Chapter 15

 

Imperial Chapel, Palace, Constantinople, January 421

 

PULCHERIA STOOD IN CEREMONIAL ROBES and formal wig, cradling a large wooden cross, trying to still her racing heart. This was the most important day in her life since she dedicated her virginity to her brother’s rule. Behind her stood the newly built imperial chapel to house the relics of Saint Stephen; a beautiful marble affair with a richly carved altar and gem-encrusted candlesticks. She had planned the adventus of Saint Stephen’s bones down to the last detail with Bishop Atticus. Any error in the ceremony would bring shame on the city in the eyes of the people.

Theo led the procession in full regalia, carrying a large lit candle. He set a stately pace for the dozen top men of the city, who also carried lit tapers. Following them was a lavish wagon drawn by two mules, then representatives from nearly every monastery in and around the city. Bishop Atticus sat in the wagon, holding one end of an elaborately carved box. The other end rested in the arms of Bishop Passarion, a much-beloved ascetic from Jerusalem who accompanied the relics.

Pulcheria watched apprehensively as the procession entered the Chalke gate. The assembled court waved censers and took up the cries from the balcony: “Welcome to Saint Stephen, bringer of victory. Long life and victory to Emperor Theodosius, Second of that Name. Wisdom and blessings on the Virgin Augusta.” The entire adventus had marched slowly through the city, to the cries of the people welcoming the saint to his new home. Some older men in the procession looked exhausted. Even Theo looked a bit drawn. Pulcheria tried to keep worry from her face.

Incense wafted across the procession, bringing the piney scent of frankincense with sweet earthy undertones of myrrh, representing the divinity and suffering of Christ. The smell calmed Pulcheria, filling her with lightness.

When Theo arrived before her, Pulcheria handed him the cross, another potent sign of victory: Christ’s over death. He briefly nodded, then stood aside with the rest of his entourage. When the wagon carrying the saint’s remains arrived, the bishops carried the box to Pulcheria.

Bishop Passarion intoned, “We have brought Saint Stephen to his new home, where he will dwell. His prayers, living and present, will intercede with our Divine Protector to bring victory to the emperor and his armies. He will smite all non-believers and bring fear into the hearts of our enemies.”

“We accept this most generous gift from the bishop and people of Jerusalem and have prepared a most fitting home for Saint Stephen’s presence, here in the heart of our palace.” Pulcheria took the box from the bishops. Heavier than expected, it took all her strength to hold the box chest high and deliver it safely to the altar. The bishops, Theo, and a select few others followed her into the chapel, where they all knelt and prayed.

As she installed the holy relics in a cedar-lined compartment under the altar, Pulcheria felt blood flow through her veins in a rush. She heard a heavenly choir, saw clearly the Great Saint standing before her, smiling, raising his right hand in a sign of blessing. She let her breath out in a slow sigh.

Saint Stephen Protomartyr was pleased with his new home.

She did well. Victory was assured.

 

*****

 

Outside the city of Nisibis, Persia, March 421

 

GENERAL ARDABURIUS, HEADING A COLUMN of reinforcements, approached the Roman siege of Nisibis in the late afternoon. It had been a hard march from the province of Mesopotamia, where he had met and defeated the Persian General Narses. He grinned with satisfaction. With General Anatolius backing a rebellion against the Persians in Armenia, the enemy retreated all along the frontier.

“Father, do you plan to inspect the troops immediately at Nisibis?”

His son’s voice pulled him from his reverie.

“Yes. Ride ahead and tell them of my arrival.” He watched with pride as his son galloped away. Aspar in their language meant “horse-rider” and his son lived up to his name. He was lean, with his father’s dark features and mother’s lithe grace. The boy’s twenty-two already. Time I gave him a command of his own. Cavalry would be best.

Arriving at the Roman camp, Ardaburius dismissed his troops to set up their own orderly camps. His infantry marched twenty or more miles a day, with full pack, and set up a secure camp each night. From tribune to foot soldier, each knew his place and his task. He watched with pride as eight-man tents sprung up in rigid rows across the plain. Men dug defensive ditches, put up temporary walls. Cooking fires dotted the darkening plain as soldiers settled in for their dinner of beans, bread, and watered wine. He assigned a watch to patrol the perimeter and guard the gates.

Ardaburius entered the older camp to see how the siege fared. He was tired, dusty, and hungry, but duty demanded he personally review the state of siege before retiring to his command tent for the evening.

Aspar approached with the siege commander and saluted. “General, all is in readiness for your inspection.”

Ardaburius strolled from placement to placement, accompanied by Aspar and the commander, inspecting men and weapons. The sun setting in the West bathed the heavily fortified city, sitting on the plain before them, in a bloody light. Were he superstitious, he would take that as a bad omen, but Ardaburius had been in the field long enough to know success depended on preparation and execution.

“Tribune,” Ardaburius addressed the commander holding a position on the river that ran next to the city. “How goes the watch?”

The young man snapped to attention. “Well, General. The engineers have blocked the Mygdonius River traffic both north of the city and south. No one will enter or leave by that route.”

“Good.” He looked at the city, backed by the hulking Masius mountains. “This will be a long, hard campaign. This city is used to sieges. For hundreds of years, Rome and Persia have passed it back and forth as the frontier shifts a few miles each direction. I mean to return it to Roman hands.”

“Yes, Sir!”

The enthusiasm in the young man’s voice reminded Ardaburius how tired he was. He scratched the sweaty stubble on his chin. I need a bath and a shave, then food. I don’t want to set a slovenly example for the troops.

 

A WEEK LATER, ARDABURIUS LOOKED UP FROM THE REPORTS OF DISCIPLINARY actions, which increased with each day—one of the disadvantages of siege warfare. Engineers stayed busy, building and maintaining their siege engines. Specialized units pounded the walls with boulders; archers picked off the occasional defender. Most of the troops had little to do except drill, stand watch, and—in the absence of an enemy—fight one another.

His command tent bustled with activity—of the administrative kind. Clerks tallied and recorded all the details that kept a large army in the field: men, horses, and mules incapacitated by illness or injury; jars of oil and wine, sacks of grain and pulse; stores of arrows, javelins and swords. The only clerk that seemed idle was the one who compiled intelligence reports from far-ranging scouts and agents monitoring the merchant lanes. Lack of intelligence worried Ardaburius more than the restlessness of his troops.

The tent was spare, plainly furnished, with planks on boxes for desks and folding camp chairs. Some generals liked to travel in style with all the amenities of home. Not Ardaburius. One of the things he most admired from ancient generals like Caesar was their ability to pack up and move quickly. An army moved only as fast as its baggage train, so he kept his light.

“I spend too much time behind this damned desk!” Ardaburius stood and walked out of his command tent, leaving his clerks gape-mouthed at the sudden exit. The weather held fair for this desert climate in early spring; a perfect temperature, with warm days and cool nights. In a couple of months, the troops would be sweltering in their leather armor. He took a deep breath of fresh morning air, clearing oil smoke from his lungs.

“General!” a young man on a lathered horse shouted, as he raced into the dusty square in front of the command tent.

Ardaburius squinted. “Tribune Marcian?”

The tribune pulled his horse to a heaving stop, dismounted, and strode to the general. “I have important news!”

“About the Persians?”

Marcian nodded, “And the Huns. I have orders from the Augustus.”

Ardaburius turned to his guards. “Gather my staff.” They went running. The general returned his attention to the tribune. “Come into the tent and refresh yourself. Have you been travelling all night?”

Marcian nodded. “I’ve been riding several days. I took post horses as soon as I got the word.”

No wonder the young man looked pale under the sweaty grime covering his face; eyes red and figure gaunt. Ardaburius had left the tribune prostrate with a fever in Lycia a couple of months ago. He must have a hardy constitution!

“All of you, out!” Ardaburius bellowed at the clerks as he entered the tent. They gathered their papers and left. “There’s a basin and water in the corner.”

Marcian splashed his face and dried it, leaving streaks of muddy dirt on a linen cloth. “Thanks.”

Ardaburius held out a chipped ceramic cup with watered wine. Marcian gulped it down.

“Now, what can you tell me before my staff arrives?”

“The Augusti send their congratulations on—”

“Skip the flowery shit and tell me what’s important!”

“Of course, General.” Marcian stood at attention. “The Huns, under Ruga, have crossed the Danube, invaded Thrace, and march on Constantinople.”

“Most of my army are Thracians. They won’t want to stay here while their families are under attack!”

“Additional intelligence has come in from this front. The Persians have regrouped. They have assembled a large army and move to cut you off from the west.”

“That’s why we haven’t heard from our scouts or agents. The Persians must be within striking distance, and my people either captured or cut off.” Ardaburius fumed.

Marcian lowered his voice. “You are ordered to abandon the siege of Nisibis and return in all haste to Thrace to take on the Huns.”

Damn it all to hell! After all his successes, to be so ignominiously pulled from the Persian front! He rubbed his chin, setting aside his disappointment to plan his next steps.

“General!” Aspar entered the tent out of breath, followed by several of his top staff. “What news?”

“We strike the camp and return to Thrace. We’ll reinforce the border forts but must move now!”

To their credit, not a single officer offered an objection or asked a question. They left to rally their troops and execute his orders. The General’s chest swelled with pride. He moved to the tent entrance and bellowed at his milling clerks, “Get your papers stored and assemble at your wagons with your kit. The camp moves in two hours.”