield, short sword, leather skirt, bristle-brush helmet. But by Justinian’s time, the average Roman soldier looked very, very different.

When you fight as many different people in as many different places as the Romans did, you learn some new skills in the process. You learn archery from the Persians, cavalry tactics from the Huns, guerilla warfare from Celts. One man’s battle is another’s cross-cultural exchange. So by the 6^th century AD, the Eastern Roman soldier was a Swiss Army Knife of weapons proficiency. He could shoot a bow, he could ride a horse, he could shoot a bow while riding a horse. Procopius, who was an eyewitness to the Vandal campaign, describes the typical Byzantine soldier:

“They go into battle wearing corselets and fitted out with greaves which extend up to the knee. From the right side hang their arrows, from the other the sword. And there are some who have a spear also attached to them and, at the shoulders, a sort of small shield without a grip, such as to cover the region of the face and neck. They are expert horsemen, and are able without difficulty to direct their bows to either side while riding at full speed, and to shoot an opponent whether in pursuit or in flight.”

The Vandals were not prepared for this at all.

The Byzantines brought the rock, the paper, and the scissors. By the end of the day, the bulk of the Vandal army was either enslaved, in flight / impaled, or in serious need of medical attention. When Belisarius and his army marched up to Carthage, they walked right through the front door. That evening, the Byzantine high command was toasting with Carthaginian wine and wiping their boots on the Vandal King’s couch. For the Eastern Romans, this was a huge moment. As one author put it: “Carthage was a Roman city redeemed, not a Vandal city captured.” (Graves)

During the months that followed, the surviving Vandal warriors fought like hell to turn the tide and save their home, but to no avail. Belisarius mopped them up like spilled wine. In less than a year, the powerful Germanic tribe that had survived centuries of war, migrated hundreds of miles, and even sacked Old Rome itself, was all but snuffed out of existence. As Nick Holmes writes:

“Belisarius’ destruction of the Vandal kingdom within a year counts as one of the greatest victories in Rome’s entire history.”

Like the last members of an endangered species, the surviving Vandals were clapped in iron, loaded onto ships, and brought back to Constantinople for display. In a way, Belisarius’ triumphal parade is a sort of moving zoo, and the Byzantine citizens cheer and spit and laugh at Gelimer, the once-proud king of Carthage.

As Belisarius drags his human prize through the streets at the end of a chain, the victorious General feels like a living demigod. This is what Caesar felt, the thinks. What Pompey felt. What Scipio felt. What all the great Roman generals felt. But every parade has an terminus/end-point, and even demigods have a master.

Eventually, after winding through the city streets, Belisarius’ triumphal procession arrives at its ultimate destination: The Hippodrome, the great stadium and racetrack of Constantinople. This is the finale of the triumphal ritual, where Belisarius will present the spoils of war to his lord and master, Emperor Justinian the First.

Only two years earlier, the Hippodrome had been ground zero for one of the worst massacres in late antiquity. General Belisarius had been drenched in blood that day, but now all is forgiven and forgotten as 100,000 people chant his name.

And no one is more delighted by this display than the Byzantine Emperor himself. Gazing down from the Imperial Box, Justinian thanks the father, son and holy ghost for the goldfish memory of his people. This triumphal parade is only nominally about Belisarius. Its true purpose is to demonstrate the greatness of Justinian’s regime. The emperor’s grand plan to reconquer the Western Roman world from barbarians is off to a very auspicious start. And like a mental etch-a-sketch, this victory over the Vandals will wipe away any lingering traces of the Nika sedition. As Paolo Cesaretti writes:

The second Rome had defeated Carthage just as the first Rome once had done. For Justinian, with his antiquarian spirit, this was an occasion to clear his name in the city’s mind. Two years after the Nika rebellion, he would show them the true meaning of “victory.”

As the triumph comes to its climax, Belisarius bows before the emperor and throws the conquered Vandal King into the dirt. There are no defiant words or obscene gestures from Gelimer; the old King is a shell of himself now, broken and traumatized by the annihilation of his people. At the point of a sword, he is forced to lie down in the Hippodrome’s sand and officially prostrate himself in front of Emperor Justinian. To complete his humiliation, Gelimer is draped with an ironic purple robe, an insult to reinforce his failures as a leader.

But even then, the ritual is not complete. One last display of deference must be observed.

General Belisarius, the great man himself, also lies down in the dirt and submits before the emperor. Two men, conqueror and conquered, lying at Justinian’s feet like trained poodles. In the old-school Roman triumphs, a victorious general would never have debased himself in this way. But times have changed, and Justinian wants to make it absolutely clear that this is his victory, not Belisarius’. The General is merely the instrument, he is saying, the weapon I wield. At the end of the day, I am the master and lord of the earth. And don’t you ever, ever forget it. 

As the crowd roars its approval and claps its hands raw, Belisarius hears a quiet voice in his left ear. The Vandal King, Gelimer, is saying something. Not to Belisarius or anyone in particular, just sort-of muttering to himself, over and over again. Belisarius listens closely and makes out the Old King’s words: “Vanity of vanities,” Gelimer says, “all is vanity.”

The flame of recognition sparks in Belisarius’s mind. It’s a Bible verse, he realizes. Ecclesiastes Chapter 1, Verse 2. “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” It means that earthy possessions and mortal glory are nothing in the face of God’s greatness. All this gold, all this ceremony, all this pomp and pretension, is ultimately futile and fleeting. Vapor vanishing on the wind.

Belisarius smirks. Sore loser, he thinks.

Yes, the summer of 534 AD was a high-water mark for Justinian’s empire. There was, after all, so much to celebrate. Because while Belisarius had been off conquering the Vandals, Justinian had been busy back at home. There was his rebuilding project and reconstruction of the Hagia Sophia, which we’ve already discussed, but Justinian was building a legacy in ink as well as stone.

With the help of Tribonian, his favorite lawyer and legal scholar, the Emperor was in the process of recodifying and modernizing the entire Roman legal code. A task that proved Herculean in the extreme.

LAW AND DISORDER

It is often said that laws are the backbone of civilization.

But the thing about backbones is that over the years, with enough time and pressure, they tend to warp, and occasionally degenerate altogether. The same was true with the Roman legal system. When Justinian came to power, he realized that the Eastern Roman Empire had a problem with its laws.

There were too many of them.

In the 8^th century BC, when Rome was just a little town on the Tiber, the legal system had been fairly simple. Don’t kill. Don’t steal. Keep your sheep on your side of the fence. That kind of stuff/thing. But then, Rome started expanding, gobbling up new territories and the peoples therein. And it was at this point the Romans realized that conquest can be quite complicated. All sorts of questions start popping up. Who is a Roman citizen and who’s not? Who gets taxed and how much/at what rate? Who gets to decide these things, and how long before we get to kill/replace him?

To provide definitive answers to these vexing and rapidly multiplying questions, laws were written, rewritten, adapted, and amended. As Rome got bigger and bigger, the laws kept piling up. A city-state became a kingdom became a republic became an empire became two empires; by Justinian’s time, the Roman legal code comprised about 3 million lines of text. As Bettany Hughes writes: “Law for the early medieval Christian was a confusing, noisy space: local law, Judaic law, Roman law, Christ’s teaching, all fighting to be heard.”

The Byzantine legal system was, well, byzantine in its complexity. And so, Emperor Justinian decided that it was time to take a fresh look at that colossal body of law, and separate the baby from the bathwater. To do this, he turned to Tribonian the Lawyer.

As mentioned in the previous episode, Tribonian was Byzantium’s greatest legal mind. Conversely, he was also its greatest illegal mind, knowing exactly which laws could be bent, broken, or bypassed completely. His lechery was legendary, his corruption highly creative. But Tribonian wasn’t just a crook, he was a bone fide judicial polymath / savant

So, when Justinian tasked him with reorganizing Byzantium’s laws from the floorboards up, Tribonian cracked his knuckles and applied his prodigious intellect to the task. For six years, Tribonian and several platoons of jurists, paralegals and scholars worked around the clock on, according to Bettany Hughes, “the massive, ethical, intellectual, political, economic and cultural task of collecting, unifying, sorting and codifying all edicts, laws, letters and legal cases that had gone to make up Roman legal practice over the previous four centuries.”

In the end, Tribonian and his team managed to condense those 3 million lines of text down to a scant 150,000 – a “95 percent reduction”, Paolo Cesaretti points out. In 534 AD, the same year that Belisarius celebrated his triumph, Tribonian published / celebrated an achievement of his very own. The Codex Justinianus, or Code of Justinian, as it came to be known, was a titanic accomplishment. As one historian put it:

The Codex was the systematization 4600 imperial laws, making up 12 books and 765 titles. Church law, public service, legal procedure, and legal precedent were molded into a detailed system of law striving to be both consistent and connected with the past. Here, past emperors, Senators, ancient customs, and the tradition of the early Republic were brought together as a systemic whole.

“The radical legal innovations fostered in Constantinople still form the basis of European law,” writes Bettany Hughes, “It was Justinian’s Codex that enshrined the principle that we are innocent until proven guilty.”

The Code of Justinian was a hugely influential achievement, but if you look closely at the Codex,

you can detect the hand of another author behind Tribonian and Justinian’s words. The Empress Theodora put her own stamp on Byzantine law, and she used the power at her disposal to champion the rights of a demographic very near and dear to her heart: Women. Particularly women working in the sex trade.

“Theodora fought tirelessly and at times ruthlessly to improve the lot of women,” writes Antony Bridge, “no trouble was too great for her to take on their behalf, no battle too fierce for her to enter, if it would help members of her own sex to lead a better life than that which they had enjoyed hitherto, and no quarter or mercy could be expected from the Empress by anyone she caught oppressing or exploiting women or denying them their rights as human beings.”

One night at the Imperial Palace, perhaps while reading in bed, Theodora turns to Justinian and says, “Did you know that in the city market alone, there are currently 500 girls working as prostitutes?”

It is not a question. Justinian, absorbed in his own reading, responds with the distracted cadence of a bored husband. “500, huh.”” He turns a page, “Damn, that’s crazy.”

Theodora reaches over and snaps his book shut. Or to be less anachronistic, she snatches the scroll from his hands and rolls it up very loudly.

“Did you hear what I said, Justinian? 500 girls.”

Justinian resists the temptation to snatch his reading material back. “Yes, I heard you, Theodora. 500 girls. In the market. Prostitution. Very sad. And what do you want me to do about it. Cut off every cock in the city?”

If glares had concussive force, Theodora’s would’ve melted stone. Justinian softens his expression and tries to hold her hand. She pulls it back like she’s been stung.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but trying to stop the sex trade is like trying to… I don’t know, like trying to punch water. It’s futile. You can’t stop it. Besides, these girls are just making a living. Surviving. Like you did.”

“Don’t tell me what I did,” she snaps. “You have no idea what I did. What I had to do.”

Justinian has no response for that. She looks into his eyes.

“Listen to me, love. You may not know what goes on in these brothels, but I do. I spent years in them. I saw things that would make you sick. Let me tell you what happens to some of these girls.”

Theodora talks for the next few minutes, and Justinian’s stomach does indeed drop.

“One of the easiest ways to get rich quickly,” writes Antony Bridge, “was to join the ranks of the enterprising pimps who made it their business to procure young girls and then to sell them to the owners of the bawdy houses which were to be found in all big cities.

They travelled round the provinces openly buying teenage girls and sometimes children as young as ten years old from their parents, who were often glad to sell them for a few gold coins, so deep was their own poverty; the sale of a daughter made one less mouth to feed, and the pitiful little sum of money they received in exchange probably helped to pay off some small but crippling debt, which they could never have settled without such a windfall. In return, they were assured that their daughter would have a marvelous opportunity to better herself in the capital or some other big city, which she would never enjoy if she stayed at home; life would be easy; she would be dressed in fine clothes, and in a few years she would probably be rich enough to return home and keep her parents in luxury in their old age. The truth was very different.

The girls were sold at a handsome profit to bawds and whoremasters in the big cities throughout the Empire, where they were housed in miserable conditions and kept in a state of virtual slavery. Out of touch with their families and friends, cut off from the outside world, and forced to submit to whatever took the sexual fancy of their customers, they led the most miserable of lives, and most of them soon lost all hope. Since every girl on arrival was made to sign a written contract, by which she traded her liberty for her keep (though few of them had any idea what they were doing when they made their pathetic little marks on the documents presented to them), they stood no chance at all of being released until they were either too old or too worn out to be of any further use to the man who owned the brothel, whereupon they were thrown into the street to fend for themselves as best they could.

 Occasionally it happened that a customer would be so sorry for one of the girls he met there that he would offer to marry her in order to rescue her from her miserable existence; but even when that happened, and it must have been a rare occurrence, more often than not her employer would refuse to release her, and because she had signed a contract with him, he was within his legal rights to do so.”

“Jesus Christ”, Justinian breathes.

“Please don’t blaspheme,” Theodora chides. “I want to help them, Justinian. I want to save as many as I can.”

The Emperor squeezes her hand. “Anything you want. Anything you need. Tell Tribonian, he’ll make it happen.”

_>

And so, in a form of grand cosmic irony, the former-prostitute-turned-Empress embarked on a crusade against Byzantium’s sex trade. As Antony Bridge writes:

“On 14 November, 535, she caused an edict to be issued which made the activities of pimps a crime, and which banished all brothel-keepers from the capital and from every other major city throughout the Roman world. ‘We have set up magistrates to punish robbers and thieves,’ the imperial edict ran; ‘are we not even more strictly bound to prosecute the robbers of honor and the thieves of chastity?’ But she was determined to be scrupulously fair to those whose means of livelihood she was destroying, even though their trade was a loathsome one, so she let it be known that she was prepared to buy the girls back from their employers for the same amount of money as they had paid for them in the first place; the brothel-keepers were required to state on oath what they had given for each girl in their service, and they were told that they would then be compensated by the same sum of money at the expense of the Empress. The average price proved to be five nomismata [gold pieces], which was about the same as ten pounds sterling at present values, and this Theodora paid from her privy purse.”

But the Empress did not stop there. According to another historian:

“It was not only the issue of prostitution that Theodora was passionate about; she also implemented sweeping reforms to the rights of women when it came to owning property, marriage, and divorce. Women were given new rights of guardianship over their own children, something that had previously been denied them. Theodora also introduced anti-rape laws in which rape was punishable by death, and she repealed the death sentence for women who committed adultery.”

With every stroke of the pen, Theodora’s power and influence over the Byzantine world grew. And as she set about improving the position of women in Eastern Roman society, her sights fell on one woman in particular.

Antonina, the wife of General Belisarius.

Last time we saw Antonina, she was lounging on the deck of Belisarius’ flagship, daydreaming about partying in the halls of a conquered Carthage. In the weeks that followed, her wish came true. Belisarius smashed the Vandals into bloody little bits, stripped their kingdom of all its wealth, and sailed home to Constantinople, wrapped in gold and covered in glory. She looked on with pride as her husband enjoyed the first triumph given to a Roman general in six centuries.

It was a grand affair, and no one knew affairs better than Antonina. Supportive spouse that she was, Antonina celebrated her husband’s conquest with a few conquests of her very own. Mainly horizontal conquests involving men that were not Belisarius.

See, Belisarius and Antonina had an open marriage. Unfortunately, Belisarius was not aware of this arrangement. In fact, he seemed to be the ONLY person not aware of this arrangement. Antonina’s infidelity was reckless and poorly concealed, bordering on brazen. [For example] Procopius tells us that one night in Carthage, during the North African campaign, Belisarius wandered into the cellars looking for a fine Vandal vino, and instead found his wife in a compromising position with a handsome young retainer. Both Antonina and the young hunk were half-naked, inches away from each other, and a bit short of breath. Master of deception that she was, Antonina laughed nervously and explained that he was just helping her search for hidden Vandal treasure. After all, who knew what the barbarians had stashed away!

Luckily for her, Belisarius was a master of self-deception. He accepted this explanation without a whiff of suspicion. On a battlefield, the General could see things others could not, but when it came to his wife, he couldn’t recognize a obvious rearguard action. Rather than chastening her appetites, this brush with consequence only emboldened Antonina. She continued taking her himbo to bed whenever Belisarius’ back was turned. As for the young General, he knew to a certainty that his wife would never betray him. [But in relationships/love as well as history,] But knowing and believing are very different things.

When she returned to Constantinople for her husband’s triumph, Antonina reveled in her fame-by-association. All of sudden, she was the most respected lady at court, second only in prestige to the Empress herself. Antonina and Theodora had traveled in the same circles for years, and they considered each other friends. Their husbands were as close as brothers, and so a sisterhood naturally developed between them.

One morning, perhaps as they were lounging together in a palatial bathhouse, Theodora turns to Antonina and says “You must be so proud of your husband.”

Antonina, never one to refuse a compliment, sighs. “Oh, he’s a doll. A wife couldn’t be prouder. Vanquisher of Vandals. Savior of Byzantium. My knight in shining armor.”

Theodora, traces a finger over the warm bathwater and without looking, replies, “Why do you cheat on him, then?”

Antonina’s smile vanishes; the bath water has suddenly become very cold. Without waiting for a response, Theodora continues, “I know what you’ve been doing Antonina. And I am very, very disappointed.”

The usually-loquacious Antonina cannot speak for the lump of fear in her throat. Theodora was her friend, true, but they were not equals. Despite all the long nights of gossip, the tearful hugs, getting day-drunk together on the Bosporus, the Empress was still her superior. Like a little sister or a small dog, Antonina only enjoys what familiarity Theodora allows. All those memories/feelings of friendship feel very distant now.

Theodora turns her large eyes on Antonina, who has shrunken down to the size of a frightened child. “I know all about your little affairs,” the Empress says, “And don’t you dare insult my intelligence by denying it."

Theodora was a monogamist to the core. For her, marriage vows were not just theatre or pretty words at a ceremony, they were holy. A sacred promise to God. But the most offensive thing about Antonina’s indiscretions, were that they introduced potential chaos into Justinian’s court.

“The empress did not allow any extramarital liaisons that might disturb her universe,” writes Paolo Cesaretti, “Antonina dreaded the punishment the empress might inflict. For Theodora was all too prone both to storm at her and to show her teeth in anger. […] Antonina could not separate her private pleasure from the public virtue demanded of the “ladies” of the empire.”

Looming over Antonina despite her petite size, the Empress continues, “You have broken the 7^thcommandment, Antonina. Adultery. Not once, not twice, but many, many times. Belisarius is a good soldier and a loyal servant of the Empire. He may be a naive fool, but he deserves better than you. He deserves what Justinian and I have.”

At this point, Antonina regains the power of speech.

“Please don’t tell him,” She begs, “Please, Theodora. Sorry - Empress! If he finds out, he’ll kill me.”

Theodora recoils from Antonina’s desperate touch. “I should tell him,” she says, “But I won’t.”

Antonina collapses into a grateful heap, hot tears burning her cheeks. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Quiet,” Theodora snaps. “I’m not finished. My discretion comes with a price. “

“Anything,” Antonina says.

“Belisarius is loyal to Justinian right now,” Theodora continues, “but better men than him have fallen to the temptations of power and glory. Now that he is the ‘Savior of Byzantium’, as you say, he represents a threat to Justinian, even if neither of them yet realize it. Why do you think the old Emperors stopped giving Generals triumphs in the first place? My husband loves Belisarius like a brother, and he cannot see the danger there. He forgets there was a time when Cain loved Abel. But I do see the danger, Antonina. I see all of the dangers. And that is why, in a few weeks, when you and Belisarius leave with the army to reconquer Italy, you are going to tell me everything that he does there. I want notes, letters, correspondence – if Belisarius so much as mutters in his sleep about betraying Justinian, I want to know.

Theodora draws close to Antonina and whispers,

“You will be right hand, my spy, my eyes and ears abroad. If you can’t manage loyalty to your own husband, then you’ll be loyal to me.

And in return, I will keep your secret. In return, I will protect you. In return, I will not blow up your life. But one day, I will need a favor, Antonina. A big one. And when I ask, you will do exactly as I say. Do you understand me?”

Antonina is so low to the ground she can taste the tile. “Yes, Empress.”

“Good,” Theodora smiles, “Now get out of my fucking sight.”

---- MUSIC BREAK ----

It’s December of 536 A.D.

About a year-and-a-half after Belisarius’ big parade in/through Constantinople.

We, however, are a long way from the borders of Byzantium. We are in Italy, at the heart of the old Roman world - what’s left of it anyway.

Today, we’re in the former capitol of the Western Roman Empire. 

The Eternal City itself.

Rome.

At the height of its golden age, Old Rome was a wonder to behold. The beating heart of an all-powerful empire that stretched from the Scottish Highlands to the Nile Delta. In those days, the Eternal City was the center of the universe. A painter’s paradise of gleaming monuments, towering temples, and statues so anatomically accurate they seem sculpted by the Gods themselves. The residents of Rome probably thought the good old days would last forever.

Well, a couple centuries later, in the time of Justinian, Rome looks nothing like the ancient postcard. Today, in the closing weeks of 536 AD, the city is a shadow of its former self.

The walls are rotting. The monuments are crumbling. And the city’s population is a fraction of its former size. Even the famous Colosseum lies dark and empty. As he wanders through the streets on antiquity’s most depressing walking tour, Procopius cannot help but feel a degree of disappointment. This is it? The writer thinks/scoffs. This is the so-called Eternal City? Compared what the old scribes said about it, this place is a dump.  

It’s been a while since we caught up with our friend Procopius, author of the Secret History and primary eyewitness to the events of this story. In the four years since he set sail with Belisarius, bound for the North African coast, Procopius has seen more of the world than he ever dreamed possible.

It’s probably tempting to think of Procopius as a fussy little scribe, a fragile nerd with a parchment and quill. But I like to think of him as a sort of ancient war correspondent. Similar to 20^th century journalists who were attached to American forces in places like Vietnam or Afghanistan. Remember, Procopius was writing his account from the front lines, embedded in the Byzantine Army as it set about reconquering Rome’s lost territories.

His first tour, so to speak, took him to the Vandal Kingdom. It was, to put it mildly, a learning experience. Before the Vandal war, Procopius had only witnessed a handful of battles. But by the time they sailed home to Constantinople, he’d seen enough hacked limbs, hanged soldiers and raped women to last him a lifetime.

But if Procopius was hoping for a period of rest and recuperation, he would be sorely disappointed. Barely a year after Belisarius’ triumphal parade, Justinian dispatched his greatest general to a new theatre of operations. This time, the Byzantine Army would be invading Italy, the heartland of the old Western Roman Empire itself.

Procopius’ second tour of duty had begun.

MEET THE GOTHS

To understand *why* the Byzantines were fighting in Italy, we have to understand *who* the Byzantines were fighting in Italy.

In the early 6^th century, if you walked into any Italian town and asked “who’s in charge here?”, 9 out of 10 people would’ve told you: “The Goths. Where’ve you been the last 60 years?”. /  And the 10^th person wouldn’t tell you anything, because he’d been murdered by the Goths.

These days, being a Goth usually involves an affinity for piercings, black lipstick and fishnet stockings; but 1500 years ago, the word “Goth’ referred to a group of big muscular German warriors. Like our dear departed Vandals in North Africa, the Goths (G-O-T-H-S), were a wandering tribe from Central Europe. And also like the Vandals, after being pushed around by the Roman Empire for many, many years, the Goths decided to push back.

Migratory tribes aren’t generally known for their cohesion, so there were many flavors, branches and offshoots of the Gothic people. There were the Visigoths, the Ostrogoths, the Original Recipe Goths, but by the 6^thcentury, they were the Italian Goths, having conquered the Western Roman territories in 476 AD.

From their capital of Ravenna, the Gothic Kings ruled over the Italian peninsula from the Alps all the way down to Sicily. The entire length of the boot. But in the summer of 536 AD, the barbarians suddenly felt a tingle in their toes. General Belisarius, destroyer of the Vandal kingdom, had landed in the south, bent on recapturing Italy in the name of his Emperor, Justinian the First.

The Emperor’s ultimate goal, plainly stated was: “the reconquest of all the rest of the lands that ancient Rome had conquered from the bounds of one ocean to the other, but then lost through inertia.”

In other words, you took our stuff. And now we’re taking it back. / And we are taking it back.

In their capitol up in Ravenna, far to the north, the Gothic court’s initial reaction was panic.  General Belisarius was a dread omen, a brutal exterminator who had snuffed the Vandals out like a candle. But when the Goths received reports on the size of the Byzantine invasion force, they felt a sudden wave of relief. Cold sweats became amused chuckles. Belisarius only had 8,000 men at his command. Less than half of what he had taken to North Africa. So arrogant was Emperor Justinian, so confident in the abilities of his attack dog, that he’d sent Belisarius to Italy with a tiny army/paltry force. The celebrated author Robert Graves, in his semi-fictional biography of Belisarius, does a great job at describing the Goths’ confident appraisal of the situation.

“Consider the matter from the Gothic point of view. What danger could they reasonably fear from a mere 8,000 men, a large part of whom were infantry? Italy was theirs, and they had been living on the friendliest terms with the native population for two generations. They had plentiful supplies of food, and a fleet and money and military stores; they could easily put 100,000 horsemen into the field and 100,000 foot-archers; they possessed a number of very strong walled cities. Add to this that the Imperial troops who had landed in Sicily […]  could not even make themselves understood by the native Italians, who spoke Latin, not Greek.”

Well, luckily for Belisarius, force is a universal language / some things transcend language. As Nick Holmes writes:

“Belisarius […] advanced into Southern Italy as a liberator not a conqueror. The towns welcomed him. The Goths lived mainly in Northern Italy in the Po Valley with small garrisons spread throughout the rest of Italy, and very few of them were in the south. The southern Italians felt no loyalty to the Goths and were happy to rejoin the Roman Empire.”

When Belisarius did encounter resistance, it didn’t last long. According to Ian Hughes:

“The towns in the south of Italy, unused to war, also had no walls and therefore could not resist his advance. They soon surrendered. Belisarius quickly moved through Bruttium, Lucania and Campania until he reached the city of Naples.”

Naples put up a fight, but after a brief, brutal siege, it too fell to the Byzantine army. On December 9^th of 536 AD, Belisarius walked out of his command tent and stood before the gates of Rome itself. The Eternal City had run out of time. But rather than bar the gates and defy the Byzantines, the doors to Rome swung wide open.

Out of the gates, a delegation poured forth. Senators, patricians and wealthy Roman landowners. And at the head of this welcome wagon, a little old man with silvery beard and a big hat extended his arms in hospitality. This was Pope Silverius, leader of the Western Orthodox Church. Silverius of the silvery beard informed Belisarius that the city was now under the General’s control, and by extension Emperor Justinian’s. After two generations in the clutches of barbarian chieftains, Rome had returned to Roman hands. Watching from a nearby tent, Procopius dipped his quill in ink and scribbled down the following words:

“So after a space of sixty years Rome again became [subject to the Romans, on the ninth day of the last month, which is called December by the Romans],521 in the eleventh year of the reign of the emperor Justinian.”

As he walked through the streets of Rome, Procopius was flooded with emotions. He had grown up reading about the old Roman empire. About Caesar and Antony and Augustus. About Caligula’s insanity and Hadrian’s wisdom and Aurelian’s ingenuity. And here he was, strolling through the cradle of history. He could touch Trajan’s Column, kiss the Pantheon, and stand in the shade of the Colosseum. But he had to admit, Rome was not what it once was. Under the Goths, it had fallen into corrosion and disrepair; they had not even made it their capitol, preferring to hold court from Ravenna.

But, Procopius thought, times they are a-changin’. At long last, Rome has rejoined the Empire. Maybe Justinian isn’t such a demon after all. Maybe God, in his infinite and incomprehensible wisdom, is using a wicked man for a greater good.

Upon returning to the command tent, Procopius sees his boss, General Belisarius. After months on campaign, the general is leaner, quieter, and more intense. He is no longer a young man. Procopius, jaded war correspondent though he is, looks at his commander with an irritating tingle of admiration. After years of war, Belisarius had changed. As they age, most soldiers become jaded, angry, and increasingly prone to post-traumatic stress disorder. Belisarius had traveled the other direction/way. He seemed steadier than ever. Stronger, wiser, more self-assured. And a good thing too, because the Goths were not going to give up Rome without a fight.

1300 miles to the East, back in Constantinople, a scroll snaps shut.

John the Cappadocian, chief tax collector of Byzantium, turns to address his Emperor, Justinian the First.

“Well, my Lord, he did it. He’s actually fucking did it. Belisarius pulled the stick out of his ass and beat the Goths to death with it.”

John the Cappadocian hands the scroll to an assistant and peers up at the Byzantine throne. Justinian smiles, not unkindly, “You have a way with words, John.”

The Cappadocian claps his hands together. “Old Rome is yours, master. Your great crusade is all but accomplished. And under-budget, I might add.”

On his marble throne, Justinian slumps with a kind of relaxed satisfaction. He feels a calm he has not felt in years. He closes his eyes to savor the feeling. When he opens them again, the Cappadocian is at his ear.

“This is an excellent opportunity to discuss another matter, my lord.”

John clears his throat and chooses his next words carefully. “In less than three years, your empire has rapidly expanded in size. 10 million people now look to you for guidance and leadership.”

Justinian arches his eyebrow. “And?”

“And..” the Cappadocian says, “You will not live forever. Your deeds will. Your glory will. But one day, God will call you home. And what will happen to Byzantium then? You need an heir, master. You need a son.”

Justinian clenches his jaw without understanding why.

The Cappadocian scratches/ pulls at his beard in performative contemplation and broaches the unbroachable. “Theodora is a fine woman,” he says, “A beautiful, magnificent, attractive woman. But would it not be better, respectfully Lord, to put your eggs in a more fruitful basket? You are an Emperor, a strong virile Roman male. Your seed is like the mighty Tiber. And yet, the Empress cannot conceive. Is it not time, Master, after all these years, to put Theodora aside?”

Justinian’s eyes flick towards John like a switchblade, and the Cappadocian’s survival instincts kick in.

“There have been rumors, Lord. It’s no secret that the venerable Empress rose from…humble beginnings, but old habits die hard. Eve herself was tempted by the serpent. And Theodora is just a woman. Frail, fallible, not a man like you. A former…entertainer will always seek to please. How do you know she has been faithful?”

Justinian smiles and puts a hand on John’s shoulder.

“John, you are a brilliant man. In all my years, I have never seen such a keen intellect. You are loyal, talented, and frankly, indispensable/insightful. I value you greatly. But if you ever badmouth my wife again, I will turn you inside out and use your skin as a sail for my ship. And as fat as you’ve gotten these last few years, it could be the mainsail.”

Careful not to shatter the VERY thin ice, John the Cappadocian wisely removes himself from the emperor’s presence. He does not stop bowing until he is out of the throne room, out of the palace, and safely at home in his estate. Shooing away servants, John slams the door of his office, and pours himself enough wine to fill the Hippodrome.

How many times have I tried? John asks the empty chamber/room. How many times have I tried to save the emperor from himself? I have hinted, insinuated, nudged and needled – but Justinian will never turn against his precious Theodora/Empress. Not even to preserve his own bloodline. If Jesus Christ himself came down from Heaven and commanded him to divorce Theodora, the Emperor would probably nail him to the cross for a second time.

It's true love, John realizes with a sudden wave of nausea. Intractable, unbreakable, incurable. He curls his lip in disgust. True love is not a growth market. Especially with an Empress that cannot bear an heir. John sinks into a chair, sloshing his wine over the rim of his cup. I am working for a regime with no future, he thinks. Laboring on behalf of a dynastic-dead end, a genetic fucking cul-de-sac.

It’s true, Justinian has made me very rich, very powerful. But who comes after him? And where will I stand then? What if, god forbid, he dies before Theodora? Christ, if Theodora ever becomes sole regent, they’ll be finding pieces of me from here to the Bosphorus. That woman despises me. And everyone knows what Theodora has done to men she merely DISLIKES.

As David Potter writes: “Theodora showed no compunction in disposing of men she could not stand.”

There was the nobleman Saturninas, beaten and whipped for gossiping about a member of Theodora’s entourage. There was the wealthy Basianus, tortured and castrated for insulting Theodora to her face. Not to mention countless others who were imprisoned, exiled, or had their property confiscated. Yes, get on Theodora’s bad side, and she’d be picking you out of her teeth by morning.

When offended, the Empress’ could be vindictive, vengeful and absolutely merciless. As Procopius put it years later: “No one ever saw Theodora become reconciled with a man who had offended her, not even after he was dead. Instead, the son of the dead man inherited the empress’ hatred up to the third generation like any other legacy that was passed on from his father.”

All the more reason, thought John the Cappadocian, to tread lightly. Justinian considered him indispensable, so he was reasonably safe from Theodora’s long knives, but he needed to be careful. These days, things were happening very fast in the Byzantine world. Kingdoms were falling, armies were rising, maps were shifting. And nowhere were things happening faster than in the city of Rome, 1300 miles to the west.

In December of 536, Belisarius had captured the Eternal City in a bloodless takeover. But the Gothic Kingdom was not prepared to relinquish the historic jewel of Italy without a fight. Although it had seen better days, Rome was still a potent symbol; whoever controlled the city, controlled the hearts and minds of the entire peninsula. So, the Goths strapped on their armor, saddled their horses, and marched on Rome with an army 30,000 warriors.

By the spring of 537, the Gothic host had surrounded the city, cut the aqueducts, and blockaded the nearby ports. Rome was under siege.

And General Belisarius was trapped.

--- MUSIC BREAK ----

It’s the third week of March, 537 A.D.

We’re in the city of Rome, and from the tallest tower to lowest dungeon, bells are ringing. These are not church bells or cowbells or any kind of happy bells. These are scary bells. The ancient equivalent of a blaring alarm system / early warning system. All across the Eternal City, Byzantine soldiers leap to their feet, women hug their children tight, and morticians prepare for a very long day. Because those bells can only mean one thing:

The Goths are coming.

It’s been three months since General Belisarius recaptured Rome for the Byzantine Empire. Three months since Pope Silverius, master of the city, flung open the gates and welcomed home his cousins from Constantinople. After 150 years of separation, and 60ish years of so-called barbarian rule, the two Romes – old and new, east and west - were finally rejoined.

But there was very little time for celebration. Belisarius knew that the Gothic nobles in Ravenna would not abide this incursion into the heart of their kingdom. They would immediately deploy a massive force to retake the city. And that is exactly what they did. As the Gothic army marched south, Belisarius scrambled to prepare Rome for long, nasty siege. He reinforced the walls, trained the citizens in defensive combat and asked Justinian for reinforcements.

And then, in the first week of March of 537 AD, the Gothic host arrived.

They heard them before they saw them. Deep drums sent birds scattering from the tree tops, War horns blared, and battle cries echoed over the hills. From the ramparts, the Roman sentries saw 100 Goths become 500 become 2000 become 10,000. By nightfall, Procopius says, a Gothic Army of 150,000 men had surrounded the walls of Rome. That figure is usually rejected as statistically impossible by modern historians – it was probably closer to 30,000 - but to Procopius and the 7,000 Byzantine soldiers inside Rome, it might as well have been 150,000. Endless rows of Germanic warriors, covered head-to-toe in chainmail, carrying 8-foot spears and wooden shields that could double as kitchen tables.

As he looked at a horizon of Goths in every cardinal direction, Procopius might have felt that a career change was in order. In North Africa and Sicily, they’d been on the offensive. Attacking, conquering, celebrating. But now, the Byzantines were on the backfoot, surrounded and severely outnumbered.

And yet, Belisarius seemed calm as a lamb. When the Goths sent emissaries to discuss terms of surrender, the General told them:

“In capturing Rome, we hold nothing that belongs to others; it was you who trespassed upon it in former times, although it did not belong to you at all, and now you have given it back, however unwillingly, to its former owners. Whoever of you has hopes of setting foot in Rome without a fight is mistaken in his judgment. For as long as Belisarius lives, it is impossible for him to relinquish this city.”

Yes, when someone speaks in the third-person, you know they’re feeling pretty confident. Well the Goths, with their 5 to 1 advantage, were feeling confident too, and today, on the 18^th day of the siege, they are massing their forces to assault the walls. To overwhelm the defenses, kill or enslave the Byzantines to a man, and punish Rome’s population for its complicity with an invading army.

Up on the ramparts, Procopius the scribe has traded his pen for a sword. He is still not sure which is mightier. Normally, the writer wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere he might be made dead; but Belisarius has insisted that every man in the city play a part in Rome’s defense.

Military history is filled with commanders who prefer to claim their glory from the safety of a command tent, but today, Belisarius is up on the walls with his men, like a Greek/Roman hero of old. In the three months since he entered city, the General has turned Rome into a fortress. The gates are barred, the walls are manned, and the perimeter is bristling with heavy artillery. Soldiers wear out their arms cranking catapults tight; Others load forearm-thick arrows into monstrous crossbows called ballistae.

Procopius looks over at the General with something like grudging respect. Belisarius is an insufferable prick, Procopius thinks, but if we live through this, it’s gonna make a hell of a book.

The scribe’s concentration is broken by the unnerving sound of 30,000 men screaming in unison. Drums beat like a quickening pulse and out of the morning mist, strange shapes begin to materialize. They look like towers or obelisks, wooden monoliths as tall or taller than the walls of Rome itself. But these towers, against all reason, are moving. They crawl forward on a bed of legs, skittering like huge centipedes. The Goths have assembled siege towers, filled with heavy infantry and pulled by teams of animals, to scale the walls of Rome.

But then, as the siege towers come into view, an odd sound echoes up and down the battlements. Someone is laughing. No, not laughing – cackling. Genuinely cracking up. Procopius scans the ramparts for the madman and realizes that the person laughing is Belisarius himself. The General, faced with this monstrous display of force, is actually laughing. Oh my god, Procopius thinks, he’s lost it. He’s finally cracked under the stress/pressure. We’re fucked. / Just our luck. And to think, I thought he didn’t have a sense of humor.

But Belisarius is not crazy. He calls for a squire and tells the boy to bring him a longbow, the kind used for hunting deer at a distance. Procopius asks, “General, with respect, why are you laughing?”

Belisarius wipes a tear from his eye. He points at the advancing Gothic army. “Procopius, do you see those siege towers out there? The big wooden boxes full of soldiers?”

Procopius turns his head, looks, and nods. “Yes, Lord.”

Belisarius notches an arrow to his bow. “What’s moving the towers, Procopius?”

The scribe squints and sees teams of oxen, beasts of burden, pulling the towers forward on ropes and wheels. The scribe replies. “Oxen, General. Lots of them. About four teams per tower.”

Belisarius draws his bowstring back. “Are the oxen armored, Procopius?”

The scribe replies, “No lord, they are not.”

Belisarius smiles, “No, they are not,” and looses his arrow. Hundreds of Roman archers follow suit / do the same. As Procopius recounted later:

> 

“Then Belisarius gave the signal for the whole army to put their bows into action, but those near himself he commanded to shoot only at the oxen. And all the oxen fell immediately, so that the enemy could neither move the towers further nor in their perplexity contrive anything as the fighting was in progress. In this way the forethought of Belisarius in not trying to halt the enemy while they were still far away came to be understood, as well as the reason why he had laughed at the simplicity of the barbarians, who had been so thoughtless as to hope to bring oxen up to the enemy wall.”

Thwarted by the loss of their siege towers, but undeterred from battle, the Gothic host charges the walls with ladders and battering rams. At this point, the artillery that Belisarius had arrayed on the walls releases their ordinance. The Goths are showered with stones and ballista bolts and flaming pitch. Imagine an ancient version of Omaha Beach. Fortunately for us, Procopius saw all of this happening, and one particular image was so impactful that he felt compelled to record it years later.

“At the Salaria Gate a tall Goth who was a capable warrior, wearing a breastplate and with a helmet on his head, a man who was distinguished in the Gothic nation, refused to remain in the ranks with the others but stood by a tree and kept shooting at the parapet.  By some chance this man was hit by a ballista that was on a tower at his left. Passing through the breastplate and the body of the man, the arrow sank more than half its length into the tree and, pinning him to the spot where it entered the tree, it suspended his corpse there.”

By the end of the day, the Goths have abandoned their assault and retreated to their camps. The siege towers burned down to embers, roasting the dead oxen beneath them. And as the sun sank, the body of the proud Gothic warrior was still there, pinned to the tree like a butterfly to a corkboard.

But one bad day does not break a siege, and for the next year [356 days] the Gothic host attempted to starve Rome into submission. They were not successful. Assaults failed, embargos failed, patience failed, and so in the winter of 537, the Goths tried to make a deal with Belisarius. As David Alan Parnell writes:

“In December 537, Vittigis [that’s the Goth King] sent three envoys to Rome to treat with Belisarius. The general and the envoys had a debate over the merits of the Roman invasion of Italy and the Goths made several offers: first that they would give the Romans Sicily, second that they would give the Romans Naples, and third that they would also pay the Romans tribute each year. Only the last offer represented anything new, of course, as Belisarius already controlled both Sicily and Naples. In recognition of the absurdity of these offers, Belisarius bemusedly replied that he would give the Goths Britain, a fair trade since the Romans did not currently control it any more than the Goths currently controlled Sicily.”

No matter how hard they tried, the Goths were unable to break the Byzantine defense of Rome.

“In March 538,” continues Parnell, “around the time of the spring equinox, the Gothic army burned its camps outside Rome and began to retreat northward. The siege of Rome had finally ended. Procopius records that it had lasted for one year and nine days. Belisarius had kept his promise, made a year before, that as long as he lived he would not surrender the city.”

Rome was safe, but Italy was not yet conquered. For the next two years, the Italian war raged between the Goths and the Byzantines. Now you could easily fill two or three seasons of a TV show with this stuff, but unfortunately, we do not have the time. We’ve gotta keep moving.

After a five-year war, tens of thousands of dead soldiers, and what Procopius calls a “depopulation” of the peninsula, the Italian wars came to an end at the Gothic capitol of Ravenna. By this time, spring of 540 AD, the name “Belisarius” was a sort of bad omen for the Goths. Five syllables that signified defeat, humiliation, and a whole lot of grave-digging. To their horror, the tables had turned. The besieged were now the besiegers, and the Goths were trapped like rats in their capitol, surrounded on all sides by a Byzantine host, reinforced with fresh troops from the East.

After half a decade of war, the Goths were exhausted. Rather than fight, rather than put more of their men in the cold ground, rather than see another city burned or sacked or destroyed, they decide to make Belisarius an extraordinary offer.

“We will surrender,” the emissaries, say. “We will throw down our swords, open the gates of Ravenna, and submit to your Army. Our treasury is yours, our city is yours, our lives are yours.”

Belisarius, impassive as a marble statue, responds, “Really. And what’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch,’ they say, “but there is a condition. All we ask is that in exchange for our surrender, you agree to be our King.”

Belisarius face barely twitches. The emissaries go on. “For five years we have fought against you, and in that time, we have seen your wisdom, your tenacity, your ferocity. We have had so many weak kings, so many stupid, vain, cowardly kings. But you, Belisarius. You are what a king should be. No, more than a king, an Emperor. Say the word, and we will raise you up as Emperor of the West. Cast aside your loyalty to Justinian, and create a dynasty of your very own. Old Rome will rise again under the banner of Emperor Belisarius the First, supreme ruler of the Italians and the Goths. Together we will be unstoppable.”

The General is silent of for a moment, then responds “Okay. Deal.”

Dozens of heads whip in his direction.

“I will accept your offer. But,” he holds up a finger, “only after you have opened the gates, allowed my army inside, and disbanded your troops. I swear that no harm will come to you, your people, or your city. Because, in a few days, they will be my people, and my city. And then, when Ravenna belongs to me, I will do as you say. I wall take up the crown and become your Emperor.”

“Deal,” the emissaries say. Heads nod. Hands shake. Oaths are exchanged. When the Goths leave, Procopius runs up to Belisarius and hisses, “What are you doing?”

The General’s glares at the scribe.  “Procopius, do as you’re told. Fetch your quill and parchment. We’re drafting a letter to Justinian.”

The next day, the Byzantine Army marched into Ravenna unopposed. It was the third capitol that Belisarius had taken without bloodshed. Carthage, then Rome, now Ravenna. For an army that had fought incessantly for 5 years, it was a moving moment. As Procopius remembered later:

“While I watched the entry of the Roman army into Ravenna at that time, it occurred to me that the outcome of events is not fulfilled by the wisdom of men or any other virtue on their part, but that there is some supernatural power that is ever warping their intentions and leading them in such a way that there will be nothing to hinder that which is being brought to pass. For although the Goths were greatly superior to their opponents in number and in power, and had neither fought a decisive battle since entering Ravenna nor been humbled in morale by any other disaster, still they were being made captives by the weaker army and were regarding the name of slavery as no insult.”

True to their word, the Goths had held up their end of the bargain. The chieftains piled all their treasure at Belisarius’ feet, a small mountain of gold and jewels and precious fabrics. But the biggest prize of all, lay just beyond it. The Goths pointed towards an empty throne at the head of Ravenna’s royal hall. That throne is vacant, they tell Belisarius, all you have to do is claim it. Then you will be our King, our Ruler, our Emperor. We await your orders, your majesty.”

Belisarius looks at the empty throne, but he doesn’t move an inch. He seems so much older now, Procopius notices, the silver is creeping into his beard. The crow’s feet have settled at his eyes. He’s on the wrong side of forty now. But he is still the man who marched at the head of triumphal parade in Constantinople. He will always be that man, Procopius thinks.

“You know,” Belisarius addresses the room, “if there’s one thing I hate more than anything else in this world…it’s a rebel. A traitor. What kind of man, when fortune smiles on him, bites the hand that put him there? What kind of person fucks over his best friend for a crown and a fancy title. Let me make something absolutely clear to all of you. As long as Justinian lives, I will never –  repeat never / Procopius write this down – usurp the Imperial title. He is my friend and my oldest benefactor. But more importantly, he is my Emperor. On his behalf, I accept your surrender, your treasure, and your kingdom.”

Belisarius was an honorable man, but he was not above a little subterfuge/deception. He’d tricked the Goths into letting him into Ravenna, only to reject their offer of a crown. In an era where political defection was as common as a house fly, the General kept his vows. As Nick Holmes writes:

“A central question that has always puzzled historians is why Belisarius never tried to overthrow Justinian. Was he too loyal? Was he afraid of the civil war that might erupt? We’ll never know the answer. But on this occasion, he played an intriguing game. He accepted the Gothic offer on condition they let him and his army into Ravenna in order to take on his new role. Resourceful as ever, Belisarius played his most cunning trick.”

As the Gothic nobles stand slack-jawed in Ravenna’s main hall, the General snaps his fingers, signaling his personal guards.

“Put these ones in chains, load up the treasure on as many ships as it takes, and send for my lady wife. We’re going home. Back to Constantinople.”

He turns to the other Goths in attendance. “Congratulations, you are now subjects of the Byzantine Empire. Please remember to pay your taxes, keep the peace, and give glory to God.”

“Oh, and gentlemen,” he smiles, “don’t make me come back.”

---OUTRO-----

Well guys, that’s all the time we have for today.

Next time, in Part 4, Justinian and Theodora are going to find out that a Golden Age can only last so long. As we move into the 540s, the Emperor’s carefully laid plans are going to start to unravel, and old vendettas are going to come to a head. And worst of all, sickness and plague are creeping into Byzantium, both on a large scale and a very, very personal one.

So as always, thanks for listening, and I hope you have an awesome day.

This has been Conflicted. I’ll see you next time.

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