* Dictator of Rome from 81–79 BC, Sulla was infamous for his Proscriptions — death lists of political enemies, posted up in public. By Justinian’s time, capital punishment, even for murder, was rare; blinding, or confinement to a monastery, the usual alternatives. (See Notes.)
* Bowl for mixing wine with water. The heavy imperial vintages were usually diluted before serving. A host’s generosity or meanness could sometimes be measured by the proportion of water to wine in the mixture.
* Master of Soldiers in the Presence [of the emperor].
* The Black Sea.
** Filthy whore.
* See Appendix III.
* So called, because the bodies of charioteers killed in the races were carried through it.
THIRTEEN
If you do not keep discipline, we shall end up by driving the Africans, who
are Romans, into the arms of the Vandals
From the Palace, despite his efforts to shut out the sound, Justinian could not prevent himself from hearing the death-carts removing those thirty thousand corpses from the Hippodrome — a continuous low rumbling that lasted for two whole days and nights, and which constituted for the emperor both a painful reminder and reproach, for the blame he shared with others in the root cause of the riots. But though he found it hard to forgive himself, God, he thought, surely would forgive him; the very fact that he had survived (through the intervention of Theodora, God’s agent) was plainly evidence that the Almighty had work for him to do, namely the implementing of his Grand Plan: the restoration of the One and Indivisible Empire, together with the establishment throughout his realm, of the One True Faith.
First, however, there must be closure regarding the riots. To satisfy the populace, he dismissed Eudaemon, Tribonian, and John the Cappadocian, while making it clear to all three ministers that theirs was but a temporary suspension, moreover one on full pay; they were too useful to him for their services to be dispensed with permanently. Also, their loyalty was incontestable, and loyalty was a quality that Justinian prized above all others. Despite the urgings of some ministers, he would countenance no savage reprisals against those involved in the disturbance. Some aristocrats of senatorial or consular rank were sent into exile (with the understanding that, conditional on good behaviour, they could eventually be permitted to come back, when their confiscated estates would be returned to them); and the Hippodrome (always a potential focus for disaffection) was closed.* Such were the limits of retaliation by the state; as for the disaffected, although their grievances remained for the most part unaddressed, they were perhaps too relieved by the government’s conciliatory stance to indulge in further protest — for the time being at least.
The most pressing priority for Justinian at this time was to express his thanks to God for his deliverance — and in a manner commensurate with the extent of his gratitude. And what greater opportunity for him to do so, than to rebuild Hagia Sophia? (Was its destruction foreordained, the emperor wondered, in order that it might be raised anew in yet more glorious form — a fitting tribute to the Almighty from His Appointed One?)
There were master-builders aplenty in the capital, capable of producing a fine successor to the ruined church — men whose workmanship, based on precedent and rule of thumb, was invariably dependable and of the highest quality. Certainly, such men could build a bigger, more impressive version of the Church of the Holy Wisdom. But like almost every church of any size, it would be based on the basilica — a municipal building for the conduct of public business, of rectangular construction, with pillared aisles and a pitched roof: solid, rational, Roman. This, however, was not what the emperor wanted. Something suggestive of the meeting-point of this world and the transcendent world of the divine absolute was what was called for. In a word, something more spiritual. Justinian had heard of a man, perhaps the only one in his whole Empire, who might answer such a calclass="underline" one Anthemius of Tralles, a trained engineer and mathematician from a brilliant family of lawyers, physicians, and grammarians. Only a man of quite exceptional talent would be capable of conceiving the bold, ideal vision that Justinian hoped could be realized in stone. Perhaps Anthemius was that man; he would send for him this very day.
‘Magnificent,’ breathed Justinian in awed delight, as two servitors placed before him on a table in his tablinum, a model of the church-to-be. Turning to its maker, he went on, ‘That dome — when built, it will be enormous. What are its dimensions?’
‘One hundred feet across, Serenity,’ replied Anthemius. Small, fat, and bald — the engineer could not have appeared more different from the lean ascetic that Justinian had pictured before their meeting. In fact, Anthemius reminded him of an ivory figurine he had once seen in a shop in the Mese, representing, as a plump and smiling sage, one Siddhartha,* an Oriental holy man who had lived a thousand years before.
‘A hundred feet! Its mass must be incalculable! Surely the pressure must crush its supporting walls, however thick.’
‘Not so, Serenity. See.’ And with a flourish, the little engineer lifted up the model’s dome to reveal the interior — exquisitely painted to represent marbles of every hue. ‘Those four mighty piers are joined, at a height of seventy feet, by those four great arches on whose apices the dome will rest.’
‘Even so. .’ The emperor’s voice trailed off in doubt.
‘Rest assured, Serenity. The piers and arches won’t collapse. The dome, you see, will be constructed from the lightest material imaginable.’
‘Wood!’ exclaimed Justinian in horror. ‘A lightning strike — then up it goes in flames!’
‘Not wood, Serenity,’ Anthemius chuckled, shaking his head in mild reproof. ‘Pumice. So light it floats on water. Yet tough and durable. It will enable the dome’s construction to be thin, but strong; all to be covered with a marble skin, of course. Imagine half an eggshell resting on four child’s building blocks.’
‘Pure genius!’ Justinian smiled, raising his hands in admiration. ‘I chose well, Anthemius, when I chose yourself to oversee my project.’
‘The scale’s too small, Serenity, to let you appreciate the building’s chief quality. From the outside, it’ll appear impressively big, certainly; and those flanking semi-domes should impart a certain elegance. Otherwise, it won’t look all that remarkable. Inside, however, it’s a different matter. Standing in the centre of the nave, the spectator will be aware of vistas of space receding into space, while above, the great dome will appear to float in air.’ He paused, and his tone, which up to this point had been briskly matter-of-fact, became hushed and solemn as he continued, ‘As if suspended by a golden chain from Heaven.’
On almost any day thereafter, the citizens of Constantinople, if passing through the Augusteum could be greeted by the extraordinary sight of their emperor, clad in a workman’s linen tunic, clambering about the organized chaos of the great new church’s building site, inspecting, exhorting, questioning, his presence both a nuisance and a source of inspiration. Justinian had never been happier.
In that same year, Khusro — the new Great King of Persia (old Kavadh, for so long a thorn in East Rome’s flesh, having died the year before) signed a Treaty of Eternal Peace with the Roman Empire. Nothing could have been more opportune for Justinian; now his hands were freed to press ahead with his plans to recover the West’s lost provinces for Rome — plans which he had recently been forced to modify.