‘Shut it, Simon,’ sighed the bartender. ‘There’s a noggin on the house with your name on it — but only if you keep your trap shut.’
‘What’s the emperor doing about it — “Cottigers” did you call them?’ grumbled a pot-bellied carpenter with sawdust in his hair. ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’
‘Nothing, chum,’ commented a brawny porter. ‘Bloody nothing. Oh, he can sort out Italy and Africa but when it comes to us poor sods at home — doesn’t want to know, does he? Too taken up with this latest religious wheeze of his to bother about the likes of us.’
‘Aphthartodocetism — that’s the new doctrine you’re referring to,’ pronounced the student, smirking knowingly at his friends.
‘Aphtha — ; what the hell’s that when it’s at home?’ growled the porter.
‘Aphthartodocetism holds that the body of Christ was incorruptible — ergo, His sufferings were only apparent.’
‘Well!’ exclaimed a floury-armed baker. ‘Sounds to me like something the Patriarch’ll take a dim view of — very dim indeed, I’d say.’ Sensing from the interested hush that he had the floor’s attention, the man went on portentously, emphasizing points with an admonitory finger. ‘According to Chalcedon, Christ is both human and divine. Strikes me that this Apartho-whatever stuff is suggesting He’s only got the one nature — which puts it squarely in the Monophysite camp. Looks like His Serenity has screwed up badly over this one.’
Keen amateur theologians, like all Constantinopolitans, the patrons of Damian’s immediately became engaged in passionate debate about the merits or otherwise (mostly otherwise) of this latest theological dogma, which seemed to have about it an exciting whiff of heresy. .
Seated as usual at his desk in his tablinum, Justinian racked his brains as to how best to tackle this appalling business of the Kotrigurs. No sooner had he finished the momentous task of restoring the West to the Imperial fold, he told himself, than the Danube frontier — despite being reinforced with a line of massive fortifications — started springing leaks, allowing a seemingly endless tide of barbarians to come flooding in. If it wasn’t Bulgars it was Slavs, if it wasn’t Slavs it was Utigurs, if it wasn’t Utigurs it was Kotrigurs. These last two — fierce Mongol tribes related to the Huns — he had managed, in time-honoured Roman fashion, to play off against each other for an extended period. Now, however, they seemed to have patched up their differences, resulting in the present crisis. With all Roman armies away in Italy or the east, the problem of how to defend the capital was acute. Also, it was becoming personally embarrassing. As ‘Little Father to his People’, an emperor was expected to ensure protection for his subjects in times of peril. Should he, Justinian, be found wanting, his status as God’s Appointed would inevitably be called in question. Meanwhile, the one man who might have been able, if anyone could, to deal with the situation, was absent. Belisarius, now retired, was nowhere to be found, and had left no word as to where he could be contacted. .
In his dream, more radiantly beautiful even than she had been in life, Theodora advanced towards Justinian. Taking him by the hand, she led him silently through the Triclinium of the Nine Couches, out of the Palace, and into the Augusteum. Pointing to the huge bronze equestrian statue of the emperor, arrayed in the panoply of a conquering Roman general, that had recently been installed in the centre of the great square, she turned to Justinian with a smile and murmured, ‘In hoc signo vinces — With this sign you shall conquer.’
Stirring awake, the emperor felt a sharp pang of loss and disappointment. The dream had been so real; in his memory it seemed as though Theodora had actually spoken to him. Suddenly, these sad reflections were replaced by a surge of excitement, as a thought flashed into Justinian’s brain. ‘In hoc signo vinces’: the words that, accompanying a cross in the sky, the symbol of the Christians, Constantine had seen in a vision before going on to defeat his rival Maxentius at the Battle of the Milvian Bridge. At last, God had given him his sign! — the sign that he had prayed in vain for, following the death of his beloved wife. The message of the dream was clear: he, Justinian, was to lead an army in person against the Kotrigurs, an encounter from which he would emerge victorious!
But where was the army to come from? Justinian’s mind raced. With the enemy almost at the gates of the capital, there was no way that any units could get here from their distant postings in time to intervene. There were the Palace Guards of course; but a token force of a few hundred parade soldiers could achieve little against fierce nomad hordes. There was only one solution: he must appeal directly to the citizens of Constantinople and raise a volunteer army — as Fabius had done, in the dark days when Hannibal had wiped out the flower of Rome’s legions. Never mind that for more than a hundred and fifty years, no Roman emperor had commanded troops in battle,* or that he was now seventy-seven; age had not dulled his mind nor sapped his resolve. Summoning the captain of the guard, he strode to the armoury to select the right accoutrements in which to lead his people into battle.
‘Belisarius!’ En route to address his subjects in the Forum of Constantine, Justinian uttered a cry of joyous welcome at the sight of his old general riding towards him at the head of his bodyguard — tough German bucellarii or personal retainers.
‘Came as soon as I heard the news about the Kotrigurs, Serenity,’ declared Belisarius. ‘Been away on a hunting trip in Phrygia, so rather incommunicado, I’m afraid.’
The two embraced warmly, Justinian feeling a rush of affection and gratitude towards this man who, more than any other, had made the dream of a reconstituted Empire into a reality. He also experienced a stab of guilt for ever having listened to Belisarius’ detractors; time and again — as he was indeed demonstrating at this moment — the general had proved his unswerving loyalty towards his emperor.
Entering the great circular forum, dominated by the porphyry column bearing a statue of the city’s founder, the pair, imposing in muscle cuirasses and crested helmets, mounted the tribunal for reviewing troops. The vast crowd assembled in the forum (Palace messengers had been busy spreading the word that the emperor wished to address the citizens) fell silent.
‘People of Constantinople,’ declaimed Justinian, experiencing an exhilarating flow of confidence, ‘I need hardly remind you that we stand today in peril from a savage enemy, both numerous and cruel. Our armies are too far off to help us, so it is to ourselves that we must look for the defence of our city and our families. That you will rise to the occasion I have every confidence, for you are Romans of New Rome, stout of heart and strong of spirit, who will never allow barbarian feet to trample the pavements of our capital. All fit males between the ages of sixteen and sixty, report now to the Arsenal where Belisarius — who, as you see, has joined us in our hour of need — will form you into companies and see that you are issued arms. That done, assemble at the Golden Gate, where Belisarius and I will lead you out against these heathen Kotrigurs. With God upon our side, we cannot fail to be victorious.’
For a few moments silence filled the vast enclosure; then thunderous applause erupted from the audience, moved and uplifted by the sight of their aged emperor and his great general come to their deliverance.
‘Amazing!’ breathed Justinian in admiration, looking at what appeared to be a huge army, arrayed along a ridge of high ground overlooking a tributary of the Athyras. ‘Congratulations, general — a really splendid job. From here, I can’t tell which are real and which are dummies.’
‘Let’s hope Zabergan thinks the same,’ said Belisarius, looking pleased by the emperor’s reaction to his subterfuge. ‘Only one in twenty’s an actual soldier; the rest are made of bundled straw with wooden poles for spears. Well, we’ll soon find out,’ he went on, pointing to a distant pall of dust. ‘That’ll be Zabergan’s van approaching.’