‘I’m sorry, Serenity,’ said Belisarius, looking uncharacteristically crestfallen. ‘We found our way blocked by the Palace Guard; they’re obviously just waiting for an opportunity to switch sides. To take them on wouldn’t have achieved anything; and they’d have been able to warn Hypatius. It’s a mystery to me how they found out about our plan.’
‘I think it may be time to go, Serenity,’ said Mundus, speaking with quiet urgency. ‘At least you’ll leave in safety; Belisarius and I will make sure of that.’
‘I’m touched by your loyalty — by the loyalty of all of you,’ Justinian responded, struggling to keep his voice from breaking as he looked around the little group. ‘A fallen emperor is fortunate to have such faithful friends. Those who wish to stay may do so with my blessing. The rest of us should now prepare to leave.’
Theodora, who had remained silent throughout the whole meeting, suddenly rose to her feet.
‘I know it’s not supposed to be a woman’s place to speak in a men’s council,’ she declared in quiet but clear tones. ‘However, the present situation allows convention to be waived, I think. You are for flight? Well, there are the ships, there’s the sea; life and safety yours for the choosing. But ask yourselves — what sort of life would that be? A life of shameful exile in a distant land. Sooner or later, death must come to us all. Speaking for myself, I would not wish to live deprived of my imperial robe. There is a saying — a true one, I believe — that the purple is a glorious winding sheet.*’
She sat down amid a stunned silence, in which the men avoided each other’s eyes in shamefaced embarrassment. Flight, which minutes before had seemed the only option, now, thanks to the galvanizing effect of Theodora’s rousing little speech, appeared out of the question.
Soon, an alternative plan was being thrashed out. Leading the Germans in two separate parties, Belisarius and Mundus would circumnavigate the Hippodrome, then enter via the gates at either end. The obvious risk was that such large bodies of men would be detected and the alarm raised before they could complete the manoeuvre. But desperate situations call for desperate measures.
‘I’ll just make sure the coast’s clear,’ murmured Procopius, as the plan’s final details were being discussed. ‘We don’t want anyone learning what’s afoot.’ And he slipped out of the tablinum. Hypatius and his followers must be warned, he thought. He had not gone ten paces however, when he felt his shoulder gripped from behind, then found himself spun violently round to face the agens, Crixus.
‘Get your hand off me, you black — ’ Procopius broke off with a gasp of pain, as the other’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of his upper arm.
‘And just where did you think you were heading?’ enquired the huge Nubian softly. ‘The Hippodrome, perhaps? I’ve had my eye on you, sonny. Who tipped off the Palace Guard, I wonder? We’ll just go back and join the others, shall we?’
In the flickering torchlight of their great drill-hall, with a frisson of pride and affection Belisarius surveyed his men — blond giants, each protected by Spangenhelm (the conical, segmented helmet favoured by Teutonic races) and hauberk of ring-mail or lamellar plates, small bars of iron laced together. All were armed with spathae, long and deadly Roman swords, equally effective for cutting or thrusting. Shields were being left behind; these would not be needed. Germans, the general reflected, so long as they were individually recruited, and subjected to Roman discipline and training, made the best soldiers in the world — utterly loyal, fearless, and ferocious fighters. (Federate troops: whole tribes enrolled for Rome under their own leaders, were a different matter. Greedy, treacherous, and unreliable, they had played no small part in bringing down the Western Empire.)
‘Right, lads — let’s be off,’ Belisarius called softly. Followed by the silent files of mercenaries under their dekarchs or squad leaders, he led the way out of the Palace, giving the Guards’ quarters a wide berth.
Rendezvousing with Mundus and his Heruls (from a particularly fierce Germanic tribe) at the smoking rubble of the Chalke, Belisarius whispered to his fellow general, ‘We both count to a thousand, then enter. That’ll give us more than enough time to get into position, and allow us both to strike at the same time. All right?’
Mundus nodded, and the two forces — each nearly a thousand strong — set off in opposite directions. Picking their way in the darkness over smouldering ruins without making a sound was no easy task, but Belisarius’ Germans managed it superbly. Long before the count was up, he and his men were assembled outside the Hippodrome’s Nekra Gate.* From inside the stadium’s towering walls arose a deafening hubbub of jubilant shouting.
‘Nine hundred and ninety-nine. . one thousand,’ murmured Belisarius to himself. Raising an arm, he pointed to the entrance of the Nekra Gate. Briefed in advance, his men knew exactly what to do; in silence, they filed through the entrance into the torchlit Hippodrome.
As the crowds inside the vast space became aware of the grim ranks of mailed Germans, the shouting died away, to be replaced by a horrified silence — a silence that gave way to screams of pain and terror, as the Germans began their grim task. The crisis had escalated far beyond the point where reason and restraint might have proved effective; now only a lethal lesson could bring the people to their senses.
Trapped in a huddled mass between the troops of Belisarius and Mundus, the citizenry stood no chance. Unlike the street-fighting of the day before, where the mob could escape down narrow alleys to regroup or bombard their opponents from the rooftops, here, squashed together in an open space, they were as sheep for the slaughter. The Hippodrome became a bloody killing-ground, as the Germans — to whom from their youth fighting and slaughter were activities to be relished — steadily advanced, hacking and thrusting with a terrible, machine-like efficiency. At last the two generals called off their men — blood-bespattered, and exhausted by their efforts — allowing the terrified survivors to flee to the safety of their homes, leaving thirty thousand corpses strewn like broken dolls upon the racetrack.
When the sun arose on the smouldering, half-ruined city, no angry crowds appeared on the streets. Cowed and apprehensive, many with wounds being tended by their womenfolk, the citizens of Constantinople remained indoors. In the Palace, Hypatius, white-faced and trembling, was brought before Justinian. When asked by the latter why he had agreed to usurp the throne, Hypatius had no answer. Denial would have been futile; half the city could bear witness to that coronation speech.
‘Mercy, Serenity,’ babbled the general. ‘I allowed myself to be swayed by the vox populi. That was wrong — wrong and stupid. I’d have realized my folly soon enough, and abdicated in your favour.’
Looking at the broken old man before him, pleading for his life, Justinian felt a stab of pity. Here, surely, was no threat. He had liked Hypatius, coming to regard him almost as a friend. About to pardon him, he caught Theodora’s eye; she shook her head in silent warning. As usual, she was right, Justinian acknowledged to himself; any possibility of rivals bidding for the purple must be ruthlessly eliminated. Reluctantly, he gave the order for Hypatius’ execution. Pompeius too, would not be spared. Later that morning, the bodies of the two brothers were thrown into the sea. The insurrection was over.
In his private chamber, Justinian broke down and wept, his tears ones of relief, of guilt and sorrow for the deaths of so many of his people; above all of gratitude towards the brave and loyal woman to whom he owed his throne, and — most probably his life.
* Tribonian’s official title.
* Of Hunnish descent, Mundo — as he was then known — had once been a formidable bandit leader. Since swearing allegiance to Rome, however, he had become one of the most stalwart of Roman generals. A classic case of poacher turned gamekeeper! (See my Theoderic.)