Rhinotmetus. The Memoir of Justinian II

By Patrizio Corda

714 AD - Finally exiled in Bulgaria, Anastasia, former basilissa of the Romans, jealously guards an heirloom. 
An handwritten manuscript, penned by none other than her late son, basileus Justinian II,  also known as the Rhinotmetus. In those posthumous pages is recounted the tumultuous existence of an emperor who rose to power when he was very young, and was able to hold it for most of his life.
Between those lines is traced an honest and uncensored portrait of one of the cruelest and most hated regents of imperial history, best known for his terrifying reprisals.  
The many moments of glory will be followed by others extremely dark, made of treachery, vengeance, massacres and conspiracies. 
This until the moment in which everything will collapse, sanctioning the end of the Eraclian dynasty, which  which had undisputedly ruled over the Eastern Roman Empire for over a century. 
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrizio Corda
• Release date: Jul 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9791220820844

Book preview

RHINOTMETUS

THE MEMOIR OF JUSTINIAN II

Patrizio Corda

To my grandmother

and to all the elderly: treasures

in fragile coffers from which we often

and stupidly turn our eyes.

PREFACE

Varna, January 714 A.D.

Could it be called life, the one of a mother condemned to survive her beloved son?

What can be the new intentions, the future wishes for those who have already fulfilled their task on this mortal earth?

Sometimes, I find myself wishing for my own end.

I wish I had been the one to suffer those infernal pains, to be consigned to oblivion. In front of the Lord, I would have expiated the pains of others, certain that I could save my own blood.

I often think this, as I walk away from this city shrouded in fog, turning close to the sea. Sitting on the bare beach, I contemplate the waves chasing each other in a stubborn but admirable attempt to push themselves further and further away.

Then, I am seized with the urge to offer myself to them and abandon myself to the waves, heedless of what my destination might be. Varna, gem of that Bulgaria which is inextricably linked to the history of the empire and to the fruit of my womb that ruled it, has welcomed me relatively recently.

Yet, its haughty sadness resembles the one I spot along my worn face each morning. I like to believe that my last refuge was erected on the pain and resentment that the vicissitudes of life have brought me.

It is as if through its dull, often somber colors, or through the silence of the people watching me - unaware of who I am - this land has adjusted to me. In a display of infinite understanding that I consider almost maternal.

I don't know what the future holds for me. Whatever it may be, I have already made the decision to die here. Slowly, and quietly.

Like other mothers of great men now gone, I could have appealed to the memory of my Justinian to receive affection and perhaps the comforts to which I was used.

However, I will not.

Because despite the heartbreak that has become my companion in life, and the memories that crowd my mind and cloud my judgment at night, I have been fortunate to find relief elsewhere.

The only things I remember of the confused days when I fled Constantinople are the despairing face of my sweet nephew Tiberius, as he was snatched from my arms, and that of the obscure court minister who handed me the manuscript.

Destroyed by pain but sustained by fear, I hadn't asked myself any questions about that dusty object, with its already yellowed pages.

Yet, for some reason, I had decided to take it away with me.

Only once I was in Bulgaria, far from the persecutors of the Heraclian dynasty, did I decide to read its contents.

And since then, every time I linger over those unmistakably written words, I feel the suffering fade away.

I almost feel like he is there, beside me. I hear his voice.

I honestly have no idea why Justinian decided to write a memoir.

Perhaps he foresaw his untimely end?

Or was it simply the desire to self-celebrate, to paint himself as an even greater man than he was, that moved him?

That is not for me to know.

I only know that on my darkest nights, when reality and imagination gnaw at my sagging flesh and distress my mind, I can rely on this memory of him.

A true treasure, as he always was before power distorted him and made him his own nemesis.

But only I, perhaps, know and therefore can retain this image of the emperor.

For I, Anastasia, am his mother.

And as long as I live, I will also be the keeper of his remembrances.

I

Son of Byzantium

Constantinople, September 711 A.D.

Why am I here, in this place far from my true home, staring at a blank page?

Is it megalomania that drives me to go back years in memory, tracing once again the tortuous path that has been my life?

I agree that the lives of the great are usually entrusted to the works of those who are literary professionals. It is a significant responsibility. And yet it is me, Justinian II himself, who wants to carry this burden.

My condition would by no means be ideal for writing a memoir. Nor do I consider myself better than the thousands of wise men, masters of the word, who could certainly do greater justice to what I have done in my life.

I am not an old man, whose tired, veiled eyes are fixed on a death that is getting closer and closer, like the outline of a ship ready to dock after months of sailing.

Nor am I sick, or hunted by enemies.

The empire that I rule, heritage of the glorious Romans, is solid and rich since I returned for the second time, emerging from the exile to which the vile traitors had forced me.

Although I devote myself almost exclusively to administration, and cannot therefore concentrate on my own well-being, I am convinced that I enjoy excellent health. I am only forty-two years old.

On the other hand, what bodily illness could afflict one who has already suffered the most humiliating of mutilations?

I have always been convinced, in spite of those who have long criticized my attitudes as the result of a lack of reflection and balance, that the spirit can make up for the deficiencies of the body.

Not only that, I also believe that in some way this is what moves us, what allows us to bridge seemingly impossible distances. What is inside of us, and not the shell that holds it, is what best represents us.

Our essence, what makes us the people we are.

Perhaps for this reason I feel, for the first time in my life, subject to a feeling, an impulse that is impossible for me to resist.

I have often been a victim of anger, and once I reached maturity I confess that I have often succumbed to suspicion and the desire to take revenge for the wrongs I have suffered. But never before have I felt so humble, so human, so powerless in the face of such an overwhelming force.

So I think I will go along with it, for my own personal pleasure.

Or perhaps for a higher and nobler cause that I still don't know.

I will be my own narrator, a careful and meticulous observer from the inside as well as the outside.

I will dress and discard the purple and tiara I am wearing at this very moment, marching backwards until what I see before me is what I have already left behind.

I wonder what feelings I will have, and if I will ever be able to finish this work that I am about to create.

I feel like a stranger venturing into the unknown, not knowing for what precise reason I have entered such hostile areas. I doubt that anyone will ever read these lines.

Perhaps, sinning in pride, I expect that my actions will consign me to history regardless of a few pages written in my own hand. It should already be so.

It is said of the Caesars that they become immortal at the same moment of their ascent. Almost as if the purple were a guarantee.

Future centuries, and the Lord's benevolence, will decide that.

For now, I will endeavor to look at my changing reflection in the mirror of the mind.

Remembering the times when I was not Caesar, those when I became Caesar and those, still in the making, that I am living now.

As the sole and undisputed basileus of the Romans.

The first memory of my father, paradoxically, is precisely what has cemented over the years, in public opinion but also in my own, the unbridgeable differences that distinguished us.

Perhaps the only things we have always had in common were the pride we felt in being part of the glorious Heraclian dynasty, and the tender age at which we were elevated to the purple.

From the distant days, now nearly a century ago, when the great Heraclius I had put an end to the tyranny of the monster Phocas, our family has been unanimously associated with the preservation of imperial order and prosperity.

Sometimes, of course, this constant effort was hampered by external factors such as enemies beyond our borders, or the always complicated relations with the Church of Rome. But for the most part, I can vouch that from that distant day to the present, my lineage has deserved to reside at the Grand Palace.

But in the days of my childhood, when wisdom and cognition were still able to emerge only occasionally, all this was entirely unknown to me.

The face of the man who had given birth to me - and who years later would associate me with himself, making me what I am now - never changed. Not even when the cold and welcoming hug of death embraced him, exempting him from earthly sorrows at an age, thirty-three years, that reminded many of the indissoluble bond between a basileus and the Christ of whom he proclaimed himself the servant.

Constantine IV, this was his name, has always maintained the same features in my eyes. Tall and slender, much more than I am now. His long face, often emaciated, spoke for itself of the tribulations that the purple brings as a dowry to the chosen ones called to wear it. Those large eyes, constantly circled with violet, were a manifestation of the labors he had had to endure for over half his life.

Had it not been for his beard, which despite his youth had whitened early, he might have given the impression of a man burdened by an immense weight even more convincingly. Unlike me, his hair had always been decidedly sparse. A detail that did not apply to my mother Anastasia, whose thick hair I perhaps inherited.

I remember her worried expression in front of the bed of the basileus whenever her pillow, kissed by the dim morning light, revealed another lost lock of hair.

My father, in truth, never knew the pleasure and comforts that befit an emperor.

Called upon as a teenager to take care of a struggling kingdom, he had to put duty before all else.

Without ever complaining, nor giving in to human impulses as I, I must admit, have often done in recent years.

That sad smile of his, a huge effort to preserve that innate balance that was lacking, was but the symbol of his efforts. A commitment that he may have loved or hated, but that undoubtedly ended up having serious repercussions on his health. Causing his unpredictable and unworthy end.

Despite this, he always smiled at me.

Even though he was a man of few words, he never let me lack that sincere, yet detached, manifestation of affection.

Still infirm on his legs, I was enchanted by the royalty of his robes, by the haughtiness with which he held the scepter or remained seated on the throne. He was capable of doing that for hours, assuming the imperturbability of a statue.

I just inclined my head to my right, curious and amazed.

A gesture, more of an impulse perhaps, that I have carried with me to this day. I still love to be surprised by the suddenness of things, and perhaps this very attitude has allowed me to overcome terrible adversities in my past.

I was contemplating my divine father, unable to look away from the gems that studded his purple. Everything about him radiated a dazzling light. The diadem, the gold thread hems, the rings and bracelets. My mother was no less, but she didn't give the impression that she could decide everything on earth. Neither could she.

Therefore, although my affection for her was and still is visceral and indissoluble, I was not able to fully appreciate her.

I called the great Constantine IV to me with the force of my thoughts, I formulated in my mind words that I was not yet able to pronounce concretely. Maybe they were pleas, or invitations, maybe claims due to the already ingrained conviction of being his heir and therefore of deserving his consideration.

It's hard to say.

In the magnificent setting of the audience hall at the Grand Palace, I must have seen thousands of people bowing before him.

I would stifle an innocent laugh as I watched those men look around in bewilderment, like animals at the marketplace trying to figure out who their new master would be.

In all their gazes was reverence, often sincere, but even more a deep fear. A fear of being wrong.

Those emotions of theirs sharpened even more my perception of the basileus as a creature capable of transcending any dimension. Probably this is what led me to anxiously await my turn. Even I, then naively and without malice, aspired to be able to instill fear and respect with such naturalness.

Whatever authority was fortunate enough to confer with my father, I tended to empathize with it. One day I was a celebrated general come to ask for funds or recruits, another I was a dignitary from a remote thema begging the emperor for his protection against some threat.

Not infrequently, I found myself a noble landowner complaining about the excessive amounts he was forced to pay to the treasury.

In those instances, I would barely twist my snout causing the gracious and imperceptible hilarity of my mother who was holding me in her arms.

Judging how things turned out, I can only consider my reactions as a premonition of what would have been my opinions on the matter.

My father, however, was not the least bit upset, no matter how absurd the request he heard.

In my mind, he will always remain the calm man, perhaps too quiet, but basically willing to listen to everyone that I, despite myself, have never been.

As a teenager, when that burden had already passed to me, I often heard stories that centered on the causes of his temperament. I have always been wary of these, based on the idea that no one can consider themselves worthy of discussing the innermost reasons that move a man and generate his actions.

Each one of us is different, and such are our respective paths.

My mother Anastasia, however, I have always trusted.

I have not been able to know Constant II, the father of my father.

He incredibly passed away a few days before I was born, giving rise to thousands of different stories and opinions on the matter. Not a few, however, have remembered that in the great plan that God has designed for all of us, every death is equivalent to a birth.

This explanation, which was always a silly rumor to me, ended up convincing my very sweet mother instead.

She, especially when maturation brought my character to fully form and emerge, always maintained that in a certain way I resembled Constant much more than my father.

History still remembers him as a fickle man, as willing as he was unpredictable, whose firmness not infrequently made him the protagonist of conflicting and sometimes deleterious relationships.

On more than one occasion, it has been said that my father exasperated his proverbial patience and conciliatory attitude just to remedy Constant's mistakes.

Where he had ruined important relationships, his son had worked to mend the rift. The social classes he had ignored or punished had received new attention, sometimes even favors.

The past, for my father, was not an immutable entity and inevitably behind us. One could always look at it, in a certain sense translating it into the immediacy of the present, demonstrating that one could remedy it with the right moderation. The facts, I admit, have often proved him right.

But I have never been him.

I have never had the patience to listen to voices other than those of my closest collaborators. I have observed, yes, and with extreme attention. I have contemplated with dismay the faults of this empire I inherited, doing my best to restore just that balance that my father possessed within himself. But which he had terribly struggled to establish in the lands under his authority.

At times, I made mistakes.

I made and broke precious alliances, even for petty reasons.

I have never been completely in control of myself, of the dark forces that stir in my and every man's soul.

I have a vivid memory of my early days in the palace.

A memory that perhaps, justifies how much is wrong with me.

Closing my eyes, I can still see the little clay soldiers laid out on an alabaster plane. My small hands would move between them, holding them in turn. I would bring them as close to my face as possible to catch a glimpse of every single detail.

Then my mind would start working: opposing alignments and landscapes would arise around those figures, which would presage an imminent clash.

Then, suddenly, a demon took possession of me.

Perhaps introduced too early to power, I was already convinced that I could create and destroy anything - or almost anything - whenever I wanted.

Those toy soldiers were crumbling in my hands, still stubby and weak but already able to convey the force dictated by my sudden emotions. Even then, I was impatient.

I never knew how to concentrate solely on one thing.

Where my divine predecessor was able to accomplish one task and then move on to the next, I failed. I would spread my attention over several things at once, ending up eternally dissatisfied with my results.

I would watch my toys fall apart, and find myself suspended between a thrill of satisfaction at what I had done and discouragement at not being able to use them as I wanted.

Ultimately, though, the concept of being able to destroy and rebuild has always exhilarated me. Even though I kept silent about it to myself, it brought me closer to God and his unparalleled omnipotence.

Too many faces have I succumbed to that demon.

One thing, however, I can confess: I felt alive, really alive, only in the moments between the imminent end of one task and the beginning of another. Those fleeting moments in which the mind rides unrestrained, which escape the schematic nature of our days, took me back to my childhood days.

When I could decide on everything around me, subject to fantasy and pure excitement, without yet running the risk of making a mistake with terrible consequences.

I don't think my poor father ever experienced that overwhelming thrill, which is independent of any age.

And perhaps it was precisely this self-control of his that weakened his body and spirit.

I read, I don't know where, that the great Alexander the Great was also affected by the same disease, if it can be defined as such.

His eagerness to achieve ever greater and more incredible results had accompanied him throughout his life, making him immortal but at the same time putting an end to his short existence.

When I observe my son Tiberius playing, I can't help but think about all this.

Perhaps he will be plagued by my own impatience?

Or will he end up looking like his grandfather?

It pains me sometimes to think about all this.

I would rather not wonder if a certain attitude could cause a man's demise. Nor suspect of my own nature.

In moments of uncertainty, however, it is not possible for me to escape that eternal comparison that binds me to Constantine IV.

So I look at my son, his eyes bright and serene, and bowing my head before my weaknesses, I envy him.

I also, at his age, thought nothing of it.

Nothing or no one was wrong, nor was it right.

Simply, it was.

Many times, when I reflect on the last decades of the Heraclian dynasty in power, and especially on the period in which my father reigned, I can't help but think that the enormous respect he enjoyed during his lifetime was mainly due to his choice to be the opposite of Constant II.

Indeed, outside the Grand Palace, opinions of the latter's actions - but even more so of his character - are anything but flattering.

His government was a reflection of his personality: conflicting, prone to excesses and above all lacking in understanding for visions different from his own. An attitude that undoubtedly contributed to the early end of his reign, with a sudden and criminal death at the age of forty.

Under Constant, the empire constantly conquered and then lost the same provinces, re-proposing the internal problems that I too, despite myself, had to face.

Hostile peoples who still rise up against imperial