‘- that I must go along with what the Empress wishes on behalf of the Monophysites,’ continued Silverius with a wry smile; ‘or surrender Peter’s throne. Something on those lines, I assume?’
‘Precisely, Holiness,’ responded the general, sounding relieved. ‘You’ve saved me from having to spell it out.’ He seated himself opposite the Pontiff. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ he cried, in his agitation forgetting to observe the correct mode of address, ‘- just do as she requests. If you don’t, then someone else will; and we both know who that someone is — a time-serving lickspittle called Vigilius.’
‘I can appreciate you’re in an awkward position, General,’ replied the other. ‘I suppose you’ve no choice but to put the Empress’ case to me. But you must understand that I cannot compromise my principles by agreeing to her demands. If that makes things difficult for you,’ he went on gently, ‘then I am sorry. But I have to answer to my conscience rather than an earthly power. What was it that Christ said? — ‘Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s; and unto God the things that are God’s’.’
Giving a resigned shrug, Belisarius conducted Silverius to his wife’s suite. Assembled in the triclinium were a number of officials and servants, also a beautiful woman, extended on a couch like a great, sleek cat. Beside her stood a smooth-faced man, clad in the rich apparel of a noble rather than a deacon’s simple gown — Vigilius.
‘Come, my love — sit by me,’ commanded Antonina. Obediently, the general perched himself on the floor beside the couch. Turning to Silverius, she waved a clutch of documents in the air and declared in icy tones, ‘You would betray us to the Goths, it seems, Your Holiness. “At the first hour on the Kalends of next month, I shall cause the Asinarian Gate to be opened”,’ she read from one of the missives. ‘Your own words, Holiness. What have you to say?’
Silverius smiled and spread his hands, as if to imply that the question did not merit any answer.
‘Traitor — by your silence you condemn yourself,’ sneered Antonina. ‘If further proof of guilt were needed, the fact that your residence, the Lateran Palace, is hard by the Asinarian Gate, supplies it.’ She nodded to two of the officials who, stepping forward, tore the pallium from the Pontiff’s shoulders then forced him to exchange his papal vestments for the habit of a monk. A barber then advanced, and, producing a razor, unceremoniously scraped the hair from Silverius’ scalp to form a tonsure.
The unfortunate man was hustled from the palace (from which his waiting retinue was curtly dismissed) and put on board a ship bound for the east. Next day,* Vigilius was consecrated Pope, groups of Belisarius’ soldiers standing by to discourage hostile demonstrations.
Arriving in the Empire, Silverius was confined in a monastery near Patara in Lycia, a coastal province of south-west Anatolia. Chancing to hear of his distinguished ‘guest’, the bishop of Patara visited Silverius, from whom he heard the whole sorry saga of deposition and abduction. Outraged, the bishop wrote to Justinian informing him of Silverius’ plight. For the emperor (prepared though he was on most occasions to turn a blind eye to the machinations of his wife) this was too much. Indignantly, he had Silverius freed and put on board a ship for Rome, with instructions that the case against him be re-opened and the charge of treason re-examined. When he heard the news, Vigilius was terrified (should Silverius be cleared and reinstated, what would happen then to him?) and at once appealed for help, to Antonina and Theodora. .
Off Naples, the ship carrying Silverius to Rome was intercepted by a fast galley or liburna and boarded by four rough-looking individuals. Showing the captain a letter of authorization bearing the seal of Belisarius, their caput demanded that Silverius accompany them. The skipper and the former Pope had little choice but to comply. Two hours later, the liburna beached on a rocky islet and Silverius was bundled ashore. ‘Your new See, Holiness,’ chuckled the caput. Then the craft stood out to sea, dwindled to a distant dot, and vanished.
The awful truth dawned on Silverius. Here, on this tiny island, he had been left alone to die. A hasty examination of his ‘new See’ confirmed his fears: the place consisted of bare rocks from fissures in which sprouted a few hardy shrubs. It was totally devoid of shelter, fresh water, or edible substance — in short, of anything that might sustain life. A horrible, lingering death from thirst and hunger awaited him. Unless. .
The son of another stout-hearted Pope, Hormisdas, (before the latter entered the priesthood), Silverius had grown up on the coast of Calabria.* Like all his boyhood companions, young Marcus, as he had then been known, had taken to swimming almost as soon as he could walk. But that was sixty years ago. Old and in failing health, could he now attempt the sort of distances he had swum with ease in his youth? He looked east across the blue Tyrrhenian, to a steep and barren coastline perhaps five miles distant. On the far horizon a tiny, purple cone was etched against a sky of palest azure — Vesuvius.
Never one to shirk a hard decision, Silverius rapidly made up his mind. If he remained on the island, he faced inevitable death — barring unlikely rescue by some passing craft. Death too, probably awaited him if he attempted to swim to shore, but at least it would come quickly. Stripping off his monkish habit, he waded into the sea and began to swim.
It being summer, the water was not cold and he managed to make slow but steady progress; his old skills had not completely atrophied. After what he estimated to be an hour, Silverius noted to his gratified surprise, that the coast was appreciably closer. Though tiring, he was far from exhausted; provided he could escape the onset of muscle cramps and did not encounter adverse currents, there might, he thought, be a possibility that he could actually reach shore. And then? With luck, he could surely beg some local peasant to provide him with clothing and sustenance for his immediate needs. He could then make his way to Rome where he had many friends among both Goths and Romans, men of integrity and influence who would help him live ‘underground’ as it were, until. . Until Justinian and Belisarius (both decent, well-intentioned men, but as potter’s clay in their wives’ hands) developed enough backbone to call off Theodora and Antonina. And that, Silverius was realist enough to acknowledge, might not be for a very long time. Still, better a life of precarious obscurity than imprisonment in a remote monastery, or slow starvation on a sea-girt rock.
Now, on the approaching shore he could make out individual features such as rocks and trees; he must have covered at least two-thirds of the distance. Silverius felt a surge of optimism. Against all the odds, it looked as though he might in fact survive. Then he spotted something that caused hope to shrivel in his breast, to be replaced by a cold knot of terror — a dark, triangular fin slicing through the water fifty feet ahead of him.
The great shark dived deep below the swimmer, then, with powerful sweeps of its crescent tail, shot upwards with the speed and impetus of a missile from an onager.
Feeling a jarring thump against his leg but as yet no pain, Silverius reached downwards — and experienced a thrill of disbelieving horror as his groping fingers encountered a stump of shredded flesh and jagged bone, felt a pumping flow of blood from a severed femoral artery. Then pain struck; Silverius’ scream of agony was mercifully cut short as the monster hit again, crushing his torso to a jelly in its massive jaws. .
With its scaffolding now removed, Justinian could see the exterior of the great church clearly for the first time. As Anthemius had warned him to expect, though impressive through sheer scale, it was not otherwise especially arresting. However, entering from the narthex into the ambulatory and thence into the vast central space, Justinian (who had deliberately refrained from visiting the building in the final stages of construction, the more to savour this moment of revelation) was reduced to stunned silence, awed by an overwhelming sense of space and light. And everywhere, such colour: marble richly veined in varied hues, softly glowing mosaics, the gleam of gold and silver.