As the procession crossed the Augusteum (or Augusteon, as the great square was coming to be called, Greek fast replacing Latin in the capital), the emperor reflected on the events of the three years that had elapsed since the triumphant conclusion of the Vandal War. There had been a few unforeseen setbacks and anxieties: the mutinies in Africa and Sicily; the shock of hearing from Belisarius that the war might be lost for lack of reinforcements (the speed and apparent ease of victory in Africa, had perhaps caused him to assume too easily that Roman discipline and tactics, even with modest manpower, was a combination that would always beat barbarians); the Gothic resurgence following the replacement of the timid and vacillating Theodahad with the formidable Witigis; the tug-of-war between himself and Theodora over who should be Pope.
But in the end, most problems (or at least those that could be loosely termed political) had been resolved: a relief force of tough Isaurians and Thracians under an experienced general (rejoicing in the appellation John ‘the Sanguinary’) had entered Rome and re-opened lines of communication, forcing Witigis to prepare to abandon the siege; Theodora’s choice for Pope — the pro-Monophysite Vigilius — had triumphed over his Orthodox rival Silverius. (Perhaps it had been for the best, the emperor conceded to himself, his basic sense of justice enabling him to realize that the recent revival of persecution of the Monophysites was as lacking in humanity as it was unproductive.) All considered, the success of the Grand Plan seemed tantalizingly close to completion. In Italy, the tide was turning in his favour; a few more months should see the whole peninsula in Roman hands (with Spain, Gaul, and perhaps one day even Britain, to follow?), especially as he had decided to send an experienced general — Narses, with a fresh army — to help Belisarius. The second version of his and Tribonian’s great Code* had been published to universal acclaim and satisfaction. While the goal of religious uniformity might seem for the moment to be elusive, with goodwill, patience and perseverance, that too, Justinian believed, could eventually be achieved.
However, like those fabled Apples of the Hesperides — fair to the eye but which turned to ashes in the mouth — a secret fear lurked ever at the back of Justinian’s mind, threatening to dash the cup of triumph from his lips. There had been times when, if he were being honest with himself, he had experienced ‘a dark night of the soul’ concerning his attitude towards his wife. Deeply though he loved Theodora, there had been moments when he had been tempted to see her, not as his Divinely Chosen colleague, but as an agent of the Evil One with whom he had weakly colluded: a figure like Medea, the enchantress in the fable, who, to gratify her love for Jason slew her own brother. Such a moment had come to pass when the thought occurred to him, ‘Had Theodora sent the letter to the Gothic king that had resulted in the murder of Amalasuntha?’ Another had been prompted by rumours that the recent Pope, Silverius, an enemy of the Monophysites (whose cause Theodora had championed), had been done away with at her orders. At such times, the old corrosive fear that he might be cursed, that he was somehow bad for others (a fear that for long he had believed buried) had returned to haunt him. To the roll of shame: the deaths of Atawulf and Valerian, the near-fatal hesitation to speak up for his uncle in the Senate, that self-inflicted blow in the Cistern of Nomus the mark of which he bore to this day — to these perhaps could now be added the names of Amalasuntha and Silverius.
As, resplendent in the robes and diadem of a Roman empress, Theodora processed across the Augusteum beside her husband, she reflected on the tumultuous events of the past eighteen months regarding the Monophysites, whose well-being was (next to the lot of her own sex) the cause dearest to her heart.
As a result of pressure from a reactionary Pope, Agapetus, who, on a visit to Constantinople had been horrified to find the Monophysites in the ascendancy (largely through the efforts of Theodora on their behalf), not only in the capital but as well throughout the Empire, Justinian had been forced to renege on his granting of favoured status to the Monophysites. Squeezed between the Scylla of the Pontiff and the Charybdis of Monophysitism, Justinian had yielded to the former — who was in an extremely strong bargaining position. Agapetus had hinted that he might use the immense power that he wielded as Pope to tell the Romans in Italy not to cooperate with Belisarius and his army of liberation, unless the emperor agreed to his demands. These were: the deposition of Anthimus, the Monophysite Patriarch of Constantinople, and the excommunication of all leading Monophysites in the capital.
Realizing that his cherished aim of recovering Italy for the Empire (the key constituent of his Grand Plan) could be put in jeopardy, Justinian had reluctantly yielded to what, in effect, was Pontifical blackmail. Anthimus was duly deposed, and replaced by Menas — an ultra-Orthodox Chalcedonian* — who immediately and with brutal thoroughness began a crackdown on Monophysites throughout the Empire, especially in their heartlands of Syria and Egypt, where a reign of terror was unleashed. The death of the aged Agapetus did nothing to improve the lot of the persecuted sect, Silverius — a principled conservative — being consecrated by the electoral college in Rome as his successor.
Theodora however, wholehearted in her loves as in her hates, was not the sort of person meekly to accept defeat. She had an ally in the corridors of power: Antonina, wife of Belisarius, a strong-willed woman who had even more influence over her husband than did Theodora over hers. Via correspondence, the two women (who were bosom friends) concocted a plot. Antonina would put pressure on her husband (now installed with his tiny army inside Rome, a city which the Goths, led by their new king, Witigis, proceeded to besiege) to have Silverius deposed in favour of Theodora’s choice for Pope, Vigilius, an unscrupulous, ambitious deacon from an illustrious Roman family. Vigilius had sworn that, in the event of his being elected, he would reverse the anti-Monophysite regime of the Patriarch Menas. To undermine Silverius’ position, forged letters purporting to be messages from him to Witigis offering to throw open the gates of Rome to the Goths, were to be ‘discovered’. .
Torn by shame and indecision, Belisarius paced the marble floor of a reception chamber in Rome’s Pincian Palace. He had sent a summons to Pope Silverius in the Lateran Palace on the opposite, southern side of the city, and was now awaiting his arrival. It was a meeting the general was not looking forward to. Under orders from Antonina (acting on instructions from that she-devil of a friend of hers, the Empress Theodora), he was to present the Pope with an ultimatum: issue a statement supporting the Monophysites, or face the consequences.
Belisarius hated the role he had been forced to play — a second Pilate compelled by circumstance to act against a good and innocent man. He liked and respected Silverius, the man who, in the face of considerable opposition from more cautious souls in both the Senate and the Vatican, had opened the gates of Rome to Belisarius’ army. Now, he was to pay back that generous act by betrayal.
‘Come!’ he shouted with uncharacteristic violence, as a rapping on the door interrupted his thoughts. A frightened-looking servant entered. ‘S-Sir,’ the man stammered, ‘- the Domina would wish to see b-both yourself and the Holy Father — should your d-discussion not succeed.’
‘Understood,’ replied the general in more kindly tones, dismissing the messenger with a gesture. Soon after, the Pope — a frail-looking figure with an open, guileless countenance — was ushered into the chamber.
‘Welcome, Your Holiness,’ declared Belisarius, waving the other to a seat. ‘There is a proposition I must put to you,’ he went on awkwardly, continuing to pace the floor, ‘- one which I hope you will feel able to accept. It is — ’