CHAPTER V.
Soon after the Emperor's refusal of the proposals of the Goths had arrived in Rome, we find--in the dining-room of a simple but tastefully-built and furnished house upon the Forum Strategii at Byzantium, which, close to the incomparable shore of the Golden Horn, affords a view of the Straits and of the splendid suburb "Justiniana"--two men engaged in confidential talk.
The master of the house was our old--and, we hope, not unloved--acquaintance Procopius, who now lived much respected as a senator in Byzantium.
He zealously attended to the wants of his guest, but in doing so used his left hand. His right arm ended in a covered stump.
"Yes," he was saying, "at every moment I am reminded by my missing hand of a folly. I do not, however, repent it. I should do the same thing again even if it cost me my eyesight. It was a folly of the heart, and to be capable of that is the greatest happiness. I have never been able really to love a woman. My only love was and is--Belisarius! I know very well--you need not draw down the corners of your mouth so contemptuously, friend--I see very clearly the weaknesses and imperfections of my hero. But that is exactly what is sweet in a heart-folly--to love the foibles of your idol more than the merits of other people. And so--to cut my story short--it was during the last Persian war that, one day, I warned the lion-hearted general not to ride through a dangerous wood with a scanty escort. Of course he did it all the more, the dear fool; and of course Procopius, the wise fool, rode with him. All happened just as I had expected. The whole wood was suddenly filled with Persians. It seemed as if the wind had shaken the withered leaves from the trees, and every leaf was an axe or a spear. It was very like the ambush before the Tiburtinian Gate. Balan, the faithful piebald, bore his master for the last time. Stuck full of spears, he fell dead to the ground. I assisted the hero to mount my own horse. But a Persian prince, who was almost as tall as his name was long--the pleasant fellow was called Adrastaransalanes--aimed a blow at the magister militum which, in my hurry, I received upon my right arm--for my shield was occupied in protecting Belisarius against a Saracen. The blow was well meant; if it had reached my hero's helmless head, it would have cracked it like a nutshell. As it was, it only cut off my fore-arm as if it had never been part of my body."
"Of course Belisarius escaped, and of course Procopius was taken prisoner," said the guest, shaking his head.
"Quite right, you commander of perspicacity, as my friend Adrastaransalanes would call you. But the same man with his long body, scimitar, and name--you will not insist upon my repeating it--was so moved by my 'elephantine magnanimity,' as he expressed himself, that he very soon set me free without ransom. He only begged for a ring which had been on the finger of my former right hand: as a remembrance, he said. Since then it is all over with my campaigns," added Procopius more gravely. "But in this loss of my pen-hand I see a punishment. I have written with it many a useless or not perfectly sincere word. However, if a like punishment overtook all the writers of Byzantium, there would soon be not a two-handed man left who could write. Writing is now a much slower and more difficult process with me. But that is good, for then, at every word one considers whether it is worth the trouble of inscribing or whether one is justified in doing so."
"I have read with true enjoyment," said the guest, "your 'Vandal Wars,' your 'Persian Wars,' and, as far as it goes, the 'Gothic War.' When recovering from my hurt, it was my favourite book. But I am surprised that you were not sent to the Ult-ziagirian Huns and the mines of Cherson to keep our friend Petros company. If Justinian so severely punishes the forgery of documents--how harshly must he punish veracity in history! And you have so mercilessly scourged his indecision, his avarice, his mistakes in the choice of generals and officers--I wonder that you go unpunished."
"Oh, I have not escaped punishment," said the historian gravely. "He left me my head: but he tried to rob me of my honour; and she still more, the beautiful demon. For I had hinted that Justinian was tied to her apron-string. And she as passionately tries to hide her dominion as to uphold it. When my book was published, she called me to her. When I entered her apartment, and saw those pages upon her lap, I thought--Adrastaransalanes took off the hand that wrote; this woman will take off the head that thought. But she contented herself with giving me her little golden shoe to kiss; smiled very sweetly, and said, 'You write Greek better than any other author of our day, Procopius. So beautifully and so truly! I have been advised to sink you to the dumb fishes in the Bosphorus. But the man who so well told the truth when it was bitter to us, will also tell the truth when it is sweet to our ears. The greatest censurer of Justinian shall be his greatest panegyrist. Your punishment for the book upon Justinian's warlike deeds--shall be a book upon Justinian's peaceful deeds. You will write by the imperial order a book upon the edifices erected by the Emperor. You cannot deny that he has done great things in that line. If you were a better jurist than your camp-life with the great Belisarius has, unfortunately, allowed you to become--you should describe the Emperor's great piece of mosaic--his pandects. But for that your legal education is not complete enough' (and she was right!). 'Therefore you will describe the edifices of Justinian; and you yourself will be a living monument of his generosity. For you must confess that, for far less heinous offences, many an author under former Emperors has lost eyes, nose, and other things that it is disagreeable to miss. No Emperor has ever allowed such things to be said of him, and, moreover, rewarded candour with new commissions. But if the edifices of Justinian were to displease you, then indeed I fear you would not long outlive your want of taste--the gods would punish such ingratitude with a speedy death. See, I have procured this reward for you--for Justinian would have made you senator--so that you may be right in your assertion that Theodora possesses a pernicious and all-commanding influence!' Another kiss of her foot; of which she took advantage playfully to strike me on the mouth with her shoe. I had made my will before going to this audience. You now see how this demon in a woman's form revenges herself upon me! One really cannot censure the edifices erected by Justinian: one can only be silent--or praise them. If I remain silent, it will cost me my life. If I speak and do not praise, it will cost my life and my veracity. Therefore I must either praise or die. And I am weak enough," concluded Procopius with a sigh, "to prefer to praise and live."
"You have consumed so much Thucydides and Tacitus, dry or liquid," said the guest, filling the glasses, "and yet have become neither a Thucydides nor a Tacitus!"
"I would rather let my long-named friend cut off my left hand also than write about these buildings."
"Keep your hand. But, after the public panegyric on the buildings, write a secret history of the shameful deeds of Justinian and Theodora."
Procopius sprang from his seat.
"That would be devilish, but grand! The advice is worthy of you, friend. For that you shall have one of the nine muses of Herodotus from my cellar--my oldest, dearest, most excellent wine. Oh! this secret history shall excite astonishment! The only pity is that I cannot relate the most filthy and most murderous deeds. I should die of disgust. And that which I can write will be always looked upon as immensely exaggerated. And what will posterity say of Procopius, who left a panegyric, a criticism, and an accusation--one and all on Justinian?"
"Posterity will say that he was the greatest historian, but also the son and the victim, of the Empire of Byzantium. Revenge yourself; she has left you your clever head and your left hand. Well, your left hand need not know what your right hand formerly wrote. Draw the picture of this Empress and her husband for all future generations. Then they will not have conquered with their buildings, but you with your secret history. They would have punished limited candour; you will punish them by an unlimited revelation of the truth. Every one revenges himself with his own weapons--the bull with his horns, the warrior with his sword, the author by his pen."
"Particularly," said Procopius, "when he has only his left hand. I thank you, and will follow your advice, Cethegus. I will write the 'Secret History' in revenge for the 'Edifices.' But now it is your turn to tell your story. I know the progress of events, through letters and the report of fugitives from Rome, or legionaries set free by Totila, until the time when you were last seen in your house, or, as they say, were last heard. Now relate what happened afterwards, you Prefect without a city!"
"Immediately," said Cethegus. "But tell me first, how did Belisarius succeed in the last Persian war?"
"As usual. You should not need to ask such a question! He had really beaten the enemy, and was on the point of forcing the Persian King, Chosroes, the son of Kabades, to conclude a lasting peace. Just then Areobindos, the Prince of Purple Snails, appeared in the camp with the announcement of an armistice of half a year's duration, granted, unknown to Belisarius, by Byzantium. Justinian had long ago entered into secret negotiations with Chosroes; he needed money; he again pretended to mistrust Belisarius, and let the Persian King escape for a hundred tons of gold, just as we were about to draw the net over him. Narses was wiser. When the Prince of Purple Snails came to him, on the Saracen side of the scene of war, he declared that the ambassador must be either a forger or a madman, took him prisoner, and continued the war until he had completely vanquished the Saracens. Then he sent the imperial ambassador back with an excuse to Byzantium. But the best excuse was the keys and treasures of seventy forts and towns which he had wrested from the enemy during the armistice, which Belisarius had respected."
"This Narses is----"
"The greatest man of our time," said Procopius, "the Prefect of Rome not excepted; for he does not, like the latter, wish for impossibilities. But we--that is, Belisarius and the cripple Procopius--always growling and grumbling, yet always as faithful as a poodle-dog, and never taught by experience, kept the armistice, gnashed our teeth, and returned to Byzantium. And now we wait for new commissions, laurels, and kicks. Fortunately, Antonina has renounced her inclination for the flowers and verses of other men, and so the couple--the lion and the dove--live very happily together here in Byzantium. Belisarius, day and night, naturally thinks of nothing but how he can again prove his heroism and devotion to his imperial master. Justinian is his folly, as Belisarius is mine. But now for your story."