The Helmet of Achilles

Historical Note

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BYZANTIUM

JUSTINIAN’S WORLD

Notes on Names

Most of the place names have been taken from HB Dewing’s translation of Procopius’ History of the Wars. Where these names have changed since the 6th century, these have been indicated on the map. The most important of these is the choice of Byzantium, capital of Justinian’s empire, and which has also been known throughout its history as New Rome, Constantinople and, more recently, Istanbul.

I have been more arbitrary in my translations of some military terms, and have opted to use a few original terms from Maurice’s Strategikon (late 6th century) while offering broad-brush modern day translations of other terms. I hope this adds a little flavour and authenticity to the tale without harming its intelligibility. A tagma is a military unit of two to three hundred men, while a dekarch is responsible for leading a group of up to ten men.

I have referred to the citizens of Byzantium (Constantinople/Istanbul) and the wider Roman Empire throughout as Romans. Despite Diocletian’s moves at the end of the 3rd century to establish western and eastern spheres of influence to more effectively govern the empire, and Constantine’s creation of a new capital city for the whole empire in AD330, people of the empire still considered themselves as successors to the Roman Republic and subsequent empire. When the action in the story moves to the city of Rome itself, I have tried to clearly distinguish between the citizens of that city, and the wider members of the empire.

It goes without saying that any oversights, inaccuracies or other mistakes in the text are accidental, but mine alone.

CHAPTER 1

Riot

January 532AD

‘Tell me, just tell me what to do!’ Justinian, emperor of the Roman Empire, cried at his principal advisors, lined up and forlorn on the roughly paved jetty outside the Bucoleon Palace. He was on the point of tears, his eyes livid, and thin strands of curly hair were beginning to plaster his forehead from the salty spray of the waves which crashed against the monumental sea walls of the palace.

Valerius noticed the damp starting to slowly dislodge the crusty blood on one side of his head, more evidence, if any further was needed, that the emperor had every justification to fear for his life. The stones had hailed down hard upon the royal box barely two hours previously, and now this same mob had returned to the hippodrome, carrying and proclaiming a new emperor, Hypatius. Above the sound of the keen wind, the swelling chants and clapping of the maddened host of Romans couldn’t be mistaken. Looking around at the ashen faced men of state staring at their emperor, Valerius realised that everyone was scared. Even Belisarius, the empire’s greatest general, looked grim.

‘Flee, my Lord, it’s your only option.’ Narses, the grand chamberlain eunuch, moved towards his friend and master. With his stumpy legs and dwarf sized body, his movements were never free of the comical element. ‘The boat is here. You can go to Heraclea and be free of all this. I will send a messenger to warn the authorities there to expect you.’

‘And then what is the emperor supposed to do?’ Belisarius retorted, his voice clear and strong. ‘Heraclea is not far from here. What if news of what has been happening in the city has reached there? Will not the emperor be swapping one imminent danger for another? We don’t solve the problem by running away from it.’

Valerius looked towards his friend, stern and alert, and standing slightly away from the other senior counsellors. When serious, his brow fell, pulling in the shadows around his eyes, making them even more difficult to read amongst the dense blocks of curly black hair and thick beard. But Valerius knew Belisarius was right. The unrest had been going on for over a week, ever since the horse races at the hippodrome had been cancelled in response to the disorder that the colour factions, rival political parties, had been fermenting. News of the disturbances would have spread through the eastern empire quickly. Nearby towns such as Adrianople and Nicomedia would have seen the black smoke rising from the city, the uncertainty would be electric, and an unpopular emperor with a handful of scared soldiers and flaky aides might not inspire the deference and obedience he could, in normal times, expect.

And these were not normal times. The emperor’s recent tax depredations in the provinces and overzealous restrictions on free theatres, hippodromes and circuses had seen to that. There was no guarantee that Justinian would be met with any sympathy. Should they have heard that Hypatius, nephew of a former emperor, had been ‘elected’ in Justinian’s place by popular acclaim, then Valerius really did worry for the emperor’s safety.

‘So, General Belisarius, what do you propose we do?’ It was John the Cappadocian, the Praetorian Prefect of the East. His fierce eyes swung around towards Belisarius, and he spoke with a harsh rasp, each syllable fighting its way free. ‘There are thousands of them in there. The palace guards are doing nothing. What’s to stop them coming in here right now, and finishing us all off? If they knew we were all cooped up here, how long do you think it would be before they came after us?’

He spoke with a ferocity born of fear, but everyone knew that John, architect of the emperor’s taxation policy, was clever enough to realise how acute the situation had become. It would take very little for the maddened crowd to complete their revolution by seeing off the emperor and his hated lieutenants in one climactic orgy of killing and destruction. The presence of the hated John and other members of the emperor’s leading cabal, would be considered quite a coup. They had all been dismissed by the emperor a few days after the unrest had started in an attempt to assuage the mob. But the ploy hadn’t worked, only spurring the crowds to greater frenzies, and sending the dismissed counsellors scurrying for the safety of the royal palace

In the time since, the situation had deteriorated. A madness had infected the city, with the Greens and Blues settling long held private quarrels by day, by night, by any means. Peasants from the countryside, driven into the capital by spiralling taxes and imminent famine, were also determined to vent their bitterness. They had grown intoxicated by the sense of abandon with which they could go about their business. Anything of a public nature was in the eye of the storm. Guards from the city jail had been hauled out and clubbed to death, the building set alight and completely razed. Neither had belief been a barrier, the churches of St Irene and St Sophia, both great cornerstones of a fledgling Christian empire, had also fallen to the flames from hell.

From the churches, the mob had moved on to the hippodrome, its northern end attacked and torched, the strong winter winds fanning the resulting inferno and sending the flames leaping across to the Baths of Zeuxippus, and from there onto the smart colonnades of the Augusteum square. It was here, Belisarius, Valerius and their tagma of troops had tried to stop the flames, bringing water from nearby cisterns. But they had soon come under a hail of broken and blackened masonry which the mob had picked up or ripped free from crumbling buildings and sculptures. Stunned and surprised, Belisarius had ordered the soldiers back into the palace complex, shutting the great bronze doors at the chalke entrance, each officer wondering what had become of their capital city.

And now the mob had returned to the hippodrome, on such occasions the only source of power, the seat of popular will, and was acclaiming a new emperor. Few doubted that they were also being spurred on by opportunistic senators, many of whom had always regarded Justinian as a provincial upstart.

Justinian had tried. No-one could say he hadn’t rolled the dice in a bid to survive. But even before he’d started his speech that morning from the royal box, overlooking the oval expanse of the hippodrome, Valerius, standing back in the shadows, soon realised that the task of pacification was beyond even the most skilled orator, the most emollient statesman. And Justinian was neither. The anger of the crowd had crackled, and even as the emperor walked unsteadily up to the balustrade, the hisses and boos had begun to seep from the crowd. It wasn’t long before the grand emperor, ruler over a hundred million subjects, divinely appointed guardian of the greatest empire the world had ever known, was being drowned out by the spontaneous chants of the crowd, their hate palpable and close. Nika, Nika, Nika. Victory, Victory, Victory, came the chorus of voices.

It was the same cry which had been heard a week previously at the start of the troubles, when the Blues and the Greens had put their perennial rowing aside for once, united in their accumulated frustrations; against an emperor who taxed too much, who had no sense of fun, and who had refused to pardon two of theirs who had been miraculously saved from the hangman’s noose, the subtle spark that had ignited this whole madness.

The deep swell of the mob’s steady chanting a few hundred yards away was chilling, its primitive force such a contrast to the sight of their former ruler, cowering under the eaves of his palace. Valerius looked over to where the dromon lay quietly bobbing up and down on the swell inside the breakwater. He didn’t need to see their eyes to sense the soldiers’ and oarsmen’s deep unease about what was unfolding. Unsure of where their loyalties should lie, many members of the palace’s household guard, normally inveterate protectors of the emperor, were now hedging their bets. Some had opted to stay in the barracks, others refusing to obey orders. Some already seemed to have switched allegiances. When Valerius had gone with a squad of his men up the spiral staircase from the palace complex to the royal box inside the hippodrome in order to arrest Hypatius, members of the household guard had simply blocked off the door, saying nothing. Hypatius had gone on addressing the crowd, the guards outside had continued to silently face down Valerius and his men. Unsure what to do in the face of this fast changing situation, Valerius had retreated back inside the Great Palace.

And this was where it had led, the emperor Justinian, his long purple cape, dusty and holed from the barrage of stones and objects, staring hungrily in search of guidance from his principal advisors of state, all pale, shaken and undecided.

‘I shall go then,’ announced Justinian, turning towards the expectant vessel. No-one moved.

‘Go then, my Lord, but have no regrets afterwards about your decision.’ The high pitched words were clear and true, and broke the wind and sea as none of the men’s voices had. Everyone turned and Theodora stepped forward. Valerius wondered why he hadn’t noticed her before. The empress, slight in figure but, now beyond her thirtieth year, still undeniably beautiful, wore a red stola of finest wool, embroidered on the bottom hems with golden thread in a pattern which reminded Valerius of waves rolling in to the shore.

‘I have heard what you all have to say and apologise in advance if these words now come from a mere lady, but, in the circumstances, I insist on having my say. These words are to you, emperor, my Lord, my husband. They come from the heart and know that, whatever you choose, I will stay with you, forever. I know that you are doing what you think best. And, of course, you can flee if you want to. You have enough money, the ship is there before you. I don’t doubt that you still have friends in the empire who will give you shelter or, if not, beyond that, to our friends in Italy.’ She paused, lifting her stola and guiding a strand of auburn hair from her eyes. ‘But think on this, my Lord. What will your life in exile be like? What will you think of every morning when rising and feel the sun’s first rays strike your mantle? What will go through your mind upon each and every casual act, and pray on your quiet as your head eases onto the pillow at the end of each day? You will think, O Lord, of all that you have given up. All that was once yours. Was, and is no longer. All that you chose to freely, and willingly, run from, abandon. Such thoughts will plague you, tear at your every waking moment, maybe until you can bear it no longer.’ She stepped towards her husband and took his hand, lifting it slightly and then raising her head to look directly into his eyes, bold and challenging. Her voice grew stronger.

‘We all must see an end to this life, one day. The Lord has willed it so. No man can escape, and no man can tell the hour or nature of his passing. But I, my Lord, would rather feel my last gasp dressed in purple than spend long days on strange shores wondering what might have been!’

As she finished, the energy seemed to drain from the empress, and she cast her head down, her shoulders folding. For a moment all was quiet. The emperor paused, drew his wife close, and placed one hand on her inclined head. He gazed down on her for some time. When he raised his head again, a new man had emerged. Bold and decided.

‘The empress speaks the truth. We shall not be cowed. I have been chosen by God to lead, and by God’s will, lead I shall. We shall confront this pack, and rid ourselves of this false pretender to my throne.’

‘My Lord, do you think that is wise?’ Narses ventured. ‘Maybe if you first get to a place of safety, then we can try, on your behalf, to negotiate some sort of arrangement with Hypatius and those supporting him.’

‘There shall be no accommodation with traitors, no deals for those who have sided with the devil in their antagonism to the appointed one,’ Justinian paused. ‘If God has willed the contrary, then so be it. I will draw my final breath still as emperor.’

‘My Lord,’ said Belisarius, ‘I applaud your resolution – the empress has spoken with great conviction – but I don’t recommend that you go directly before the public again. It is unlikely that the guards will allow even you to access the royal box at this moment, and even if they do, Hypatius will be surrounded on all sides by supporters, especially those of the Greens who are most behind him now. You would almost certainly be walking to your death. Maybe we need to think of something more adroit.’

‘What fantastical plan do you suggest, Belisarius?’ enquired Narses, his face creasing up into something like a sneer. Belisarius betrayed no emotion as he looked straight back at the squat eunuch.

‘The crowd is not united. There are many Blues there who have no taste for Hypatius, who see in him just a stooge of the Greens, who would rather a candidate of their own.’

‘So why are they still clamouring in their thousands? Explain that,’ Narses challenged.

‘Many of them have got caught up in the excitement and emotion of the past few days. They are blinded to the fact that when calm settles again, they will be paying homage to an emperor favourable to the Greens. It would do no harm in someone reminding them of that fact, someone who is close to the rightful emperor, someone who has some sympathies remaining with the Blues, someone, Narses, like yourself.’

‘You must be crazy if you think I’m going out there into that crowd,’ scoffed Narses, but Belisarius continued.

‘Take some money, and remind those of the Blues that the real emperor will provide more rewards to those prepared to stick to their Blue faith. Tell them that the emperor is suitably chastised, has learnt his lesson. But tell them that Hypatius is stepping into the lap of the Greens, willingly or not, and that they should reflect whether in a few days their feelings might not have changed. Tell them that, Narses.’

‘I’m not getting myself killed. I’m not going anywhere near…’

‘The idea is a good one,’ interrupted the emperor, putting an end to the debate. ‘You will do as the general suggests.’ Justinian turned to Belisarius. ‘And what will you do, general, if our grand chamberlain is putting his life at risk?’

‘My men are waiting at the triklinos, just inside the palace gates. I will take them around to the other side of the hippodrome and enter at that point. We will try to reach Hypatius from there. General Mundus too is awaiting us inside with his forces.’

‘The crowd are unlikely to let you get anywhere near the royal box, Belisarius,’ said John, his face hard and mean, but again quick to grasp the situation. Belisarius and his three hundred were a fraction of the mob inside the arena.

‘Then I will have to make alternative arrangements,’ replied Belisarius. Valerius looked from his commander up to the statue on the jetty, a high stone column surmounted by a lion, its muscles rippling and strained, and clasping firmly in its legs a recumbent bull, head turned away in pain and surrender. It reminded Valerius of the visions he had conjured up when told of fights between animals inside the hippodrome. Creatures from far off lands being pitted against each other in tests of strength designed to satisfy the curiosity and blood lust of the crowd, the very emotions which were now straining inside the same arena. Valerius knew very well of what arrangements Belisarius now talked.

With great reluctance Narses was pushed out of one of the outer doors of the Palace of Hormisdas which gave access to the streets to the south of the hippodrome. With him went one of Belisarius’ captains, a lantern faced Goth called Athanaric, wholly dependable in a tight situation. Both men were dressed in dark cloaks, cowls pulled around their heads as they made their way to the main entrance at the west side of the great structure. Narses once again checked the bag of gold coins he had taken from his office and steeled himself for what he must say.

Meanwhile, Belisarius and Valerius walked briskly towards the northern entrance of the Great Palace, hurrying down the empty colonnades, through the gardens and past the ponds of the complex, all lying grey with the dark ash which had fallen from the sky over the last few days. Its acrid smell caught in Valerius’ throat, causing him to force a cough.

He thought of Helena. He hadn’t seen her since all this madness had started. He had wanted to go, to check on her safety, but Belisarius had insisted that the tagma be ready at a moment’s notice, for any type of action. So they had remained at their barracks, at the Palace of Hebdomon, just beyond the city gates, waiting for events to play out. Instead, he had sent Alexis, his satchel slave, to find out whether she was safe. The youth had returned with a message saying they were unharmed but keeping alert. But that was three days ago, and much of the city had been torched since then. People were being killed indiscriminately. Her father’s employment for the emperor was common knowledge. It would be a small step for a zealous Green, or any mindless thug, to direct the mob’s passions towards one of those newcomers, one of those hundreds who had come running to the clarion call of yet another of the emperor’s endless initiatives. Valerius doubted that Florian, that mild mannered, doe eyed eunuch who acted as butler and housemaster, would put up much of a defence against such a force. And so Valerius could only worry. Think fondly of Helena, of her glittering, intelligent, playful, innocent, green eyes. And worry.

Valerius sensed the men’s nervousness at the pair’s approach, all rising quickly from where they sat in the courtyard of the triklinos, their swords, helmets, chest plates, greaves and lances on the stone ground beside them. Valerius admired their keenness, this mongrel bunch of men that he and Belisarius had formed and moulded over the last decade; shaggy, large boned Goths, steely eyed Herulians, Armenians with thick and prominent veins on their muscled arms, even the silky textures of Persians, captured in battle and loyalties bought with the promise of fair pay and promotion on merit.

‘We move,’ commanded Valerius to a particularly savage looking Hun, already tightening the leather straps of his bronze cuirass. ‘Leave your lances, just swords.’

It didn’t take long for the three hundred men to be ready. Nerves had been sharpened listening to the clamour of the nearby multitude. Action would supply the necessary release. They stood before the great bronze doors of the chalke, doors which led onto the open forum of the Augusteum, and from there around to the north of the hippodrome. Valerius slotted into position at the front of the formation, next to his friend and leader, Belisarius. A black, unnatural, cloud from the city’s fires passed ponderously overhead, briefly eclipsing the winter sun. It was an omen Valerius found hard to ignore.

‘Close up on me and do as I do,’ shouted Belisarius, his strong voice echoing between the walls of the chalke. The large doors opened slowly, from a world of safety into the unknown, there to make or break the destiny of an emperor.

CHAPTER 2

To Save an Emperor

Lined up in a phalanx half a dozen wide, the men moved briskly down the outer corridor of the chalke, the only sound the regular jangling of their chain mail, buckles and clasps, rising and falling with each man’s footsteps. Valerius glanced towards the walls of the passageway which opened out onto the Augusteum. The carved stone reliefs, commissioned to celebrate their recent victory over the Persians at the Battle of Dara, showed static scenes of horses rearing up, Romans with shields and lances poised in the act of striking their eastern foes, expressions stern as they delivered their murderous blows: the fallen in unnatural poses on the ground. It seemed so strange, captured silent and frozen white, while Valerius only remembered it as frenzied with noise, sweat sodden, and coloured deep and bold.

The scene in the Augusteum was one of chaos. This large open square, colonnades to all sides, had once been the pride of emperors, sacred and dedicated to their memory. Valerius remembered wandering through with Helena, pointing out and trying to name each ruler or popular figure from their statues, Helena laughing when he got it wrong. Now, only those who were fortunate enough to have been placed on the very highest plinths survived. Those lower down had found their limbs sheared off, left with only calves and feet still appended to the base. Their body parts were scattered across the open plaza, some charred brown and black from the fires. Dust, rock and shattered terracotta tiles littered the walkways where, first, fire then unthinking destruction, had been inflicted. A few human bodies, stripped of their clothes, lay in the middle of the carnage. A handful of frightened citizens peered out from behind columns. Some bolder miscreants jeered more openly at the soldiers, but still kept their distance, just in case, and more intent on looting and making the most of their temporary licence.

Scuffing their way through the debris, Belisarius and Valerius led the men out of the Augusteum, past the scorched arches of the milion, the heart of Byzantium, the point from where all distances in the mighty empire were measured. From here they marched up the mese, the central street of the city. The porticoes on both sides were normally bustling with traders and street sellers, a riot of colour and noise. Now all lay silent, shop fronts closed and fastened, their inhabitants waiting inside for some sort of deliverance from the madness which had seen many of them attacked and looted. Their products littered the cobbled surface of the road; broken pottery, torn tunics, odd shoes, crushed olives, and still pungent spices, mixed on the ground in infinite combinations of colours and dirt.

‘This way!’ commanded Belisarius, turning sharply off the mese and towards the unmistakeable shape of the hippodrome, the end called the caceres rearing up in front of them. Framed on each side by two tall square towers, this was where the charioteers started each race, each quadriga of horses springing from an archway with the release of the wooden gates, straining to propel forward their charioteer, to pull clear of the others. Reaching the first corner in front was vital. Above the central arch, Valerius noticed that a couple of daring youngsters had climbed up onto the bronze quadriga perched there. Such a prank in normal times would have resulted in certain death – now the boys whooped and waved with impunity as they watched proceedings inside the hippodrome from their high vantage point.

The soldiers filed their way down the western exterior, each mindful of the three storeys which rose high and daunting to their left, the first from layers of brick, the remaining two held up by columns, the top set of which supported a narrow tiled roof running around the whole stadium, providing shade and shelter for the uppermost spectators. It was a truly massive structure. As they approached the double gates of the main west entrance, Valerius was aware of more people milling around, making way grudgingly as the soldiers pushed forwards. He could feel their hatred and realised that they, in turn, were also sensing that the soldiers, fully kitted with battlefield armour, represented a new development in the unfolding drama. For the first time, Valerius began to feel vulnerable. He had seen the thousands of people in the stadium earlier that day. Even with General Mundus’s two hundred Illyrian warriors already stationed somewhere inside the interior, the odds were still overwhelmingly against the soldiers. It scarcely mattered who of the multitude were active supporters of the fledgling new order, and who had just got swept up in events. It would be impossible to discriminate.

‘Swords out, close up, leave none alive,’ bellowed Belisarius as he led the first line into the shadow of the west entrance, breaking into a slow trot as he and his men were swallowed by the darkness of the under croft. Valerius kept pace with his friend and emerged beside him into the sudden sunlight of the stadium.

Of what followed, Valerius could remember little. Only distinct moments stood out. He lost sense of time. He recalled seeing Belisarius cast his first strike, down the spine of a citizen in the back row of the mob, the multiple folds of cloak, tunic, flesh, muscle, fat, momentarily revealed before being overrun with blood. Almost at the same moment, he felt the slight resistance to pressure as his own sword partially sliced through the neck of a woman next to Belisarius’ victim. There must have been screams, panic and fleeing. Cries as well. But they didn’t stand out. A vague recollection of horror after that first lady sank quietly to the ground came to him afterwards. These were citizens of the empire they were putting to the sword, not Persian auxiliaries. But if his conscience was calling, he soon stopped paying it much attention as he went forward, slashing, stabbing, shouting, stepping over bodies, as he indiscriminately sought one victim after the other. A few tried to fight back, taking out hidden daggers and menacing the soldiers with them. But these were toys in the face of Belisarius’ battle hardened troops, clad in their warrior outfits, keen to dispel their own nerves which had built up throughout the days of rioting. At one point, Valerius found himself fighting close to the central spine of the arena, a partitioning line of equestrian statues, columns and shimmering pools. In between these stood a towering stone obelisk, sheeted in metallic bronze which worked with the sun to flash a reflective protest at Valerius each time he turned and slashed from side to side. He remembered looking into one of the clear pools, steadying himself on the stone sides, seeing the water polluted with furls of blood, reeling away in patterns, dissipating and soon clouding the water bright red.

At one point, he was sent sprawling forwards, struck hard in the back of the head, and falling to the ground with some force. He rose quickly to face his assailant, but turned to find nobody there. He was unable to say how long the slaughter went on for, and it was with some effort, his lips dry, voice hoarse, that an involuntary reflex forced him at last to repeat the words he thought he had heard Belisarius cry out.

‘Fall back, fall back!’ Valerius echoed, and found himself retreating to a ragged line of spluttering, panting soldiers, leaning against the inner perimeter wall, away from the spread of bodies scattered thick on all parts of the sandy ground before them. Beyond the corpses, up on the rows of stands, Valerius looked to where other battles seemed to be simmering on, maybe Blues and Greens fighting out their eternal enmities, maybe fruit of Narses’ insinuations and ploys. But the soldiers’ work had been done. Valerius cast his gaze up towards the royal box on the opposite side to where they had entered, expecting to see Hypatius and his followers. But the enclosure was empty, and a quietness was starting to settle over the shocked scene.

‘Valerius, Otomundus, bring a squad of men and come with me! We need to see where Hypatius has gone,’ Belisarius ordered. ‘The rest of you stay here and obey General Mundus. If you are challenged again in any way, repay these traitors with the same treatment.’

‘What shall we do with the people who are still fighting, Sir?’ questioned one of the tagma’s officers.

‘Leave them to it, Uldin. Let them sort themselves out. We’ve done our job now.’

Valerius moved stiffly. His head hurt and he saw the rows of seats shimmer and shift before his eyes. The wind had risen and its whistling made his ears ring sorely. He realised he was still fiercely gripping the bone handle of his sword. He followed Belisarius, leading the squad towards a door in the far perimeter wall, just to one side of the royal box. From here, a passage led up to the top of the spiral staircase, adjacent to the Great Palace and giving entrance to the royal box itself. From here they would be able to see if Hypatius had fled, or stayed for a final showdown.

The passageway was narrow and dark, and Valerius followed the energetic general with difficulty. He felt his chest heaving and had to clasp the rough wall on occasions to stop himself stumbling forward. He was breathing heavily when they reached the top of the stairway, coming out onto the top strata of portico running around the hippodrome. One way led to the snail-like stairway down to the palace complex, the other ran across a short open platform before a thick set of bronze doors opened to the building which housed the royal box. Across the platform, Valerius recognised the members of the household guard who had faced him down just a few hours before. Yet now they stood away from the doors, conspicuously so. As Belisarius crossed the platform, approaching the men, they immediately saluted and began talking to him. Valerius, catching his breath, hung back for a moment before stepping forward