For Chris
List of Characters
Fictitious characters are indicated with an asterisk (see Author’s Note)
Aetios, physician
Alicia, soothsayer (real person, invented name)
Amalasuintha, regent of the Goths in Italy
Anastasia (Stasie), Theodora’s younger sister, former animal keeper
Anastasius, grandson to Theodora, born to Juliana and Zeno
Anna, daughter to Chrysomallo (real person, invented name)
Anthemius, mathematician and physicist, designs new Hagia Sofia
with Isidorus
Antonina, former actress and friend of Theodora, wife to Belisarius
Areobindus, steward to Theodora
Areobindus, military commander and patrician
Artabanes, military commander, changes sides to serve Justinian
Belisarius, general and Commander in Chief of the Byzantine army
Bouzes, Byzantine general
Cappadocian John, Praetorian Prefect of the East, tax-collecter
Chrysomallo, former acrobat and dancer, friend to Theodora
*Claudia, lady-in-waiting to Theodora
Comito, Theodora’s elder sister, former actress and courtesan,
wife to General Sittas
Eudaemon, Praetorian Prefect of Constantinople
Father Agapetus, Pope of Rome
Father Anthimus, Patriarch of Constantinople after Epiphanius,
deposed
Father Epiphanius, Patriarch of Constantinople
Father Gaianus, becomes Patriarch of Alexandria, deposed
Father Maximianus, Bishop of Ravenna
Father Menas, Patriarch of Constantinople who replaces Anthimus
Father Severus, deposed Patriarch of Antioch sheltering in Alexandria
Father Silverius, Pope of Rome after Agapetus, deposed
Father Vigilius, Pope of Rome who replaces Silverius
Father Theodosius, Patriarch of Alexandria after Gaianus
Gelimer, leader of the Goths in Africa
Germanus, cousin to Justinian, becomes Magister Militum in Africa
Guntarith, rebel leader in Africa
Ildibad, king of the Ostrogoths after Witigis
Ildiger, Byzantine general
Indaro, former acrobat and dancer, friend to Theodora
Isidorus, university professor of science, designs new Hagia Sofia
with Anthemius
Jacob Baradaeus, holy man, “old Ragbag”
John, impostor claiming to be Theodora’s son
(real person, invented name)
John Sanguinaris, or Bloody John, Byzantine general
(real person, invented name, father not identified)
Justin, nephew to Justinian
Justinian, Emperor of Byzantium
Khosrau, King of Persia
Macedonia, slave
Maximinus, civilian commander of the military
*Marcus Anicius Longinus, senator, protecter of Comito
Matasuintha, daughter of Amalasuintha
Mundus, general in Byzantine army
Nabedes, general in Persian Army
Narses, a eunuch, Commander of the Imperial Guard,
becomes Chief Chamberlain and military general
Praejecta, niece to Justinian, widow of Areobindus
Pharas, general in Byzantine army
Photius, eldest son to Antonina
Procopius, secretary and legal adviser to Belisarius, historian
Quintus Julius Libo, aged patrician (real person, invented name)
Sergius, a military commander
Sheikh Harith ibn Jabala, king of a Christian Arab state,
a Monophysite
Sittas, general in Byzantine army, husband to Comito
Solomon, eunuch, military leader in Carthage
Sophia, daughter born to Comito and General Sittas
Theodahad, king of the Ostrogoths who deposes Amalasuintha
Theodora, former actress and courtesan, Empress of Byzantium
Theodosius, mapmaker, adopted godson to Belisarius and
Antonina (believed by historians to have been her lover)
Tribonian, legal expert
Witigis, king of the Ostrogoths after Theodahad
Zeno, son of Probus, marries Juliana (real person, invented name)
Z’ura, stylite, holy man
Sundry other persons such a chief usher, silentiaries, guards
(excubitors, scholarians & domestics), servants, slaves, soldiers,
priests, washerwomen, dancing girls, artists, etc
The process of gaining power employs means that degrade or brutalize the seeker, who wakes to find that power has been possessed at the price of virtue – or moral purpose – lost.
Barbara W. Tuchman
Istanbul, A Meditation
In a turbid dream
I tear out the inside page of a book,
the one on which the library’s date stamp is found.
The book is about them, the ones who’ve died,
the ones who are leaving, who often make
an appearance in dreams, or in foreign cities
look almost exactly like a local inhabitant,
except for speaking a foreign language, looking up
amazed and never returning a greeting, or who
lie outstretched in a glass case in a museum,
staring fixedly through sightless eyes. Their lives
were on loan-lease. Never belonged to them.
Those lives were merely a story; and the Author’s name
in the colophon was found to be a pseudonym.
That name is the one I have sought for ages.
Tonight I read in that borrowed book’s pages
about the lives of my friends, my father
and everyone who happened to cross my path.
About a life borrowed in the library of the Dead.
Joan Hambidge
Translated from Afrikaans by Charl JF Cilliers
Prologue: A visit at dusk
A chill breeze carried the bitter scent of ash. Still strong enough to mask the salt tang of the sea, it made the solitary pedestrian cough. No wonder, he thought, when almost a third of the city had been set to the torch. Swathed in a heavy woollen cloak with the hood drawn well over his head, he strode along the street, his authoritative boots asserting his right to be where he was. He was tall, and broad with it; armed, of course, with a short sword and a dagger, but he did not anticipate being set upon. Normally he would have been accompanied by an entourage, but his mission this night was one that he wished not to be witnessed.
Around him in the deepening dusk lay the still smoking ruins that now disfigured Constantinople: the Baths of Zeuxippus, the Church of the Holy Wisdom, the Hospice of St Samson, the Church of Eirene, all reduced to blackened rubble. Jagged walls, broken arches, drunken pillars and defaced mosaics were all that remained of the great buildings, sacred and profane, that had been destroyed by the rebellious mob, aided and abetted by a wild wind from the north. Shattered statues littered the street. He stepped nimbly over a cracked head that still maintained a haughty stare with one remaining marble eye.
But all was quiet now, the wind grown tame, the populace gone to earth, some men still nursing wounds and all of them shocked into submission by the radical violence of the two generals and their mercenaries. He had the street to himself. Even the beggars had not yet returned. The only sign of life besides himself was a rat that pattered
past and darted into a crevice with a flick of its tail.
He reached an alley between two shops with their fronts boarded up. This was where he had been told to go. Now he stepped more quietly: careful, alert. Reached the third door on the left, a heavy one with iron studs. Yes, this was it. He rapped on it. Stood a while, rocking on his heels. Rapped again, impatiently. Then a couple of bolts rattled, the door swung open and he went in.
“The Kyria is expecting you,” said the servile eunuch who had let him in. “Follow me.” He led the way down a narrow passage to a room warmed by a brazier, scented with incense.
A woman sat at a small round table draped in wine-red velvet, in a pool of light cast by an oil lamp. She sat upright, apparently staring down at her hands clasped in front of her. At first glance she looked young and lovely. A second look showed the first impression to be quite wrong: in fact, she was old, with white hair braided and pinned and thin shoulders draped in a grey shawl. But she had the strong clear bones of a beauty still, covered in almost transparent skin like pale porcelain, finely fissured by time. He stood wordless, made to feel huge and clumsy by her pale delicacy.
She tilted her head up. “Good evening, Sir,” she said in a musical voice. “You should take a seat.”
The eunuch offered a chair opposite hers. The man sat down heavily, throwing back the hood of his cloak to reveal the face of a man accustomed to dominating the company he found himself in. Fleshy lips, firmly clamped; a nose broken at least once, attesting to a violent youth; the broad flat cheekbones of marauding Slavic ancestors who rode the Steppes before coming to rest in a verdant Cappadocian valley; dark eyes with a guarded yet penetrating glare beneath wiry eyebrows.
But she did not react to his striking appearance. Her eyes were milky pearls.
“Evening,” he grunted. He felt out of place. He resented women he could not dominate or use.
“I am Alicia,” she said. “Bring the gentleman some wine.”
The eunuch trotted off.
She sat quietly, waiting.
He coughed. “I am John,” he said. “Known as the Cappadocian.”
She nodded. “A man of considerable energy and power. Capable and ruthless. Huge appetites.”
He chuckled, richly selfsatisfied. “That much anybody could have told you. Doesn’t need extraordinary divining skills.”
She nodded again. “A man of overweening ambition.”
“Fairly obvious.”
“Who never knew a mother’s love.”
He was silent for a few counts. Then: “A lucky guess,” he said.
The eunuch brought wine in a crystal goblet.
“Leave us,” she said. “When I need you, I’ll ring the bell.”
“Yes, Kyria.” He backed out.
“Give me your hand, John,” she said.
He put out a peasant’s hand, broad, with thick fingers and dark hair on the back. She took it in both of hers, fine-boned and cool to the touch. He looked down at her delicate, tapered fingers.
She moved her fingertips across his palm as if reading something there by touch. “Ah. A long life, and an eventful one.”
“Glad to hear it’ll be long,” he said. “First thing you couldn’t have already heard or guessed. But then, who’s to know if you turn out to be wrong?”
“Riches. Yes, great riches.”
“I’m already rich,” he said. “Everybody knows that.”
“And poverty,” she went on. “Dire poverty.”
“Well, I grew up poor,” he said. “Also common knowledge.”
“No, no. Still to come.”
“Poverty? Nonsense. I am very, very well off.”
“You shall be poor again,” she insisted.
“I don’t believe you. I have so much … No, no. Impossible.”
She shrugged.
“What else can you tell me?”
“What is your chief concern?”
He leaned forward eagerly. “The future of … my career?”
She considered, drawing circles on his palm.
“And don’t tell me I have been dismissed from my post. There’s nobody in this city that doesn’t know that.”
“That which has been taken away, shall be restored,” she told him.
He sighed with relief. “When?”
“I cannot say exactly. But probably quite soon.”
He grunted with satisfaction. “The same post? I’ll be Prefect of the East again? In charge of taxes?”
“If you are careful, yes. Wait patiently and do nothing to attract attention.” Her questing fingers pressed more firmly on his palm. “Eventually,” she said, “the mantle of Augustus will fall upon your shoulders.”
He drew in a deep breath. Now, suddenly, he was ready to believe her. “The mantle of Augustus? Are you sure?”
“I read it, here. I tell you truly. The mantle of Augustus.”
“When?”
“I cannot tell exactly when. Eventually.”
“It will take time,” he breathed. “I can wait. And plan. And be ready.”
She continued to stroke his hard hand. “A girl,” she said. “A young girl. Important in your life.”
“My daughter,” he told her. “Only one of any importance.”
She nodded. “She is your weakness. You must beware.”
“Beware? But not of her, surely! She loves me! She is my one ewe lamb!”
“Beware,” she reiterated. “There is danger here, associated with her.”
“I must take care of her,” he said, interpreting the warning in the only way it made sense to him. “People could strike at me through her. It is right that you should make me more aware of this.” He was now completely convinced of the sibyl’s capabilities. “She shall have bodyguards. Well, well. And … anything else of import?”
“You have been a follower of Mithra,” she said, suddenly.
He drew in a deep breath, horrified that she should say this. Paganism was completely forbidden and could cause him to be exiled, if not executed. Certainly it would keep him out of a civil post. “But no longer,” he said quickly.
“No. Now you are a man who knows no god.”
At this he sat mute.
“But one day you will turn to the Christ … This will happen when … the mantle of Augustus falls upon you.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “The Emperor is God’s Vice-regent here on earth. He must be seen to be devoutly Christian. Yes, that makes sense. And? What more?”
She sighed. “I have told you all I am able to divine.”
“You can’t say how … or when … ?”
“I have told you all I can,” she said. “But you have heard what you wanted to hear, no?”
He cleared his throat. “I suppose so. Yes.”
She smiled, a smile still as sweet as it must have been when she was young and comely, revealing rotten teeth. She let go of his hand, turned her two slender hands upward and extended them toward him. He filled them with gold, before stalking off into the night.
Narses the eunuch: his journal, AD 532
No easy thing
2 February, AD 532
It is no easy thing, to get rid of an emperor. One who has been chosen by the Senate, supported by the army and proclaimed to the populace. Thrice August. Crowned and consecrated, God’s Vice-regent here on earth. Even when that same populace has varied and deeply felt grievances and wants to get rid of the man they once hailed and revered.
The people of Constantinople now know this fact. The Sanitation Department has removed the corpses, all thirty thousand of them, from the Hippodrome, and the tiers of seats that ran red with blood have been scrubbed with lye. But memories are harder to eradicate. All over the city there are walking reminders of the day they tried to put a different despotes on the throne: men marked with terrible scars or mutilations. But the most grievous reminders are invisible; they are the empty places where once there was a father, a brother or a son, a friend or lover, forever lost when the generals Belisariu
s and Mundus, with their Goths and Heruls, fell upon the mutinous gathering in the great circus, and cut out the heart of the revolt.
I was there, that day, I saw it all. Disguised as a slave in a tattered cloak, I stood with my back to the wall near the Nekra gate and I watched the slaughter. I saw the blood of thirty thousand men spilled in one day in one place, an urban place, not the kind of ground where battles are usually fought. I saw the blood drip and puddle on wooden stands and marble seats and on the hard earth compacted by thousands of thundering horses’ hooves. I saw the entire Hippodrome painted red. That frightful scene brought a sudden insight to my mind: red, rather than purple, is the true colour of power. Whoever wields absolute power will, sooner or later, have to consolidate it with blood. No matter how noble the autocrat’s ideals, it will inevitably come to this.
I saw, also, framed above the holding pens for racing chariots like a puppet show, the palace guards come rushing into the Kathisma to lay hold of the newly crowned Hypatius and his brother Pompeius and drag them back into the palace through the Ivory Gate, together with their recently assembled entourage. I witnessed the brief reign of the usurper coming to an ignominious end. I remember that I noticed the sun glinting on the ferocious fangs of the triple-headed serpent that tops the tower of Apollo on the spina around which the racing chariots hurl themselves to victory or disaster. The three heads appeared to me to be grinning in mockery.
As the Commander of the Imperial Guard, I oversaw the execution of the brothers as ordered by Justinian, and I stood on the icy shore when their bodies were cast into the sea. I saw the usurper float away into the deep.
I believe that Justinian, left to himself, would have been merciful. But the Empress Theodora, whose stirring words had stiffened the resolve of those who had been suggesting flight, pointed out that the sorry pair would always remain a possible focus for discontents, since they do have royal blood from the late Emperor Anastasius, their uncle; moreover, said Theodora, with characteristic pragmatism and clarity, Hypatius had been crowned. Even such a travesty as it had been, lacking the blessing of the Patriarch and enacted with a borrowed golden chain fashioned into a makeshift diadem – even so, he had been crowned. But the Empire of Byzantium can have only one emperor.