Theodora: Empress of Byzantium (Mark Magowan Books) (28 page)

Like every great story, the events of the Nika rebellion have been told an infinite number of times; each retelling prompts new interpretations and debates. Like every story, it needs a beginning, and some later observers erroneously imagined that it began with a general desire to revive “virtuous” civil liberties, or with an elitist longing for bygone excellence during the decline caused by imperial absolutism (as in Victorien Sardou’s
Théodora
). The Nika rebellion actually sprung from the grass roots of society, and it was prompted not by nostalgia for the past but by present needs; as was always the case in Constantinople, the truth was a complex mosaic of elements.

Some dignitaries of the empire had already likened Justinian to a sea monster that sucked up water and money. Others criticized his policies regarding the many nomadic tribes that moved along the dangerous borders of the empire from the Danube to Arabia: he had purchased their nonbelligerence at too high a price, they said.
¹
Even Khosrow I, the new king of Persia, demanded gold before he would consider the possibility of peace along the eastern frontier. In addition, the emperor’s imitation of God did not seem to be particularly welcome “in the high heavens.” The tragic Antioch earthquake of 526 was followed by a second one in 528. In 530, yet another earthquake had shaken Antioch’s historical rival, Laodikeia, one of the best ports of the Levant and the capital of the new province of Theodorias (recently established in honor of Theodora Augusta).

The two sovereigns had dug deep into the imperial coffers to help with post-earthquake reconstruction, displaying dedication and generosity, but their actions had not served to dispel concerns and suspicions aroused by the behavior of some of their closest collaborators. It was rumored, for example, that the jurist Tribonian, who supervised
the great project of rewriting the body of laws and was quaestor of the sacred palace (a sort of minister of justice), “was always ready to sell justice for gain.”
²
The perception of judicial disarray enraged the masses, who were already bitter about John the Cappadocian’s fiscal policies. Capping a swift series of promotions, John had become praetorian prefect of the East,
³
the most influential of ministers. Justinian relied heavily on his skills, and for ten years, from 531 to 541, John exerted great power throughout the empire.

John the Cappadocian did not have a classical education, but he knew accounting very well. Justinian expected him to generate the income, or the savings, which he needed to pursue his “Great Idea” of renewal and restoration, and John met his expectations. He made sure that fiscal laws were obeyed. He supervised the landowners, the merchants, and the shopkeepers. Revenues were routed directly to him by his inspectors, instead of passing through the provincial élites, the curiae, as they once had. John the Cappadocian was pivotal in the process of centralization required by Justinian’s plan. A manager with a sharp eye for cutting costs, John reduced and even eliminated part of the postal service, which is the essential glue of any polity.
⁴
The post had been among the empire’s traditional glories—one of the services that set the Roman civilized world “of the thousand cities” apart from the “barbarian” no-man’s-lands.

“The events taking place in each region, being reported with difficulty and too late to give an opportunity for action, and by then overtaken by the course of events, cannot be dealt with at all.”
⁵
The public post not only guaranteed speedy communications, but also affected the supply of all kinds of raw materials and staples. The results of its elimination were disastrous for rural industry, a productive base that contributed food and tax revenue to the empire. The owners of large estates, who had been accustomed to “sell[ing] their excess crops,” now saw “their crops rotting on their hands and going to waste.”
⁶
The small landowners bore the brunt of the new situation, since they supplied the city markets. Unable to afford the cost of private transportation, the farmers (both men and women) trudged along the roads of the empire carrying their crops on their backs in the “Asiatic mode of production”
(as economists call it today). Overcome by fatigue, many lay down and died on the road. Others abandoned their crops and moved to the city, trusting in some form of Providence, whether divine or imperial.

When the food supply is irregular, life gets harder in a capital overcrowded with mouths to feed. Besides, hungry people talk, and Constantinople always offered fertile terrain for all kinds of vicious gossip, both in late antiquity and in the Middle Ages. And so before long John the Cappadocian was being blamed on moral and Christian grounds, instead of being judged simply by bureaucratic or political criteria. It was rumored that he was an evil man who kept Roman citizens
⁷
in secret chambers, forcing them to pay taxes he claimed were overdue by threatening them with the same humiliating torture inflicted on slaves or highway robbers. All this, to channel money into Justinian’s coffers. Or was it for personal gain?—some swore that John embezzled most of the taxes that the citizens believed they were contributing to the welfare of the empire.

The slanderous rumors intensified: John was getting rich; John was a drunk; John had an infamous retinue of jesters and prostitutes both male and female; he was a heathen who pretended to say Christian prayers while actually reciting magical pagan formulas. The rumors and accusations were not so different from those that once circulated about Theodora. In time, John and the empress would grow to be enemies, but they were both victims (for different reasons) of hostile preconceptions among those who considered themselves decent and upright citizens.

Because the factions were so active in the Hippodrome, that place became a natural sounding board for economic and political tensions. After the violent urban riots of 523–24, after Justinian’s arbitrary protection of the Blue radical fringe, the Greens had even chanted:

Would that Sabbatius [Justinian’s father] had never been born!

That he might not have a murderer [Justinian] for a son!
⁸

The disturbances continued for years, like a chronic “disease of the soul”
⁹
fed and nourished by a self-destructive instinct: “[the seditious factions]
fight against their opponents … knowing well that, even if they overcome their enemy in the fight, the conclusion of the matter for them will be to be carried off straightway to the prison, and finally, after suffering extreme torture, to be destroyed … [all this] without a cause.”
¹⁰
The factions were not acquainted with ancient philosophy, but an educated observer might have noted that their riotous behavior seemed to undermine Aristotle’s authoritative description of man: “by nature a political animal … endowed with reason.”
¹¹
But Aristotle’s Ideal City contained perhaps thirty thousand inhabitants, whereas the imperial city on the Bosphorus had a population at least twenty times greater.

The year 532 began with new trouble between the Blues and the Greens. Now focused on military issues in the west, Justinian ordered that the situation be brought under control with the same measures he had used in 524 against
his
Blues; such measures were now to be applied impartially to the extremists of both factions. Eudaemon, the city prefect, ordered the militia to arrest anyone engaged in violence, no matter what faction they belonged to. The Greens saw this as a continuation of the unjustified persecution of their group, while the Blues felt betrayed by their longtime patron, especially when they heard that the investigations and arrests were culminating in death sentences for members of
both
factions. Four rebel leaders, both Green and Blue, were sentenced to be hanged.

The scaffold where the sentences were carried out was in Sykae (Galata), beyond the Golden Horn, in a square near one of the many monasteries where religious men tried to merge heavenly and earthly life through prayer and exercise, without meddling in politics. Tensions were running high, and the hangman’s hand was unsteady: two of the prisoners, one Blue and one Green, survived the first attempt. The noose was wound more tightly, but the two men fell from the scaffold still alive. Shouting, the public proclaimed it a miracle, a sign of God’s favor.

With the help of the nearby monks, the two prisoners were ferried over to the city and brought to a church that had the right of asylum. Eudaemon stationed a circle of militiamen around the edifice, while the
crowd demanded freedom for the two men who had been saved by the hand of God. It was Saturday, January 10, 532.

A few days later, Tuesday, January 13, was a day for the emperor to preside over chariot races at the Hippodrome. Both factions took the floor: the spokesman for the Greens talked with devout respect, but the Blues’ spokesman had a more colloquial tone. They both asked for pardons, but Justinian rejected their pleas with the customary arrogance of the potentate who receives a supplication. He may have wanted to show how firm he was, but his stubbornness seemed unjustified and arrogant more than authoritative.

After twenty-two chariot races, the short winter day was coming to a close. It was then that an unheard-of, new shout rose from the Hippodrome crowd:

Long live the benevolent Greens and Blues!

It was shocking to hear the two names pronounced together: never before had one faction recognized the other’s “benevolence” or humanity (
philanthropia)
. Indeed, this virtue had always been considered a uniquely imperial prerogative. So here was a brand-new situation: the established power no longer appeared to be completely sacred.

For their part, the emperors of the past had always set the factions against each other so as to avoid potentially threatening coalitions. They simply applied the divide-and-conquer strategy learned from that ancient Roman culture whose glory Justinian sought to renew. But now events were conspiring against him. His great vision of the Mediterranean scenario had neglected some essential elements of the urban scene right under his nose. Meanwhile, the Greens and Blues were setting aside their reciprocal hostility and turning jointly against the palace. Maybe it was good medicine for healing the “disease of the soul” that affected them.

Justinian’s ears (“donkey ears,”
¹²
according to his critics) heard the acclamation that was being shouted over and over, louder and louder. It rose like thunder, shouted by tens of thousands of voices. The
emperor, the “Chosen One,” could not bear it. He left the Kathisma and retreated to the sacred palace, the glorious public institution that was also his personal haven.

Now a new shout was heard in the Hippodrome, terrifying in its brevity:

Nika! Nika! Nika!

“May you win! May you win! May you win!”
Nika
was the Greek version of the Latin
Tu vincas
, the cheer from the crowds that usually greeted the Augustu
s
in his role as military chief. The crowd’s change of language signaled a change in meaning. The phrase no longer exhorted the emperor to prevail over an enemy; now one faction was exhorting the other, one citizen wishing another, “may
you
be victorious!” Thus, the emperor was no longer “benevolent” and “humane” or “victorious.” Strengthened by its size and its everyday language, the crowd had seized those prerogatives for itself, without any partisan distinctions. Being able to speak out meant being able to act.

The emperor did not lower himself to a verbal confrontation, for it would have meant recognizing the opposing party. Just as Asterius gave no answer when the little girls pleaded with him in the Kynêgion years before, the prefect Eudaemon, who was in charge of public order, gave no answer to the crowds that flocked to his palace to hear the fate of the two men who had survived the hanging. His refusal was the legendary straw that broke the camel’s back. The crowd went on a rampage: it killed soldiers and officers, set fire to the prefecture, and threw open the jail doors. The factions joined against one common enemy, one oppressor: Eudaemon. (Ironically, the Greek root of his name refers to happiness.)

Then the crowd attacked the doors of the sacred palace. The elegant and decorative guards were not warriors: they put up no opposition. The crowd set fire to the palace vestibule (the Chalkê), to the senate building, and to the basilica of the Holy Wisdom (Hagia Sophia). These were some of the most distinctive buildings of Constantine’s
city: the palatial symbol of power; the home of the senate that had raised up the second Rome to equal the first; and the church that kept the city under God’s protection were all lost in a single night of fire.

At court the next day, Wednesday, January 14, people were confident that the riots would die out with the fires. The chariot races were ordered to resume as if the city weren’t enveloped in acrid smoke. But instead of returning to the Hippodrome, the crowd now moved toward the baths of Zeuxippus, another symbolic site near the palace. They weren’t there to wash or to admire the collection of ancient sculptures that invited visitors to return to traditional virtues. The rebels set fire to the baths, then proceeded to the Hippodrome. And they didn’t come there to watch the races. The protest was turning into a political statement. The heads of the two factions had met in secret all night long and they were no longer simply asking that the two condemned men be set free; now they wanted political changes: they wanted resignations.

The crowd asked for the dismissal of Eudaemon and his enforcement tactics, of Tribonian and his laws, and of John and his taxes. They demanded all this from Emperor Justinian: there was no direct threat yet to the emperor’s power. He acceded to the crowd’s demands and sacrificed his illustrious collaborators. He spent no time defending them: he expected to simply hire them back again after having entrusted the city, for a short time, to skilled technicians who could remedy the situation. The men that he removed from office were kept in the palace to protect them from possible violence and to reassure them of his high regard.