When Justinian Met Theodora – Part 4

==== INTRO =====

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 the fourth and FINAL (yes, final) installment of a series on the life and times of Justinian and Theodora, rulers of the Byzantine Empire in the mid-6^th century AD.

Some of you may recall me saying, in an earlier episode, that this would be a 3-part series. Well, despite my best efforts, that did not happen. And after some self-reflection (and a little self-flagellation), I think I figured out the reason for that. The reason I stretched this series out, is because, on some subconscious level, I did not want to say goodbye to these characters.

Justinian, Theodora, and all their furtive friends are some of the most captivating historical figures I’ve come across in the course of this podcast, and frankly, I am loathe / very sad to leave them behind. But alas, it’s time to bid farewell to this fascinating power couple and confront the climax of their story.

And what a story it’s been / so far!

War, politics, romance, religion – all the hallmarks of a Hollywood epic. But despite the battles, betrayals, and grand, sweeping plots…at its core, this is the story of a marriage. Two people whose genuine love and affection for each other prevailed against some very stiff social and political headwinds.

That tight, personal focus has also allowed us to explore some very interesting themes over the course of this series. The theme of fidelity and loyalty, for example; marital loyalty, political loyalty, familial loyalty, religious loyalty – we’ve been able to watch our cast of characters pass - and in some cases - fail these tests of fidelity.

We’ve also been able to explore the nature of truth and rumor. How do we decide what really happened all those years ago, and who gets to decide it? Do we believe the juicy gossip around these figures, or reject it as historical hearsay? In other words, / where does reputation end and reality begin?

Well, if anything, working on this series has deepened my respect and admiration for the people who make any discussion of history possible. The historians, archeologists, journalists and anthropologists; the people who spend their lives quite literally digging for the truth. They are the real heroes, because without their efforts, we’d be truly, tragically in the dark.

So, with all that said, it is time to conclude the tale of Justinian and Theodora; but before we do – you know the drill – let’s very quickly recap what happened last time, so all those different threads and dynamics are fresh in our brains.

In Part 3, we covered the so-called Golden Age of Justinian and Theodora’s reign. From 532-540 AD, everything seemed to be going right in the Byzantine world. We talked about how, in the aftermath of the destructive Nika Riots, Justinian initiated a massive and expensive rebuilding program, culminating in breathtaking structures like the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. We also talked about the less flashy, but equally audacious initiative to completely overhaul the Roman legal code, spearheaded by the brilliant scholar Tribonian. But we spent most of our time on the war path, following General Belisarius, his wife Antonina, and their disgruntled scribe Procopius as they crisscrossed the Mediterranean, expanding Justinian’s empire at the point of a sword. As Antony Bridge writes:

The nine or ten years following the suppression of the Nika revolt were the most glorious of his reign; he was at peace with Persia, and thus he was free to undertake the great political task of his life: the restoration of the Roman Empire to its former glory. During this period his armies under Belisarius reconquered North Africa, Sicily, and Italy, and restored them to his dominion.

Yes, by all outward appearances, the first decade of Justinian’s regime seemed poised to establish a new century of Roman dominance in Europe. But just beneath that splendid facade, political turmoil was bubbling. Old grudges and bitter resentments were growing like cancer in the Imperial Palace. Chief among them, was the bad blood between the Empress Theodora and Justinian’s chief tax collector, John the Cappadocian.

Theodora suffered no rivals, no disruptions, no disrespect, and yet…the Cappadocian was able to undermine her with impunity. As Paolo Cesaretti writes:

“He [john] criticized Theodora in front of Justinian, accusing her of reducing the great policies of the empire to personal issues or, even worse, to intrigues among women or among priests. He accused her of being interested only in increasing her personal wealth, her domus divina.”

When provoked, Theodora’s cruelty was legendary. Get on her bad side, and you’d end up on the wrong side of a whip and pair of hot tongs. But the Cappadocian was untouchable. Justinian would allow no harm or disgrace to come to the financial architect of his empire. And so, the hatred between John and Theodora ossified/calcified into a fragile stalemate. Neither could destroy the other, without risking the wrath of the emperor. Only time would tell, who would gain the upper hand.

And that, folks, is where we left off last time. This time, in the conclusion of the series, we will see the application of the law of historical gravity. What goes up must come down. No matter how strong they seem, no matter how enduring, empires (and marriages) are not eternal.

In a way, marriages are like empires. They follow a similar life cycle. They spark, they climb, they crest, they plateau, they evolve, but on a long enough timeline, one way or another, they end. And in this episode, we will be covering the end. Justinian and Theodora lived a spectacular and exciting life together, and this final stage of the story is no exception.

So with that little prologue out of the way, we can jump back in and give this series the bittersweet finale it deserves.

Welcome to When Justinian Met Theodora - Part 4.

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It’s January of 541 A.D.

We’re in Constantinople, the capitol of Byzantium.

A layer of morning frost sparkles on the bronze rooftops of New Rome, making the city appear as if its skyline is encrusted with diamonds. Icicles hang like claws from the marble fingers of long-dead saints and emperors. Children wage war in the street with snowballs, planning offensives and counteroffensives, arguing over who gets to be Belisarius this time, and who has to be Gelimer.

It’s a very cold day.  

Unseasonably cold, actually. A cold day, in a cold month, in a cold year. As their breath turns to smoke in the winter chill, some of the old-timers complain that this might be the coldest year in living memory. Peering up into the leaden/flat-grey sky, the sun itself appears faint, dimmed and diminished. As one Byzantine aristocrat named Cassiodorus observed at the time:

‘We see a kind of sea-colored sun; we are puzzled that physical bodies lack shadows at midday and that [in [the previous] summer] the strength of the sun’s rays seem cool.”

For the past several years, in fact, the weather has been noticeably, inexplicably, cooler. As Procopius noted:

“The sun gave forth its light without brightness, like the moon, during the entire year, and it seemed exceedingly like the sun in eclipse, for the beams it shed were not such as it is accustomed to give out.”

One could be forgiven for thinking that God has, in some passing bout of anger or indifference, turned his face from the earth, preoccupied with larger cosmic concerns. To many, Procopius included, the pale sun seemed like “a most dread portent”’

But that looming sense of existential unease retreats like a passing rainstorm when stepping through the arches of the Hagia Sophia, the world’s largest church and crown jewel of Emperor Justinian’s rebuilding project. Today, on this icy January morning, hundreds of pink-nosed parishioners wipe the slush from their shoes and huddle within the warm embrace of God’s house, seeking comfort, forgiveness, or just an escape from the chill / place to get warm. Priests chant, choirs sing, and multi-layered melodies echo in the vaulted canopy of the fifteen-story basilica, creating the impression that the angels themselves are vocalizing in the rafters.

And of the hundreds of worshippers in attendance today, one in particular has an important part to play in our story. Her name is Euphemia. E-U-P-H-E-M-I-A.

Now if that name rings a bell, it’s because we’ve met someone named Euphemia before. If you recall, Euphemia was the name of Justinian’s aunt, the one who disapproved of Theodora and made her feelings very plain at a contentious dinner back in the early 520s. But that Euphemia is long-dead. *This* is a completely different Euphemia, and she is cut from much meeker cloth.

Euphemia is a teenage girl, and like most teenage girls, all she wants, more than anything else in the world, is a friend. Someone to talk to, someone to confide in, someone to help her navigate the treacherous maze of adolescence.

Unfortunately, friends are in short supply in Euphemia’s world. She is what we would call today, extremely sheltered. The radius of her social circle barely extends beyond the front door. Her father, a rich and powerful man, loves her so much he rarely lets her out of the house. Like a porcelain doll that might shatter at first contact with the outside world, Euphemia is kept in a vacuum-sealed environment of live-in tutors and mute, mirthless servants. “Monastic seclusion” is the way one historian described it.

But not today.

Today, Euphemia has busted out of her gilded prison. Her father, you see, is not in town; He’s off somewhere on an important business trip. Which means that no one can stop teenage Euphemia from venturing out into the city and going wherever she wants, for as long as she wants. After a dizzying tour of downtown Constantinople, its shops and squares and street vendors, Euphemia arrives at her ultimate destination, the Hagia Sophia. Savoring this rare moment of freedom, she goes inside and joins the congregation of worshippers.

Like most visitors to Justinian’s great church, Euphemia is rendered speechless by the size and grandeur of the place. It’s not her first time here, of course – church is one of the few places she IS allowed to go – but it steals her breath away nevertheless. Taking her place in the pews, she listens to the hymns and prayers and scripture readings. By the end of the service, she feels lost in a pleasant trance. Maybe someday, she could be married in this church. Her father, after all, is certainly powerful enough to insist upon it / to arrange it.

But Euphemia’s daydreams are interrupted by a sudden collision with a fellow worshipper. In a moment of absent-mindedness, she has bumped headlong into a woman. A beautiful, well-dressed, middle-aged woman. As she turns to apologize, Euphemia’s mea culpa dies in her throat. With a sinking feeling, the teenager realizes she has just bumped into the second most powerful woman in the byzantine empire: The Lady Antonina, wife of General Belisarius and confidante to the Empress Theodora herself.

Euphemia stammers out an apology, and braces for a sharp rebuke. But instead, Antonina takes her hand, “It’s quite alright, my lovely girl,’ she winks, ‘To err is human, as the priests say.”

Euphemia blushes. No one has ever called her lovely before.

Antonina narrows her eyes and smiles, “I know you…Your name’s Euphemia, isn’t it?”

Euphemia, frozen solid in the spotlight of such august attention replies, “Yes, my lady.”

Antonina squeezes her hand. “I know your father, dear. He works with my Lord Husband, Belisarius. You’re John the Cappadocian’s daughter, aren’t you?”

At the mention of her father’s name, Euphemia stiffens with embarrassment, but she nods, “Yes, my lady. Lord John is my father.”

John the Cappadocian had many treasures. After a decade in power as Justinian’s chief financial minister, he had accumulated enormous wealth, both material and immaterial, but his most precious possession was his only child, Euphemia.

Antonina, still holding the girl’s hand, muses, “I don’t see you often at court, Euphemia. Why is that?”

Euphemia laughs nervously, “My father is…very protective.”

Antonina rolls her eyes playfully. “That’s just like our John, isn’t it? Always hiding treasures away in some secret vault.” She brushes a stray hair from Euphemia’s face. “Well, we’ll just have to change that won’t we?”

Before the girl can respond, Antonina shushes her and says, “Euphemia, I would like for us to be friends. The very best of friends. Would you like that?”

Euphemia replied that she would like that very, very much.

In the coming months, the friendship between Antonina and Euphemia bloomed quickly. Like the older sister she’d never had, Antonina regaled Euphemia with court intrigue, juicy gossip, and swashbuckling stories of her time on campaign with Belisarius, all the social nourishment that Euphemia had been starved for her in sheltered home life. After so many lonely, desolate years, she finally had a friend; someone she could talk to and place her trust in.

Then, one day, as they chatted together in some private garden, a serious expression fell over Antonina’s face. Euphemia holds her friend’s hand and asks, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Antonina chews her lip. She looks from left to right, searching for eavesdroppers, suddenly seeming anxious. Antonina takes a deep breath and leans close to Euphemia. “Can you keep a secret?”

Euphemia’s response is instant, honest. “Of course.”

Antonina opens her mouth, hesitates, then shakes her head. “No. No, I shouldn’t.”

Euphemia urges her on / tries to comfort her takes her hand, “I’m your friend, Antonina. Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

Assured by the young girl’s conviction, Antonina breathes out, in a voice so quiet, Euphemia can barely hear. “My husband, General Belisarius, is not happy with Emperor Justinian.”

->

Euphemia suddenly feels as if she is peering over the ledge of a very high, very windy cliff. She listens quietly as Antonina continues.

“For years, Belisarius has served Justinian. Fought his wars, butchered his enemies, expanded his empire; and yet, the Emperor does not give him the respect or recognition he deserves. Did you know that when Belisarius returned from Italy, Justinian did not even consider throwing him a second triumph? After protecting Rome, after reconquering the entire peninsula, after refusing the crown the Goths offered to put on his head! Justinian is a weak, ungrateful swine.”

Euphemia’s tongue has turned into a slab of lead, immobile, incapable of stopping her friend’s treasonous rant/diatribe.

“Byzantium deserves a better Emperor,” Antonina hisses, “It should be Belisarius sitting on that throne, and me beside him.”

Euphemia’s heart is racing. “Antonina, I….don’t think we should be talking about this.”

The older woman’s grip tightens. She leans close, whispering hot words in the girl’s ear, “Belisarius is planning to overthrow Justinian. But he needs your help, Euphemia. I need your help.”

The teenager is panicking and scared, hovering on the verge of tears. “My help? What can I possibly do?”

Antonina hugs her close like a big sister. “Your father, my lovely girl. Alone, Belisarius can never hope to succeed. But with the support of the great John the Cappadocian, your dad, he could do it. He could take the throne, depose Justinian, and you and I could spend our days drinking wine and laughing and being the best of friends. Are we friends, Euphemia?”

At this point / the girl is sobbing. “Of course we are.”

Antonina hugs her tighter. “Then take my message to your father. Tell him what I’ve told you. And don’t be afraid sweet girl. Everything will be alright.”

As frightened as she was, as nervous as she was, Euphemia did what she was told, and repeated everything that Antonina had said to her father. As he listened to his daughter’s story, the well-oiled gears of John’s mind began to spin with blurring intensity. He kissed his daughter’s forehead, sent her to bed, and poured himself a Cappadocian-sized cup of wine.

So…after all this time, Byzantium’s white knight has succumbed to black thoughts.

John knew that people were like economies, rising, stagnating, crashing. The key was to buy low and sell high. Wait until people accumulated value, then sell them up the river. With this information, he could ruin Belisarius. Expose Rome’s hero as a traitor, further ingratiate himself to Justinian.

Or…he could do the other thing. The dangerous thing. He could join forces with Belisarius, overthrow the emperor, and secure a fresh start in a new, healthy regime. No more sleepless nights, no more bowing to the bookworm, and best of all, no more Theodora. Maybe Emperor Belisarius would let John personally dispatch that vicious bitch himself. The Empress loved her precious purple so much; Well, give John a few hours, a wooden club and a locked room, and he would cover Theodora in purple. A fitting end for a gutter slut with delusions of grandeur.

The next morning, John told Euphemia to go back to Antonina with a message. Meet me in secret, it said, and tell me more about this intriguing new vision for the Roman Empire. When she returned from her rendezvous with Antonina that day, Euphemia came bearing a positive reply. The Lady Antonina would meet John the Cappadocian at midnight on the outskirts of Constantinople, far away from prying eyes; and there, they would negotiate the terms of a secret plot to overthrow Justinian and Theodora.

[On a dark night] In May of 541, about five months after Antonina and Euphemia first began their friendship, John the Cappadocian arrives at a discreet, unassuming villa in the sleepy suburbs of Constantinople. This villa is one of many properties owned by Belisarius, and Antonina has selected it as the location for her clandestine meeting with the Cappadocian. Far away from the palace and all of its chattering courtiers, it is the perfect place to plan a conspiracy.

Cloaked and daggered, illuminated only by a pearldrop moon, John knocks his knuckles on the door to the villa. Cautious man that he is, the Cappadocian has brought a small squad of personal guards, hired killers who will protect him if this sketchy rendezvous goes south.

Hinges creak, the door opens like a maw, and a nervous servant ushers the men inside. John and his guards are led down the villa’s gullet, deeper and deeper into its resplendent interior, until finally, they arrive at a small garden, where Antonina is waiting. Fireflies dance like embers in the air around her, and John delivers the first words from this pregnant pause.

“So,” he says cheerfully, “Euphemia tells me your husband has grown tired of the taste of Justinian’s boot/feet. I’m paraphrasing of course.”

Antonina’s lip curls in disgust, “Belisarius has grown tired of the emperor’s arrogance, his wastefulness, his vainglorious pursuit of far-flung ruins.”

“And now,” John smirks, “He wants to bite the hand that feeds.”

“Clean off, if necessary.” Antonina replies. “But as much as I am loathe to admit it, we need you, John. Your resources, your bureaucrats, your…[sigh] acumen. Together, you and Belisarius would be unstoppable. Will you join us?”

John pulls thoughtfully at his beard. An old, performative tic. “Perhaps,” he says, “What’s in it for me?”

Antonina scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know, how about Sicily? Or Egypt? You help us do this, and you’ll have your pick of the spoils. Even a man as rich as you must want something.”

Satisfied with this answer, John grins. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

That night, in the secret garden, oaths are made, hands are shaken, and with that, a conspiracy is born. In Antonina’s presence, John the Cappadocian swears to the Father, Son and Holy Ghost that he will help General Belisarius launch a coup and depose Emperor Justinian.

And then, as visions of a prosperous future sparkle in John’s mind, dark shapes emerge from black margins of the garden. In the moonlight, John sees the glint of chainmail and the flash of unsheathed swords. Before he can register what is happening, the garden is filled with Praetorians. The Imperial guard, sworn servants of Emperor Justinian.

“What is this?” John breathes.

Antonina’s voice breaks in a horrible cackle. As if she has just heard the punchline of an inside joke. She turns to John. “You stupid, filthy Cappadocian. I knew you were greedy, I knew you were ambitious, but I never thought you would be so fucking stupid.”

Out of the gloom, the eunuch spymaster, Narses, walks forward and stands next to Antonina. He addresses John with the cold formality of an executioner. “John of Cappadocia,” he says, “You are under arrest for the crime of treason against the Emperor.”

John begins to feel an animal panic rising in his body. His lungs constrict, his skin becomes hot, and his heart pounds like a drum. His eyes flick to Antonina, “There never was a plot. Was there?”

Antonina’s teeth gleam in the moonlight like a Cheshire cat. “Of course not. My husband would never betray the Emperor. Belisarius refused a crown in Italy; what makes you think he’d depose Justinian for the likes of you?”

As the guards move to arrest John, Antonina delivers a parting barb. “Do tell little Euphemia that I won’t be able to visit her anymore. After all, It would be unbecoming for me to be seen in the company of a traitor’s daughter. Oh and John? One last thing. Theodora says hello.”

-

In his later years, John had difficulty remembering what happened next. In the bloody fragments of his recollection, he remembers a sudden explosion of shouting and fighting and killing. A bone-white moon reflected in pools of scarlet blood. As the Praetorians leap to arrest him, John’s guards draw their blades and spring to his defense. Steel scrapes against steel, and Then John is running. Out of the villa, down the street, into the city center. Like a rabbit fleeing a pack of hounds, he is not thinking, only running. He huffs and puffs through the city streets, until a source of salvation emerges from the fog.

The great church of Byzantium. The Hagia Sophia. John runs into the basilica, clawing at the clergy and begging for sanctuary. And then, as he collapses into an empty pew, struggling to breathe, his first rational thought in 15 minutes spikes his brain like a thunderbolt.

I’ve just killed myself. I should’ve gone to the Palace, not the Church. I should’ve gone straight to Justinian. I should’ve fallen on my knees and begged forgiveness, pleaded entrapment. He’s always been lenient with me. But by coming here, to the church, by fleeing, I have condemned myself. This isn’t a sanctuary, it’s an admission of guilt.

Head in his hands, sweat soaking through his fine robes, John the Cappadocian, Praetorian Prefect, Count of the Sacred Largesse, and Chief Financial Minister, slumps to his knees and weeps.

The downfall of John the Cappadocian was swift and shocking. For almost 10 years, he had been Justinian’s right-hand man, the indispensable financial genius; and then, overnight, he lost it all. As David Allen Parnell writes:

“Between the testimony of Antonina and Narses, and the flight to sanctuary, Justinian had all that he needed. He could not allow such plotting to go unpunished. John was stripped of his position as praetorian prefect, shipped to Cyzicus on the southern shore of the Sea of Marmara, and forcibly ordained as a priest. The imperial treasury confiscated John’s property, although a portion of it was set aside to provide for him in his new life. This was a rapid collapse in fortunes for a man who had been the most important civilian official in the empire for almost a decade.”

It was a meteoric fall from grace, and it left John’s life a crater. But the most bitter pill to swallow, was that his entrapment had been entirely orchestrated by Empress Theodora herself.

Sometime in late 540, Lady Antonina came to Theodora with an idea. She owed the Empress a favor, after all, and so she proposed a cunning trap to ensnare the Cappadocian once and for all. To do it, she proposed using the only weak spot John had: his daughter Euphemia. Theodora was delighted with the idea. For years she had been trying to destroy John without success, but if she could trick him into destroying himself…then Justinian would have no choice but to discard the Cappadocian for good.

It was a cruel and manipulative plan, in other words, exactly the kind of subterfuge that Antonina excelled at. Euphemia, guiltless guileless Euphemia, unwittingly played her part to perfection. All she had wanted was a friend; instead she ended up abetting the political destruction of her entire family.

Throughout the course of this series, we have seen that Theodora could be absolutely ruthless when she wanted to be. In dealing with her enemies, real or perceived, she was creative, vindictive, and worst of all, patient. Jon the Cappadocian found out the hard way once you got on Theodora’s shit list, you never ever got off it. For the rest of his life, Jon lived a hard and harried existence. Out of respect for his service to the empire and a personal soft spot for the man, Justinian would not allow Theodora to have him killed, but she never ever stopped trying. John the Cappadocian died in disgrace, of natural causes, on the fringes of the empire he had once helped enrich/command. As Paolo Cesaretti summarizes:

The history of Theodora and John the Cappadocian was not marked by the spirit of forgiveness that has often been professed as the essence of Christianity. The affair was a naked power struggle; Theodora’s unrelenting fury might even give credence to those who denigrated her by attributing to her a sort of “inhuman cruelty” and “a mind fixed firmly and persistently upon cruelty.”19 Others might have defended her by recalling that before this affair she had never exercised power arbitrarily and that it was a one-time event, a personal reaction to the Cappadocian’s provocations and accusations, not a case of wrath for “the destruction of men.”20 Many women, many poor people, and all the Monophysites could testify to Theodora’s compassionate mercy.

In the afterglow of her successful entrapment plot, Theodora could revel in a Cappadocian-free court/existence. But the good times would not last for long, and her victory would soon turn to ash in her mouth. Because something was coming for Constantinople, something much worse than a rude tax collector; something more deadly than any army, more destructive than any insurrection.

Justinian and Theodora didn’t know it yet, but one of the deadliest plagues in antiquity was creeping into the bloodstream of Byzantium.

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It’s the spring of 542 AD.

We’re in a Byzantine bathhouse, in the central district of Constantinople.

By 6^th century standards, the Eastern Romans are a relatively hygienic people. They believe in the healing power of a good scrub in a marble tub. Like chariot racing, this is a tradition that they inherited from the old Roman empire. As such, the Byzantine realm is dotted with hundreds upon hundreds of public bath houses, where its citizens can congregate, gossip, rinse, and repeat.

Many of these bathhouses are lavish, well-maintained establishments, with trickling fountains, placid pools, and posh Corinthian columns. But the finest bathhouses can be found in Constantinople. This is where the upper classes of New Rome rub elbows, and if careless with their towels, rub other things. But for special clients, private rooms are set aside, and one of those special clients is arriving right now. In a city full of important men, he is one of the *most* important men. A VIP, you might say.

Tribonian, esteemed lawyer and author of the landmark Codex Justinianus, has popped into this luxurious bathhouse for his daily dose of hygiene. In his work as Justinian’s chief legal advisor, Tribonian is meticulous and methodical, with an eye for detail that would embarrass even the most anal-retentive accountant. And naturally, he brings that same energy to his personal grooming. As one of the richest men in the empire, Tribonian has a spa routine to match.

After lounging in the scented bathwater, the lawyer reaches for a razor. Like most Byzantine men, he prefers to be clean-shaven. Beards are exotic and occasionally popular with women, but a little too rustic for Tribonian’s tastes. After scraping away the remnants of a 5 o’clock shadow, he removes the wax from his ears with a delicate instrument. Then he brushes his teeth with the customary mix of dill, white wine, and rosewater. Last but not least, he opens a vial of scented oil, applying the fragrant mixture to his neck, his thighs, his armpits and -hmm/Huh. That’s weird.

Tribonian feels something on his body he has never noticed before. A growth in his groin, and not the good kind. It is a raised lump - swollen, bulbous, tender to the touch. Normally the lawyer would dismiss this kind of thing as an irritating symptom of being over 40, or the result of a long weekend at a brothel, but this lump this feels...different. Come to think of it, Tribonian does feel a bit under the weather, at the cusp of a cold or the fringe of a fever. And the more he thinks about it, the worse he feels. Maybe it’s just the warm bath water, but he suddenly notices his skin is on fire and he’s sweating like Antonina in church.

In a nervous flush, Tribonian gathers his things, gets dressed, and stumbles out of the bathhouse back towards his villa. When he walks through his front door, his servants are confronted with the image of a very sick man. His eyes are bloodshot, crisscrossed with burst capillaries, irises floating in twin pools of red. To make matters worse, his face is horribly swollen and puffy, as if he has just swallowed a nest of angry wasps. When his servants rush to help him, Tribonian suddenly, violently vomits all over them, splashing their white tunics with a sticky yellow bile. Then, the lawyer’s eyes roll back into his head, and he collapses into a heap in his foyer, nearly cracking his skull on the tile.

In the next fragment of consciousness/chapter of lucid thought, Tribonian realizes he’s in his bed, surrounded by concerned and confused faces. He has a raging, white-hot fever, and the lump in his groin has swollen to grotesque proportions. Black pustules have clustered in his armpits, like a herd of prairie dogs peeking their heads out of a hill. He tries to swallow, but his tongue is a dry sponge, filling his mouth and suffocating every syllable.

In this moment, Tribonian is terrified. His reason and rationality have been bludgeoned into neanderthal panic. This shouldn’t be happening, he thinks. He can condense 3 million lines of text into a slim legal Codex; he can reconcile judicial paradoxes from four centuries ago, but he cannot understand what is happening to his own body. But the scariest thing of all [however] is what is happening to his mind. Reality is caving in on itself; he is seeing things. Visions, hallucinations, and memories of events long past. People who are dead, people who are alive, people who have never lived or died.

Then, without closure, catharsis, or comfort – his body shuts down. The software fails, and the hardware follows. Tribonian, greatest legal mind in Byzantium, dies twitching on a mattress saturated in his own fluids.

With grim devotion, his tearful servants pull a white sheet over his face. Their master’s sudden, horrific death has left them shaken and scared. Most of them want to burn the body, the bed, the sheets, the entire house, and run screaming into the night. But the wisest of them know that there would be no point. They know that it’s already too late for them.

The plague has come to Constantinople.

THE PLAGUE

Sickness, plagues, pandemics and epidemics were nothing new to the ancient world, of course. The human body is such a fragile thing, and there’s never been a shortage of bacteria, viruses and germs trying to burrow their way into it.

These days, in the 21^st-century, most ailments can be resolved with a bottle of pills or the swift prick of a needle. But way back in the sixth century, disease wasn’t a matter of if, but when. Leprosy, malaria, typhoid; tuberculosis, rabies, and dysentery – the Mediterranean world was a minefield of infectious disease. It was one of the reasons the Byzantines placed such an emphasis on hygiene. A clean body is healthy body // A bath a day keeps the undertaker away. Worst case scenario, at least you looked nice for the funeral.

But the deadly contagion that swept through the Byzantine empire in 542 AD - what has become known to history as the “Plague of Justinian” - was on a completely different level; no one had seen anything like this before. The mysterious disease was relentless in its transmission, lethal in its effects, and Biblical in its scale.

Modern historians generally believe that ground zero for the plague was a shipping port in Egypt - a city called Pelusium. In the summer of 541, people in Pelusium started dying from a horrific and aggressive disease. No one knew how it spread or why, but suddenly entire households were being wiped out in the course of a few days.

Symptoms were mild initially. It was the kind of disease that lulled you into a false sense of “eh I’m probably fine”, then killed you before you could even make it to a doctor. As Paolo Cesaretti writes:

“First the victim had a vision that made him restless; then he experienced a low fever; then carbuncles as big as lentils appeared in several spots. From here the prognosis differed. Some fell into a deep coma; others suffered delirium, insomnia, or hallucinations. Some leaped from their beds screaming, trying to drink, or to leave the house; some even threw themselves from rooftops or from high cliffs. Some bled.”

But the telltale symptom, the way you knew for sure that you had contracted the plague, was a distinct swelling of the lymph nodes in the groin, neck, or armpits. These swellings - or buboes –(B-U-B-O-E-S) give the disease its modern name: The bubonic plague.

The bubonic plague of course would make another iconic appearance in Europe about 700 years later, when it became known as the Black Death. The Plague of Justinian was a sort of beta test for the Black Death, but it was no less destructive. As Anthony Bridge writes:

The Byzantines had no idea how the disease attacked a man, or why it attacked some people and left others alone, and not knowing in what direction to look for danger, they had no means of trying to avoid infection. The best they could do was to avoid all contact with their fellow men, and even that did not work; [...] It was as if the world was being attacked by an invisible poisonous gas; death seemed to be in the very air that men breathed, and there was nowhere for anyone to turn for safety.

From Pelusium the plague spread slowly but inexorably to Alexandria and the other cities of Egypt. Soon it broke out in Palestine and began to spread northwards to Syria and Mesopotamia, and the borders of Asia Minor. Like a man watching gangrene spread from his toes through his feet and up his legs towards his body, the people of Constantinople waited in appalled fascination and helpless fear as the plague turned westwards in their own direction; obscenely it crawled across Cappadocia and Cilicia through Galatia and Phrygia and Paphlagonia, and everywhere it went people died like flies in city after city, until at last it reached Bithynia and the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus. Everyone knew that only a miracle could stop it from leaping across the narrow waterway which separated the continents of Asia and Europe; and in fact, there was to be no miracle.”

In Spring of 542 AD, Constantinople was probably the most well-fortified city on the planet, with huge walls, wide moats, and imposing towers. But it had no defense against the bubonic plague. Like an invisible army, the contagion crept over the parapets, through the homes, and into the bloodstream of the city’s half-a-million occupants. Like a predator that has found an unguarded nest, the plague gorged itself on the unprepared immune systems of Byzantium.

Throughout history, many deadly plagues have gone unrecorded and undocumented. Contagions, after all, have a habit of eliminating witnesses; but luckily for us, there was someone in Constantinople to witness/document what was about to happen. An old friend of ours - the grumpy, well-traveled scribe, Procopius.

In 542 AD, Procopius didn’t feel very lucky at all. After two tours on the warpath with General Belisarius, first in North Africa, then in Italy, the writer returned home to Constantinople hoping for a well-deserved respite from death and destruction. But with the comedic timing that only nature can provide, the war-weary scribe was soon plunged into a new kind of nightmare. To his abject horror, he had traded the front lines for a front-row seat to one of the most lethal pandemics in human history. As Antony Bridge continues:

The number of people who died that summer in Constantinople alone was hideous. At first, the deaths in the city were not much more numerous than usual for the time of year, and people began to hope that reports from elsewhere of whole cities being almost wiped out had been exaggerated; but as the infection spread through the crowded streets of the most populous place on earth, the number of fatalities grew. It was not long before 5000 people were dying every day, and only a little later when the epidemic was at its height, 10,000 deaths was the daily total according to Procopius. Another historian John of Ephesus, who was also in Constantinople when it was at its worst, said that on the worst day of all 16,000 people died; their corpses were counted by men stationed at the harbors, ferries, and gates to keep a check on the number of casualties, as the dead were carried out of the city. There were probably about ¾ of 1 million people living within the city walls when the plague struck in May; if you include the number of people living in the suburbs, the total probably came to something like 1 million in all, and by the end of the summer 300,000 had died.

“The plague was killing more than 10,000 people a day in Constantinople,” adds Anthony Kaldellis, “the equivalent of one Nika Insurrection every few days.”

To rational thinkers like Procopius, none of it made any sense. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the plague. No pattern to its victims. As Paolo Cesaretti writes:

People died everywhere, in every season, with no distinction as to age, sex, diet, or social class. Paradoxically, the people responsible for carrying and burying the corpses were not affected by the contagion, nor were the physicians who came into close contact with the sick. But others who led healthy and secluded lives died quickly. It was left to the survivors to count the victims, to act quickly to dispose of the enormous number of corpses.”

And one of those corpses came as a horrible shock to the Imperial Court. Tribonian, great legal scholar and author of the Codex Justinianus, died raving and vomiting blood. In just a matter of days, one of Justinian’s closest advisers was gone, extinguished like a match.

As the death toll mounted, people looked everywhere for answers. [And] The only explanation for death on this scale, the only possible reason for such a sudden and horrific contagion, was that Emperor Justinian had, in some way, incurred the wrath of God; and this plague was the instrument of His judgment. Like the divine punishments that Moses called down upon ancient Egypt, this disease was meant to cull the wicked from a decadent empire.

Now it’s very easy, living in the present day, to don a superior smirk and shake our heads at these simple, superstitious people from the distant past. Didn’t they know about germ theory? Didn’t they know about incubation periods and transmission rates and antibodies? The answer is…no, they absolutely did not. This was centuries before some of the great leaps in medical learning. Before we invented the technology and tools to be able to study disease at a microscopic level and understand how it attacks and infiltrates our bodies.

So the question is / So to be fair to the Byzantines, what were they supposed to think? What kind of framework of cause and effect would you have to apply to the reality of 1-out-of every-3 people you know suddenly dying in agony with no apparent pattern?

The Christian God, if you take the Bible at face value, certainly had no compunction about smiting large swaths of people on a whim. Maybe Constantinople, they thought, was the next Sodom, the next Gomorrah, the next great flood? Ancient Christians knew all too well that standing in the glow of God’s light can occasionally feel like being an ant under a magnifying glass.

These days, of course, we know exactly what caused the Plague of Justinian. And although we cannot implicate the Almighty, its origin was, in a way, celestial. Remember, in the very beginning of this episode, when we talked about how the sun seemed paler and dimmer to the residents of Constantinople? Well, they weren’t imagining things.

Modern researchers and scientists believe that sometime in the mid 530s, two events occurred. The first was a chain of volcanic eruptions all around the world. The earth, as if expelling a long pent-up sneeze, sent huge amounts of volcanic ash and dust into the atmosphere. As Nick Holmes writes:

Although nothing is known for certain, using a mix of evidence from ice cores and tree rings, geologists now believe there was a ‘volcanic winter’ over 536–537, caused by an exceptional ring of volcanic eruptions around the globe, extending possibly from Papua New Guinea to Central America and to Iceland. Another major volcanic eruption followed this in 539 or 540. Together these made up the most spectacular period of volcanic activity over the last 2,000 years, much more significant than the last major volcanic eruption in modern times at Krakatoa in 1883. Enormous amounts of dust and debris were thrown into the air creating a ‘dust veil event’ which blocked out the sun’s light and warmth, in exactly the manner described by our Roman sources, and possibly causing summer temperatures in Europe to cool by as much as 2–3 degrees centigrade, with similar drops probably experienced elsewhere around the world. It is now widely accepted the decade from 536 to 545 was the coldest in the last 2,000 years.

The second event was an irregular spike in sunspot activity; basically magnetic fluctuations in the flow of energy from the sun’s interior. Think of them as temporary cool patches that form on the surface of the sun, as if someone’s kid snuck inside and fiddled with the thermostat. This caused, as Holmes puts it: “a deep decline in solar heat.”

So, in summary, an unseasonably weak sun was weakened even further by massive amounts of volcanic dust. The results were disastrous, and not just for the Byzantines.

“Across the entire northern hemisphere,” Holmes continues, “contemporary chroniclers recorded a weak sun, lower temperatures and most worrying of all, harvest failures and then famine. In Ireland, a lack of bread is recorded. In China, records say that yellow dust or ashes rained down from the sky and there were bitter, unseasonal frosts ruining crops. In Japan, a desperate record has been found saying: ‘Food is the basis of empire. Yellow gold and ten thousand strings of cash cannot cure hunger. What avail a thousand boxes of pearls to him who is starving because of the cold?”

But, you might be asking, what does any of this have to do with an outbreak of bubonic plague?

Well, when global temperatures are cooler, fields produce less crops. When fields produce less crops, there is less food stored in warehouses and granaries. When the granaries are empty, the rats that live inside them have nothing to eat. And when the rats have nothing to eat, they venture outside their little hiding spots in search of food, closer and closer to places where humans/people live. The kitchens, the closets, the pantries – anywhere they might find something to nibble on. And rats, of course, carry fleas. And fleas just happen to be the primary carrier of bubonic plague. As Paolo Cesaretti writes:

“The culprit [was] a lethal bacterium, Yersinia pestis, found in the stomach of the Xenopsylla flea (less than a millimeter long), which hides in the fur of black rats. The rats with their bacterial fleas had left their habitat (probably Ethiopia or Arabia) and traveled by boat to Egypt. From there they had spread across the Mediterranean and to the East; everywhere they went, sewers and large mounds of trash left outdoors—just outside the city walls, and even inside cities—served as an ideal medium for the lethal bacterium to grow.”

Now that all sounds very well and good and scientific, but the Byzantines didn’t know any of that. No onewould know any of that until about 1894, in fact, when a French – Swiss scientist finally identified the bacterium during a bubonic outbreak in Hong Kong. The Eastern Romans would have to settle for the chilling explanation that they were being punished by a vengeful deity. And even by biblical standards, this was cruel and unusual.

As the plague took its toll, there was no shortage of chilling sights to deepen the horror. Out in the harbor of Constantinople and the ocean beyond, ships drifted aimlessly, planks creaking, sea birds plunging wet beaks into the bloated bodies of crews too dead to sail into port. As the contemporary historian John (of Ephesus) describes:

“There were ships in the midst of the sea whose sailors were suddenly attacked by [God’s] wrath and [the ships] became tombs for their captains and they continued to drift on the waves carrying the corpses of their owners.”

Some of those ghost ships might have been visible from the windows of the imperial palace, bobbing in the Bosphorus. And as she gazes out at the black waves, Empress Theodora is trying to wrap her mind around what is happening. One year earlier, she’d been riding high. Her longtime rival, John the Cappadocian, was finally gone; Entrapped, exiled, and for all intents and purposes, politically eliminated. It seemed to her like the beginning of a new era, a fresh start.

->

And then, this plague came roaring into their lives, killing without pattern or pity. Even here in the Palace, she can smell the stench.

“The most immediate problem was burying the dead,” writes Nick Holmes, “The plague struck so suddenly that there was chaos. There were simply too many dead to bury in the normal manner. Because entire households would die together, often no one was even left to bury their relatives. At first, corpses were taken to the seashore and dumped into the sea so that, according to John [of Ephesus], the corpses: ‘piled up on the entire seashore, like flotsam on great rivers, and the pus flowed, discharging itself into the sea’.”

Theodora’s nose wrinkles in disgust, and she turns away from the window. It’s cold, she thinks. She wants to go back to bed, to get under the covers, snuggle up to Justinian, and forget all of this for a few blessed hours of unconsciousness. But when she pads quietly back to the bed, trying not to wake her husband up, she sees that Justinian is sitting upright and stiff as a board. Even in the dark, she can see the whites of his eyes. He must’ve had a bad dream, she thinks, another nightmare. But as she moves to get back into the bed, he stops her.

“Get away from me,” he hisses.

She comes closer, “It’s OK baby it was only a dream. It’s just me.”

Justinian leaps from the bed and shouts, “Get away from me, Theodora.”

In the candlelight, she sees that his forehead is beaded in sweat, his eyes are bloodshot, and his hands are trembling. “Justinian,” Theodora says, “you’re scaring me.”

The Emperor does not reply. Instead, he lifts his nightshirt up above his waist. Theodora inhales in a sudden, awful gasp. Just above Justinian’s groin, clear as funeral bell, is a large swelling. A black buboes, ripe as a plum.

The candle slips from Theodora’s hand; it clatters to the ground, and the flame goes out.

--- MUSIC BREAK ---

It’s the summer of 542 AD.

The very height of the bubonic plague.

But while Constantinople buckles under the weight of the outbreak, big events are happening at the eastern frontier of the Byzantine Empire, about 900 miles to the south-east.

Here, in what is now modern-day Syria, an army has gathered.

We tend to think of armies as solid, unified things. Hearts and minds marching lockstep toward a common, clearly understood goal. But in reality, ancient armies are more like schools of well-armed fish. You march ten miles because the guy next to you is marching ten miles. You throw a spear because the guy next to you is throwing a spear. You burn down the village because all the other guys are burning down the village. And hopefully, if all these fish move in the same direction, at the right times and in the right way, then everyone gets to go home with their head still attached to their neck.

But unlike schools of fish, armies need a leader. A head honcho. Someone to tell them what to do and why they’re doing it; or at least come up with a very convincing lie. And the leader of this particular army, brooding in his command tent, poking at his dinner with no apparent enthusiasm, is the greatest general in Byzantine history. Some might say the greatest general in all Roman history.

The one, the only, Belisarius.

As the sun buries itself into the hills, causing the sky’s complexion to blush with pink clouds, Belisarius is thinking deep thoughts. Well, if not deep thoughts, certainly …thoughts.

Belisarius is thinking about swords. Belisarius/The General likes swords. They’re simple, straightforward, functional tools. They don’t have agendas, and they don’t have secrets. Sure, they can be double-edged and cut-both-ways and all the duplicitous metaphors/symbolism that people ascribe to swords, but the objects themselves are refreshingly uncomplicated. They don’t plot or scheme or stab you in the back – unless, of course, you want them to. / Well, nix that last one.

The truth is, Belisarius is thinking about swords, because it’s better than thinking about anything else./ in his life

“Don’t make me come back.” That’s what he’d said to the Gothic nobles in Ravenna, after he refused their offer of a crown. Then, he sailed home to Constantinople, expecting a warm reception, a grateful Emperor, and maybe even a second triumph. Instead, he got…crickets. Justinian, spooked by the Gothic proposal to Belisarius, rewarded the general with a cold nod and a new assignment. The general barely had time to wipe the Italian mud off his boots before he was packed off again to another front. Another war.

The next war was in the east. A new scrap with an old enemy. This time, Belisarius was fighting the Persian empire, located in what is now Iran. Wars between Byzantium and Persia weren’t just common, they were downright traditional. Romans and Persians had been fighting each other for hundreds of years. It was a conflict measured not in battles but in generations. My father killed your father, because his father killed his father, because their fathers couldn’t agree on a border line, so on and so forth.

In 540 AD, the Persians had broken the paper-thin peace treaty Justinian had signed with them around the time of the Nika Riots, launching a series of raids into Byzantine territory. So, in 541, the great Belisarius, fresh off his victories in Italy, was dispatched to the east and charged with driving the Persian fox out of the chicken coop. And after a year of campaigning, the war has gone more or less pretty well. But as he sits in his command tent in the summer of 542, Persians are the last thing on Belisarius’ mind. Truth be told, Belisarius is thinking about his wife, Antonina.

People often said that Antonina was a complicated woman. That’s a nice way to put it, Belisarius thinks. The more accurate way to put it, is that she is a liar. When Belisarius heard about his wife’s role in the elaborate entrapment scheme to discredit John the Cappadocian, he was initially surprised. He never imagined that his sweet, beloved Antonina possessed such a convincing poker face. But he should’ve known, of course. He should’ve known his wife was capable of such brilliant deception, such cruel and convincing manipulation. After all, she’d been practicing on him for years.

About six months into his campaign against Persia, just about the time the bubonic plague first popped up in Egypt, Belisarius finally got wise to his wife’s chronic adultery. He didn’t catch her in the act, or piece together suspicious clues; A member of his entourage just finally came to him and told him the truth. General, it’s time you knew, they said. Your wife has been cheating on you more or less constantly for the last 10 years.

In that moment, the general’s mind went through a disorienting slipstream of emotions: shock, denial, sadness, jealousy.  But the most powerful emotion he felt was anger. Anger at her, but also anger at himself. Because the second he heard the accusation, he knew it was true.

How could he be so foolish? The great Belisarius, who surprised the Vandal kingdom with an army of 18,000 men, who tricked the Gothic nobles into offering up their capital, was too blind to see a betrayal right under his nose.

And so, next time Antonina came to the front to visit him, all smiles and jewelry and cherry red rouge, the General gifted her with some new jewelry. Iron bracelets, and a makeshift cell to go along with them. She screamed and wailed, denied every accusation, but for once, Belisarius was immune to her words. She was just a liar, doing what liars do.

As the days and weeks went by, he thought about killing her many times. He could do it if he wanted to, he was well within his rights. Antonina had broken the sacred laws of marriage; worthy of a bloody red “A” carved into her lovely chest. Hell, he wouldn’t even need a blade; Antonina was a small woman. He could crush her like a butterfly. But every time he unsheathed his sword, it went right back in the scabbard a few seconds later. She was a liar, an adulteress, by all social and moral metrics, a bad person; she had betrayed him in the cruelest way, and yet…he still loved her. Belisarius was nothing if not loyal, even to people who did not return the

favor.

But the biggest reason Belisarius couldn’t bring himself to kill Antonina, was that if he did, he’d likely be joining her in the family plot. The Empress Theodora had extended her protection to Antonina; if Belisarius killed his wife, he was also killing Theodora’s pet, her prized operative, the woman who had brought down the foul Cappadocian.

Belisarius’s survival instincts were confirmed when he received a summons from the Empress, recalling he and Antonina back to Constantinople for sort of… Mediation. Sitting in her marble throne, Theodora welcomed her friends, and explained that she didn’t like it when her friends fought. The Empress’s idea of couples therapy was to politely inform them that they were now reconciled. Henceforth, they would behave themselves and act like the perfect power couple that they were. You made sacred promises to each other, the Empress reminded them. Act accordingly.

And from that moment on, Belisarius and Antonina appeared perfectly happy and reconciled in public. Frankly, there wasn’t much of an alternative. But Belisarius could not forgive his wife’s betrayal. He could only try to forget.

Besides, as 541 became 542, the general had much bigger problems on his mind.

While Belisarius was stuck on the eastern frontier dealing with Persian raids, his hard-won victories in the West were crumbling like sandcastles. North Africa was in full revolt. The Goths were resurgent in Italy under a new king, rolling up Byzantine military gains like a carpet. If Justinian was playing a game of Risk, all his shiny new territories were flipping back to enemy colors. In other words, Belisarius's entire legacy was unraveling in real time.

->

But the empire’s biggest problem wasn't the Goths or North African rebels; it was the bubonic plague. One microscopic bacterium had paralyzed everything; trade, armies, agriculture, supply lines – it was as if the muscles of the empire were seizing up and shutting down. If the rumors coming out of Constantinople were true, almost a third of the capitol’s population had died. But worst of all, Belisarius learned, Emperor Justinian himself had contracted the bubonic plague. As Antony Bridge writes:

“Justinian was not particularly popular; many people remembered with great bitterness the way in which the Nika revolt had been brutally suppressed; and his unceasing demands for more and more money, with which to pay for his wars, made many others hate him. But even those who disliked him intensely did not doubt for a moment that he was the vicegerent of Christ on earth, appointed by God and sustained by God to be the defender of all Christian people against the powers of evil in this world, whether those powers took the form of pagan countries like Persia, heretics, earthquakes, or epidemics. And if he, of all people, could be struck down by the plague, what possible hope could there be for anyone else? God had not only deserted his people, but the storm of death in which they found themselves was a manifest proof that he was desperately angry with them too. No one could fight against the wrath of God; Justinian’s illness was the last and heaviest blow of all.”

Besides being existentially terrifying, Justinian’s illness raised some uncomfortable questions about what would happen if he DID die. As Bridge continues:

For while he lay between life and death, everyone was acutely and uncomfortably aware that, if he should die, his successor had not been named, and there would be an ugly and dangerous crisis at the heart of the Empire while it was trying to fight two wars, one in the West and the other in the East, and finding itself badly over-extended in the process. Justinian and Theodora had no children.

As arguably the second-most powerful man in the Empire, lots of heads started to turn in Belisarius’ direction. On paper, he was the perfect successor to Justinian. A proven leader with a shelf of accolades and no personality disorders. In the ancient world, it didn’t get much better than that. Belisarius, of course, would have much preferred that Justinian live. The General was, as one writer put it, “the soul of loyalty; it never occurred to him to covet the throne”.

But if Justinian died, and that was looking very likely, he would accept the responsibility foisted upon him. At the very least, he would take a heavy role in selecting and vetting a successor. But Belisarius knew all too well, it wouldn’t be as simple as chiseling a new name into the Imperial seal. If Justinian died, his wife would not simply step aside or remarry. Anyone with aspirations to power would have to contend with Justinian’s widow, the frightening and powerful Empress, Theodora.

Many miles away from the Persian front, back in Constantinople, Theodora doesn’t feel very powerful at all. In fact, she feels more helpless than she has ever felt in her entire life.

A 50% chance.

That’s what the palace physicians gave Justinian.

A simple coin flip on whether he lived or died.

Right now, the bubonic plague was replicating and reproducing inside the emperor’s lymph nodes, shredding his immune system and flooding his bloodstream with bacteria. His body would try and fight the infection, but if it failed, he would go into septic shock, triggering a blood cell leakage, clotting, organ failure…and then death. At this point, all the physicians could do was make him comfortable. It was, they said, in God’s hands.

As she paces around the room, circling the furniture like a chariot in the Hippodrome, Theodora’s mind is eating itself alive with worry. For the 17 years they had been married, she had tried to protect Justinian from every potential threat, guard against every possibility. But she could not protect him from this.

In an act of desperation, she drops to her knees, and winds her fingers together. Time to send up another futile prayer. Another ignored plea. In the past few days, Theodora has prayed so much her knees are black & blue. But she will not stop trying. She will not stop petitioning a higher authority. The highest authority.

“Hi, God,” she says, “Me again.” She chews her in barely-restrained lip in anger. “Please convey your blessings upon our noble Emperor Justinian, watch over his immortal soul and deliver his body from this expression of your wrath.”

Even as she says them, the words feel hollow. Meaningless. So she tries a different tack. “You know what? Fuck you. Fuck YOU. [How could you? ]How could you do this to him? What kind of God does this? Justinian has done nothing but serve you. We have done nothing but serve you. We’ve built churches in your honor, conquered kingdoms in your name, killed for your glory. And this is what you do? This is your divine plan? With all due respect, I’m beginning to think you don’t have much of a plan at all.”

Theodora’s anger collapses into hopeless anguish. “17 years isn’t enough,” she sobs,
It’s not enough. I want more, God. I need more. You wouldn’t give me a baby, and that’s fine, I’ve accepted that. But please, don’t’ take / not Justinian. He’s a good man; a sweet, smart, faithful man. Please don’t kill him. I’ll give you anything, if you just don’t kill him.”

In her desperation, Theodora trades the only currency she has left.

“[just] Take me instead. Let him live, and take me instead. I’m bad, God. I’ve done so many bad things. I thought I could wash it away. I thought I could bury it. All those people. All those people over the years. I’m sorry, God. I’m sorry about the rioters. About Hypatius and Saturninus and Basianus. I’m sorry about using Antonina. I’m sorry about John and Euphemia. Oh god…little Euphemia. I’m sorry. I was just trying to protect him.”

Theodora is in a ball now, curled up on the floor. Her prayers have no grand climax. No poetic finale. She just cries and cries. Until… she hears a knock at the door. After days of worry and anxiety and grief, Theodora’s patience is paper-thin, and she just wants to be alone. So she screams.

“What? What the FUCK do you want.”

She looks up with red-rimmed eyes toward the door, and sees a flock of physicians standing in the entrance.

“It’s the Emperor, my lady. He’s awake. He’s asking for you. By the grace of God, he’s going to make a full recovery. He’s going to be alright.”

---- MUSIC BREAK ------

It’s the spring of 548 AD.

Six years after the Plague of Justinian.

We’re in the Byzantine capitol of Constantinople. Greatly changed, undoubtedly wounded, but still very much standing. Contrary to popular expectation, the bubonic plague did not bring the world to an end. Like a cosmic carousel, indifferent to its passengers, Earth just kept on turning. As it always does. And somewhere in this scarred city, there is a house. And in that house, there is a desk. And at that desk, there is a man.

Sitting in front of a blank piece of parchment, Procopius the scribe is clutching a quill so tight, it might just snap in half. Like any wordsmith, Procopius occasionally falls prey to writer’s block. Inspiration dies up, the vocabulary vanishes, and the brain descends into a horrible fog. But today is different. Today Procopius is overflowing with ideas and facts and feelings. So many thoughts, that they have formed a blockage at the tip of his pen. He knows that once he starts writing, he won’t be able to stop. And what he wants to write, well, it just might get him killed.

It's been almost half a decade since the Great Plague, the scourge of bubonic death that brought the Roman Empire to its knees. And in that time, Procopius has been writing, cataloguing, organizing.  As the old adage goes, “write what you know”. And in his time as Belisarius’ secretary and scribe, Procopius has come to know very much indeed.

For 13 years, from about 527 to 540 AD, Procopius served as the personal secretary and scribe to Belisarius. And now, he has been tasked with writing an official history of all that he has witnessed and experienced. Emperor Justinian himself has commissioned a state-sponsored chronicle of all his great works. This chronicle will take the form of two distinct volumes. The first, entitled The Buildings, will tell the story of Justinian’s architectural achievements, like the Hagia Sophia. The second, entitled The Wars of Justinian, will tell the story of the emperor’s conquests in Italy and North Africa.

But even as he writes these books, Procopius is painfully aware that all he is doing is crafting very articulate propaganda. Hundreds of years from now, when people read these chronicles, they will be left with a one-dimensional image of Emperor Justinian the First. A wise, august, temperate sovereign, called by God to greatness. But in Procopius’ view, this is at best a misrepresentation and at worst a lie. In his opinion, Justinian’s reign has been a disaster from Day One.

Procopius licks the tip of his pen. Let’s look at the facts.

First, Justinian tricked his feeble-minded predecessor, Uncle Justin, to transfer full power to him. Once he’d gotten his grubby peasant hands on the purple, Justinian drained the treasury like a bathtub, and appointed the lecherous Cappadocian to refill it through punitive taxation policies. The Roman people, rightfully angry, rose up during the Nika Riots, only to be brutally suppressed and massacred in the Hippodrome. Not satisfied with that particular bloodbath, Justinian exported his violent delights to North Africa, sending Belisarius to launch a devious surprise attack against the Vandal Kingdom. From there, it was on to Italy, where Justinian’s rapacious war turned the peninsula into a famine-ridden, battle-torn backwater. Yes, General Belisarius had been brave and loyal, defending the besieged city of Rome and refusing the Goths’ offer of a crown. But what of it? Dogs are brave. Dogs are loyal. And Belisarius was little more than that.

Besides, they were all empty victories anyway, because no sooner had Belisarius returned to Constantinople than North Africa and Italy rose up in revolt against their new Byzantine masters. Even now, almost 17 years after general first set sail for war, the territories he had supposedly won were still not pacified. Justinian hadn’t expanded Rome, he had just exported misery and chaos.

Then came the bubonic plague, God’s terrible punishment for the emperor’s hubris. If anyone needed proof of Justinian’s disastrous reign, they needn’t look further than that. Hundreds of thousands of people dead. Livelihoods ruined, entire cities wiped out, bloodlines severed forever. There was a time where Procopius briefly imagined that Justinian was not the demon he feared him to be. But the plague was clear evidence to the contrary. God had even seen fit to afflict the emperor himself with the contagion, marking him with righteous anger. But the devil’s servants have a way of cheating death; and Satan, the old enemy, had intervened to save his acolyte. A few weeks after falling ill with plague, Justinian made a miraculous recovery. Unfortunately, millions of his subjects were not so lucky.

But as bad as Justinian was, there was someone even worse. Someone who might bear the ultimate responsibility; Someone who might be the cause of all of this. The Empress Theodora. That slut in sheep’s clothing who’d gyrated up the social ladder, into Justinian’s bed, all the way to the throne room. It was disgusting, thought Procopius. Shameful. An insult to the august rulers who had come before. And once Theodora had her hooks in Justinian, it was all downhill from there. Maybe that was when it all went wrong. When the arc of history bent towards disaster. When Justinian met Theodora.

His anger at a boiling point, Procopius’s quill snaps in his hands. He can’t write or publish any of this of course. Not while the demon king and his demon queen are still alive. Instead, he’ll do what is asked of him, he’ll play his part, he’ll weave Justinian’s propaganda into something beautiful, something people will be marveling about for hundreds of years. But it’ll only be half the story.

In secret, Procopius will write another book. A book where he tells the truth, as he sees it. And then someday, after Justinian and Theodora and Belisarius and Antonina and the whole rotten bunch are dead and gone, he can publish the real story. Sure, he’ll need to embellish things here and there, sprinkle in some juicy details to keep the reader hooked. But nothing that can be proven false, nothing that anyone living can refute.

But Procopius is not just a talented writer, he’s a cynical one. He is also writing the Secret History as a sort of insurance policy. Just in case Justinian and Theodora are ever overthrown. He can say, “look, I’m not with them. I knew all along how bad they were; See, it’s all right here in black and white for the ages. I was just being used.” And so, by candlelight, Procopius continues work on his clandestine magnum opus, inscribing his enmity for the ages.

On the other side of the city, also working by candlelight, is the object of the scribe’s hatred.

GOODBYE

Hunched over his desk, Emperor Justinian unrolls a large map of the Mediterranean world. For some irritating reason, he has to hold it very close to his face to discern the shapes and words. “Oh, that’s right,” Justinian remembers, “I’m old.”

At the age of 65, the emperor is no longer the jolly young man with a mop of curly brown hair. The gray hairs have completed their conquest, and the wrinkles have formed deep trenches in his olive skin. But some things have stayed the same. After all this time, Justinian still can’t sleep. He traces a finger over the eagle sigil on one of his papers, a timeless symbol of the Roman Empire. ‘Maybe a night owl would be more appropriate,’ he thinks.

Justinian hears a soft, familiar voice behind him, breaking his concentration like a pebble dropped into a clear blue lake.

“It’s late,” the voice says, “Even for you.”

The Emperor turns to face the doorway and sees his wife leaning against the frame. Justinian’s eyes are not what they used to be, but after 23 years of marriage, he can still see Theodora clear as day. Huge dark eyes, pale white skin, and a figure that defies the gravitational ravages of time. The Empress is pushing 50, but she has maintained the silhouette of a younger woman.

Justinian shrugs. “I can’t sleep.”

“That’s like saying pigs can’t fly,” she replies, “It’s just not in your nature.”

Justinian chuckles, “Yeah. You got me there.”

Wrapped in a bundle of blankets, Theodora pads over on bare feet and puts a hand on his shoulder. She kisses his gray hair and rests her chin on his head. “Whatcha’ readin’?”

The Emperor gestures half-heartedly at the map. It shows the full extent of the Byzantine Empire. A rich expanse of royal purple, extending across the Mediterranean like a wine stain. From Egypt, to North Africa, to Italy, Greece, Anatolia and beyond.

“You know this map isn’t even accurate anymore?” he says.

“You know,” he says, “this map isn’t even accurate anymore. All of this,” he points at North Africa, “And all of this”, he points at Italy, “All under dispute. By the time the mapmakers draw a new one, our gains will have shifted. Our territory, receded.”

Justinian pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t sleep, Theodora. But I’m so fucking tired. Tired and old. When did that happen by the way? When did we get so old? We used to have everything; beautiful skin, perfect hair, a six pack.

Theodora flicks his ear, “Justinian, you never had a six pack.”

Justinian sighs, “At this point, I’d settle for an ice pack. My back hurts. My hands hurt. My eyes hurt. My teeth hurt. Everything hurts. But hey, at least my empire’s falling apart.”

Theodora is silent for a long time. She runs a hand through his gray curls. “Did I ever tell you about the time I performed in the Hippodrome?”

Justinian scoffs, “You never performed in the Hippodrome. I think I would’ve heard about that.”

“I did!” she insists. Justinian raises an eyebrow and tilts his head suggestively. “Oh relax,” Theodora swats his arm, “it wasn’t THAT kind of performance. Now, that might have started a riot or two. No, this was a long, long time ago.” Her eyes grow a little foggy, a little distant. “I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old.”

Justinian leans back and settles into his chair. Theodora with a story is like a dog with a bone. Once the teeth are in, she does not let go.

“My father had just died,” she continues, “He trained bears for the Green faction in the Hippodrome. I don’t remember much about him, honestly; I just remember the bears. They were supposed to be terrifying, but I thought they were kinda cute. Well anyway, after Dad died, our mother panicked. All of a sudden, we had no provider, no protector, no income. But Mom was not content to be a homeless widow, rattling a cup in the streets. So she found a new man, a new provider. Problem was, the new boyfriend didn’t have a job, so my mother begged the Green faction to hire him as the new bear-keeper. With my father dead, the position was still vacant. Unfortunately, the Green faction boss refused. My mother cried and wailed and pleaded, but still the boss said “no.” Anyway, you’re getting bored, I can tell – the point is….Mom came up with a plan.”

Justinian can’t stop smiling. He loves watching her talk. He could watch her talk forever. “I’m not bored,” he says. “What was the plan?”

“The plan,” she says, “was a performance! Mom knew that the Green Faction boss could easily refuse her in private, but if she and her three little daughters petitioned him publicly, on a race day, in front of the entire Hippodrome, he would be shamed into giving her what she wanted. Well, when the big day finally came, she put us all in white dresses and crowned us with garlands. We were so scared. Three little girls, prancing out onto the sands of the Hippodrome, 100,000 drunken racing fans screaming at us. But my mother prepared us very well. She taught us how to move and how to speak and what words to say.”

“What did you say?” Justinian asks.

Theodora shrugs, “Something ridiculous, probably. Something like: ‘Oh glorious Greens, we are oppressed, and ask for relief.’ Unfortunately, the Greens weren’t impressed with our little sideshow. The Faction boss turned up his nose and refused to acknowledge us; the crowd couldn’t have cared less.”

Justinian leans forward like a boy at a campfire, “What happened then?”

She smiles, “The Blues happened. Our beloved Blue faction could never pass up an opportunity to make their rivals look bad/like bastards, of course. My sisters and I were bawling, doing our very best to look pitiful, and then a roar went up from the Blue side of the arena. They heckled the heartless Greens for such callous treatment of a destitute mother and her three little girls. Then, and I don’t really know what possessed me to do it, but I took my flowers and my white dress and I pranced over to the Blue’s side of the Hippodrome. And we did the same performance again: ‘Oh glorious Blues, we are oppressed, and ask for relief.’

Justinian grins, “They took you in.”

“They took us in,” Theodora nods. “Just like that, Mom’s new boyfriend was given a job, the family was saved from poverty, and I became a Blue for life.” She swishes her blankets at him playfully, “And that, my love, was the time I performed in the Hippodrome.”

Justinian clutches his chest in mock shock. “I can’t believe it,” he says, “You were born a Green? I thought you were a real fan – not a bandwagon Blue. Call the Bishop. I’ve been betrayed, deceived, this marriage is built on a lie.”

Theodora ignores the teasing and squeezes his hand.

“I think about that day a lot,” she says, “There’s not much from my childhood that I like to remember, but that was a good day. A stressful, overwhelming, terrifying day…but it was good. It was the day God reached down from heaven and nudged me along the right path. The path  to you. One little change, one little alteration, and it all might’ve been different. If Dad hadn’t died, If the Greens hadn’t shunned us, if the Blues hadn’t taken us in…I never would’ve met you. Our life together, our empire, all of this, it never would’ve happened. God had a plan for us, Justinian, and it started when I was five years old.”

“Well,” Justinian says, “I’m very glad your mother exploited you for financial security.”

Theodora kisses him on the forehead. “Me too.”  She stands up and gathers the blankets around her body. “And now…I am going back to bed. Don’t stay up too late, ok?”

Justinian replies, “Oh, stay up with me for a while. It’s almost dawn anyway.”

Theodora shakes her head. “No…unlike you, I need my beauty rest. And actually/also,” she rubs her eyes/temple, “I don’t feel very well.”  As she walks toward the door, Theodora suddenly loses her balance and stumbles. She grabs the desk to steady herself, fighting a sensation of lightheadedness. “Come to think of it,” she breathes, “I don’t feel very well at all.” 

Theodora’s eyes roll back into her skull, her legs crumple, and she faints – collapsing onto the tile.

DEATH

Theodora, Empress of Byzantium, died three months later, on June 28^th, 548 AD.

She was 48 years old.

Modern historians generally believe that she was suffering from an aggressive form of cancer. Some have speculated that it was breast cancer or ovarian cancer, but whatever the exact nature of her illness, it happened very, very fast. In the Byzantine Empire, there were no MRIs or morphine drips or chemotherapy. No way to slow the spread, or to even understand what was spreading. One day, Theodora was healthy and happy. The next, she was wasting away, cheeks hollowing, immune system failing.

Justinian did everything he could. In a mad whirlwind of desperation, the Emperor launched a frantic search for a cure – anything that could save his wife’s life. He sent for the best physicians, the wisest priests, the most esoteric medical treatments available, but none of it worked. The cancer was implacable. Day by day, cell by cell, it ate the Empress alive.

Theodora did not keep a diary or any record of her last days, so we can only wonder what thoughts might’ve crossed her mind as she lay dying, listening to the crash of waves and the cackle/song of sea birds outside her window.

She had always believed that God had a plan for her, that His hand was gently steering the course of her life. Even now, she believed it. Maybe this illness was the price for sparing Justinian from the bubonic plague six years before, the result of her desperate prayers in those awful days. Or maybe this was divine punishment; poetic justice for all the violence and cruelty she’d meted out over the years. Or maybe, she hoped, it was just time to go home. To join her creator in Heaven. As Justinian wept at her bedside, they took comfort in the knowledge that someday they would be together again. They would be reborn and reunited in God’s kingdom, without pain or fear or hate or grief. Their bodies would be young and strong again, just like when they first met. Justinian with his muscular calves and curly black hair; Theodora with her dancer’s curves and huge dark eyes.

But even in the last weeks, so close to the end, the Empress maintained her sense of humor.

“Do you think,” Theodora asked weakly one night, “that they let you have sex in Heaven?”

Justinian laughed through the tears, “Wouldn’t be much of a Paradise if they didn’t.”

They are silent for a moment.

“I’m scared,” Theodora says.

Justinian buries his face in her hair. “I know. So am I.” / I’m right here”

In December of 547, Justinian and Theodora celebrated their last Christmas together, although neither of them knew it at the time. Six months later, she was gone. Shortly after her death in late June of 548 AD, Theodora’s body was placed in a magnificent stone sarcophagus, and interred beneath her favorite basilica, the Church of the Holy Apostles. When he returned to the palace after the funeral, Justinian was left/confronted with an empty bed, a broken heart, and a palace full of clothes that smelled faintly of the woman he loved. As Peter Sarris writes:

“The psychological and emotional impact on Justinian of the death of the woman he had fallen in love with and then married despite the censures of his aunt, and who had been his constant companion, most stalwart supporter, and even co-ruler for over twenty-five years, can scarcely be imagined.”

When all-powerful rulers lose someone precious to them, it can occasionally manifest in a murderous rampage. Deprived of the person they loved, they choose to share their pain with the world; to make others feel the grief that they feel. For example, when the 19^th century African warlord Shaka Zulu lost his mother, it’s said that he ordered mass executions in her memory. When the 16^th century Russian monarch, Ivan the Terrible, lost his wife, he descended into fits of paranoid delusion, killing scores of perceived enemies.

But Justinian was not that kind of man/person.

After years of war and plague, the Roman Empire had seen enough suffering. So instead of lashing out, the emperor retreated inward. He became withdrawn, and sullen, rarely venturing outside the walls of the palace. At the age of 65, Justinian had already lived a very long life, far beyond the average lifespan of the era; Perhaps, he hoped, that if he just stayed still, and prayed, and waited patiently, God would reunite him with Theodora sooner rather than later.

He could not help but think of Old Uncle Justin and his wife Euphemia, who had died within a few years of each other. Perfectly coordinated, as if they were leaving a party together, hand-in-hand.

But as fate, genetics, and a lifetime of healthy habits would have it, Justinian was destined to live another 17 years without Theodora. He was, writes David Potter, “something of a demographic miracle for his day, living into his early eighties.”

And Justinian’s golden years were not a happy time.

The emperor lived to see many of his foreign policy achievements rolled back, if not undone entirely. Italy and North Africa remained in a state of perpetual warfare, bouncing back and forth between the Romans and their enemies like a tennis ball. The economy of the Mediterranean world, so devastated by the bubonic plague, never truly recovered, exacerbating the misery caused by Justinian’s wars of expansion. Even matters of religion were not a respite for the emperor’s beleaguered mind. Without the mediating influence of Theodora, tensions between the Orthodox branch and the Monophysite movement became inflamed like a dormant case of shingles.

Viewed from a certain angle, the reign of Justinian and Theodora looked like a period of insatiable ambition, marred by ultimate failure. But from another, more charitable angle, it looked like an audacious period of feverish progress. Justinian’s vision of a restored Roman Empire was short-lived, but the legal code that he and Tribonian authored, the Codex Justinianus, would go on to form the backbone of European jurisprudence for the next 1000 years. This legacy earned him many admirers in the subsequent centuries, including the Italian poet Dante, who placed Justinian in the second sphere of Heaven in his seminal work, The Divine Comedy. Even today, Justinian is usually cast in a favorable light by historians. He was, according to James Allen Evans, “one of the ablest emperors in Byzantine history.”

But in the twilight of his own lifetime, Justinian had no idea how history would judge him. He probably assumed that all his works would crumble into dust, from the Hagia Sophia to the Codex Justinianus. The Emperor spent most his time brooding in the palace, but on August 11^th, 559 AD, Justinian made a rare excursion outside the walls of his sanctum.

Hobbling at the head of his Praetorian Guard, the old man made his way across the city to the Church of the Holy Apostles, final resting place of the Empress.. 11 years after Theodora died, Justinian has come to light candles at his wife’s tomb.

He didn’t need a grave to visit Theodora, of course. He saw/talked to her every day. She was everywhere, haunting every corner of the palace like a benevolent ghost. Laughing in the banquet hall. Dancing in the bedchambers. Commanding in the throne room. Every nook and cranny of that place contained a piece of her. Occasionally, to his delight, Justinian might’ve found a strand of her black hair on a pillow or an old robe. She lived on in the aggregate of his memories.

But he has come here today, to the final resting place of her body, to pay his respects. Shedding his Praetorian escort like a suffocating cloak, Justinian stands alone in the cavernous church. Most people who come to this place want to talk to God, to converse with the Almighty. But Justinian doesn’t want to talk to God today. He wants to speak with someone much more important.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers, “it’s me.”

His joints cracking, his knees throbbing, the old man lowers himself to the floor.

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited in a while. I’ve been busy running our empire into the ground, a declining empire.” He sighs / laughs bitterly, “This will probably come as no surprise, but I fucked it all up. Everything’s a mess. From Italy to North Africa, the Monophysites to the Orthodox bishops – it’s all falling apart.”

 Justinian places a hand on the altar, enjoying the soothing touch of cold stone.

“Honestly, I’m starting to feel like my life has been just one long chain of mistakes. Every time I try and build something worth remembering, it falls apart. You know, just last year, the eastern dome of the Hagia Sophia collapsed after an earthquake. The architects are still trying to figure that one out. They say it’ll be repaired within a year or two. Whether I’ll be alive to see it…who knows. I hope not.”

The Emperor leans against the stone, placing himself as close to Theodora’s remains as he can.

“I’ve made a lot mistakes, Theodora. Looking back on my life, I have a lot of regrets. So many things I wish I could change. But there’s one thing I didn’t mess up. One thing I didn’t ruin. One great triumph I can take to my grave. And that’s finding you, and marrying you, and making you happy. I hope I made you happy. I just wish we’d had a little more time. Truth be told, I’d trade every army, every city, every wretched statue from here to Ravenna for one more second with you.”

Justinian hears a Praetorian cough in some hidden alcove of the church, and blinks away a tear.

“Well,” he climbs to his feet, “I better get going. Save a seat up there for me, will ya. With any luck, this decrepit old heart of mine will give out any day now. And then, I’ll be that young prince again; the one that swept you off your feet.”

“…And if God is good,’ Justinian straightens his robe and puts a hand to his aching lower back, “I’ll finally get that six-pack.”

Six years later, on November 14^th, 565 AD, Emperor Justinian the First died in his sleep at the age of 83. The funeral was a grand affair, as a contemporary poet named Corippus described:

‘Who can enumerate the wonders of so great a procession? On one side a venerable line of singing deacons, on the other a choir of virgins sang: their voices reached the sky. Tears flowed like snow: the clothes of everyone were wet with the rain, and their streaming eyes swam in their own moisture and watered their faces and breasts.… Many burned pious incense for his passing. From all sides the sad people came running in their anxiety to look.’ As the procession went on, he recounted, ‘All [were united in] one love, in all one rightful grief increased their tears… until they came to the halls of the Church of the Holy Apostles and had laid his honoured limbs in the holy tomb which the emperor had himself earlier built from pure gold.’ Within the church where he had prayed at the tomb of Theodora some six years earlier, the emperor was now once more united with his beloved wife.

Justinian’s funeral had many attendees. Thousands turned out to pay their respects to the Emperor who had ruled over Byzantium for the previous 40 years. Most of them knew Justinian only as a concept, an idea, a face on a coin. His inner circle of courtiers and allies, the people he had relied upon to advise him during his lifetimem were all dead, falling one-by-one to disease or old age. Theodora, Tribonian, John the Cappadocian, even the loyal old soldier Belisarius was gone, passing away just 8 months before Justinian. After four decades in power, the Emperor’s hand finally closed, one finger at a time.

One of the principal questions that arose after Justinian’s death was the problem of succession. Despite many years of valiant and vigorous effort, Theodora and Justinian had never produced a child. As Paolo Cesaretti writes:

“Power became the child they never had. They shaped it and grew it and groomed it, and exhibited it for one another’s admiration, just like proud parents.”

After the Empress died, Justinian refused to remarry or even take a mistress. And to the consternation of his court, he delayed and delayed and delayed the all-important decision about who would be the heir to the Byzantine throne. There were many potential claimants, of course, many strong and talented candidates, but one in particular rose above the rest. After his death, Justinian’s crown passed to a nephew of his, named, ironically, Justin. So in a weird bit of dynastic symmetry, the Byzantine throne went from Justin to Justinian back to another Justin.

Byzantium was in dire straits at the end of Justinian’s life, but the empire would live on for another 800 years. The sleepless Emperor and his fierce Empress passed from living memory to legend to myth, lost like river stones/pebbles in the [river] currents of history. As the centuries ground on, the Mediterranean world was shaped and reshaped by one massive development after another. The rise of Islam. The Crusades. The proliferation of gunpower. The age of exploration and colonization. The world, as always, just kept on turning, indifferent to the grand plans of Emperors and Empresses.

And then, one day, more than 1,000 years after the deaths of Justinian and Theodora, something amazing happened.

In 1623, an archivist working in the library of the Vatican in Rome, was cataloguing some old volumes that had come into the Catholic church’s possession. There were thousands upon thousands of books in the Vatican library, more books than any one individual could hope to read in a lifetime. Some of these books had sat on the shelves for so long, but no one remembered who had put them there. But as this archivist was going about his work, one slim unremarkable volume caught his eye. As he gently opened the pages, and began to read the words within, the librarian’s eyes started to widen. Words and names and dates jumped out at him like diamonds shining at the bottom of a pond. Words like Vandal and Nika and Hagia Sophia. Names like Belisarius and Antonina and Theodora and Justinian.

With trembling fingers, the librarian reads the title page. Unpublished Works, the tome is called. But, he soon discovers, it has another name - and a very, very famous author. Historia Arcana. Or, The Secret History by Procopius, personal secretary and scribe to Belisarius, loyal servant of Emperor Justinian and the Empress Theodora. Clutching the book like a piece of treasure, the librarian reads the following introductory passage:

“What I am about to write will not appear to future generations either credible or probable, especially when a long lapse of years shall have made them old stories; for which reason I fear that I may be looked upon as a romancer, and reckoned among playwrights. However, I shall have the courage not to shrink from this important work, because my story will not lack witnesses.”

This has been Conflicted. Thanks for listening.

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