‘Ostrich! You know they won’t. For the time being you must pretend to go along with them. Then, at the very earliest opportunity, disengage yourself and make contact with Justinian; he’ll understand. After all, he is your friend.’ Her manner softening, Maria kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘Go now, my love,’ she whispered. ‘And may God be with you.’
Sick with fear, Hypatius allowed himself to be carried shoulder-high through the darkening streets to a torch-lit Hippodrome, where it seemed the whole of Constantinople was assembled. A jubilant cheer arose from the multitude, and to shouts of, ‘Long live Hypatius!’, the general was installed in the kathisma. Then, for want of a diadem, a golden chain (which someone had been wearing as a necklace) was wound around his head, while a purple curtain, in lieu of an imperial robe, was placed upon his shoulders.
Wishing himself anywhere else but in his present position, Hypatius, as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the torches, noticed that among the cheering citizens — conspicuous by their archaic togas or silken robes of office — were large numbers of senators and councillors, many of them known to him. It dawned on the general that his ‘coronation’ had been no mere whim of the mob, but had the backing of those who counted in the Empire — the sort of men who alone could provide the stability and leadership essential for any revolution to succeed. This changed everything. Displacing terror, excitement stirred within him; perhaps, after all, he really could become emperor. Suddenly, a cry began to circulate around the stadium, transmuting in an instant, possibility into certainty: ‘Justinian has fled!’ Soon the words were taken up by everyone, the Hippodrome resounding with triumphant shouts — ‘Justinian has fled!’. . ‘The tyrant has gone!’. . Long live our new emperor — Hypatius Augustus!’
Mixed with relief, a sense of heady euphoria surged through Hypatius. The imperial crown was no more than his due, he told himself. All his life he had worked hard and played by the rules, only to be cheated of the big prizes by lesser men who knew better than he how to play the political game. With his impeccable credentials of noble birth and royal blood, it was he, not that barbarian nobody Justin, who should have succeeded Anastasius, as it was he who should have been promoted to the top job in the army — Magister Militum Praesentalis,* instead of being fobbed off with command of the Army of the East. Even the charge of that remote posting he had twice had to surrender — first, temporarily, to Justinian over that Dhu-Nuwas business, and now, permanently, to that young whippersnapper Belisarius.
Savouring the moment, Hypatius stood and raised his hand in adlocutio — the imperial gesture of address. A hush spread throughout his vast audience.
‘Fellow Romans,’ he declaimed, ‘- you have honoured me by making me your emperor. I swear to you before God, that my chief concern will always be to serve you to the utmost of my ability. Also, you have my solemn promise that never again will you have to suffer the brutality of a Eudaemon, the injustice of a Tribonian, or the rapacity of a John of Cappadocia. They will go — as Justinian, their master, has already gone. Good riddance to them all, I say, as together we begin a new and happier chapter in the annals of New Rome.’
The tumultuous applause that greeted his speech was music to Hypatius’ ears, wiping out in an instant the many disappointments and frustrations endured throughout a long career.
Meanwhile, in the Palace — virtually empty now that its normal population of courtiers and senators had been dismissed — an eerie silence reigned. Apart from a tiny band of those still loyal to the emperor, its only occupants were now the Palace Guard and German mercenaries waiting in their quarters, a few silentiarii stalking the deserted corridors like ghosts, and a downstairs tribe of footmen, maids, and cooks, among whom an air of ribald insubordination to their royal master was beginning to prevail.
In Justinian’s tablinum, besides the emperor himself, were assembled: Theodora, Belisarius and Mundus, John the Cappadocian, the young lawyer Procopius and the chronicler Count Marcellinus — both experienced stenographers whose function was to record any minutes, and finally, to act as scouts and messengers, two trusted agentes in rebus: special agents whose job could cover anything from spying to diplomacy. The sound of cheering from the nearby Hippodrome did nothing to lighten the mood of despondency verging on despair, which hung like a dark cloud over the meeting. One of the agentes — a coal-black Nubian named Crixus, had just returned from the Hippodrome to report the ‘coronation’ of Hypatius.
‘Serenity — it takes a wise general to know when he’s beaten,’ stated Mundus gently, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had followed Crixus’ account, and which suggested that few present would disagree with what the general now said. ‘Perhaps it’s time to leave the field.’
‘Mundus is right,’ declared the Cappadocian bluntly. ‘Grasp the nettle, Serenity — sail tonight for Heraclea Pontica on the southern shore of the Euxine.* You’d be safe there — for the time being at least.’
‘And close enough to the capital, Serenity, to launch a counter-coup when the time is right,’ suggested Procopius.
‘Thank you, my friend — I appreciate that you’re trying to let me down lightly,’ responded Justinian in gloomy tones. ‘But I think we all know that if I leave, I won’t be coming back. I have, reluctantly, to agree with Mundus and the prefect that flight now seems the only option.’
‘Before we all decide to write off our chances,’ put in Belisarius, ‘there is one possibility that may be worth exploring.’
‘Go on,’ the emperor invited.
‘Thanks to Crixus here,’ Belisarius went on, to a suddenly animated audience, ‘we know that Hypatius is at present holding court in the kathisma, enjoying the acclamation of his “subjects”. As we know, a short passage leads from the Palace to the spiral staircase which opens into the royal box. If I were to lead a hand-picked group of my Germans along that route to the kathisma, we could surprise Hypatius and either arrest or kill him. With its head cut off, the revolt would surely die.’
‘I like it!’ exclaimed Mundus. ‘Like all good plans it’s simple, and seems to me to have an excellent chance of succeeding. I think we should accept it.’
‘I agree,’ said Justinian, perceptibly brightening. He looked around the gathering. ‘If you all back Belisarius’ idea, which I think is a brilliant one, then let us wish him good luck and God speed.’ He turned to Belisarius. ‘You have our permission to proceed. Bring back Hypatius alive, if possible.’
If he was quick, Procopius thought, as he hurried through the corridors towards the quarters of the Palace Guard, he’d just have time to warn Marcellus before Belisarius set out with his Germans. So far, things were working out nicely for his plan of revenge against that meretrix sordida,** Theodora. Subsisting in exiled poverty in some God-forgotten corner of the Empire, she’d have plenty of time to regret the day she’d turned him down, and given him a nasty bite to boot. The wound had turned septic, taking weeks to heal; he could have lost the hand. Pity his scheme necessarily involved taking down her pathetic lap-dog of a husband too — ‘collateral damage’, to use army-speak. He bore Justinian no particular ill-will, but Julianus had promised him Tribonian’s job in the event of the coup succeeding. A man had to look out for himself, after all; no one else, for sure, was going to. Starting that false rumour about Justinian having fled was a master-stroke of his, Procopius reflected. Without it, he doubted if that geriatric ditherer Hypatius would have willingly accepted his imperial role. Now however, all could be in jeopardy — thanks to that wretched brainwave of Belisarius. He quickened his pace. .