The Apogee - Byzantium 02 (46 page)

The question remained: who was to be Michael's successor? Of his and John's three brothers one, Nicetas, was already dead; the other two - eunuchs like John himself - were disqualified. His brother-in-law Stephen, to everyone's relief, was dead. One possibility only remained: Stephen's son Michael, generally known by the nickname of
Calaphates,
'the caulker', after his father's early profession. It was not a particularly pleasing prospect: although the boy - the exact date of his birth is unknown, but he was not yet out of his teens - was agreeable enough to meet, those who knew him well had already found him to be a snake in the grass: a compulsive liar and inveterate schemer, whose apparent friendliness all too often concealed his true intentions. Th
e mind of the Orphanotrophus, ho
wever, was made up. He had little difficulty in persuading the Emperor, while Zoe was in no position to refuse; and soon afterwards, at a high Mass in the Church of St Mary at Blachernae, his nephew's succession was assured. The old Empress, enthroned at the side of her pathetic young husband, declared her formal adoption of Michael the Caulker as her son, sitting him down - symbolically if somewhat ridiculously - upon her lap. The Emperor then feebly proclaimed him Caesar, and the youth - of whom the majority of the vast assembly had never even heard and whom they were now seeing for the first time - proceeded to the age-old ceremony of his consecration.

The new Caesar might have been unknown; but everyone recognized John the Orphanotrophus standing beside the thrones, and none could mistake his expression of satisfaction and triumph. Nor could they guess how soon he would regret the disaster he had unconsciously brought upon the Empire, his family and himself.

There is no need for us to investigate in any close detail the reasons for the revolt which broke out in Bulgaria in the summer of 1040. The severity of Byzantine taxation seems to have been largely to blame. Basil II had wisely allowed his Bulgar subjects to pay, as they always had, in kind; John the Orphanotrophus insisted on cash, thereby imposing a far heavier burden. The Bulgars had been angered, too, when on the death of the Slav Bishop of Ochrid in 1037 a Greek named Leo, the
chartophylax
of St Sophia, was appointed in his place. Three years later they took up arms, under the leadership of one Peter Deljan, who seems to have been the bastard grandson of Tsar Samuel and who was joined a few weeks later by his cousin Alusian, rescued from semi-captivity in Constantinople. The two quickly drove the Byzantines from western

Bulgaria and then, like Symeon and Samuel before them, invaded northern Greece. By the end of the year they had stormed Dyrrachium -thus giving them an outlet on the Adriatic - and penetrated as far south as the Gulf of Lepanto, whence they now pressed eastwards to lay siege to Thebes.

At this point an astonishing thing happened. The Emperor Michael, speaking from his Palace in Thessalonica, suddenly announced his intention of leading his army in person against the enemy. He was by now semi-paralysed, his monstrously swollen legs having been attacked by gangrene; the slightest movement was an agony. In vain did those around him - including his surviving brothers - implore him to renounce the idea; he refused to listen. It was bad enough, he pointed out, that his reign had seen no increase of the imperial dominions; he was at least determined that it should not witness any diminution. As Psellus puts it:

His first battle — in which he was victorious - was against members of his own intimate circle, before he ever came to grips with the barbarians; and the first trophy of the war was set up to commemorate his triumph over his own kinsmen and his associates - and himself. Bodily weakness was more than compensated for by strength of purpose, and in this strength he committed his cause to God.

But this, Psellus makes clear, was not an empty gesture. There were no vain heroics, nor any question of a mortally sick man riding out in search of a glorious death on the battlefield. The campaign was meticulously planned, and its specific targets carefully chosen, before the dying
basileus
led his army across the frontier to war.

Camp was pitched in a suitable spot when the expedition arrived in enemy territory. A council was held, and after it the Emperor decided to engage the Bulgars - an extraordinary plan, about which even his commanders who were there with him had contrary opinions. Nor is this surprising, for during the night his doctors had to be sent for and he nearly died. Yet at daybreak he immediately rose - some power apparently giving him new strength - mounted his horse, sat firm in the saddle, and managed the animal with skilful use of the bridle. Then, an object of wonder to all who saw him, he rode to the rear and formed up the various divisions of his army into one coherent force.

It would be pleasant indeed to be able to attribute the defeat of the Bulgar insurgents to the courage of the Emperor. In fact Alusian's men brought it on themselves by their lack of discipline, laying siege to Thessalonica and then falling into such disorder as virtually to invite the
defenders to emerge from the city and destroy them. By this time too a serious quarrel had broken out between the two leaders, Deljan being quick to accuse Alusian of incompetence and even treachery. Alusian responded by setting a trap for his cousin and then removing his eyes and nose with a carving knife; soon afterwards, realizing that the insurrection no longer had any hope of success, he sent a secret message to the Emperor offering surrender in return for safe conduct back to Constantinople.

And so, early in 1041, Michael returned to his capital in triumph, followed by his army and a host of captives including the eyeless and noseless Deljan. Psellus, who was there, records the scene:

The entire population poured out of their houses to greet their Emperor. I myself saw him on this occasion, looking as if he were attending a funeral and swaying on his horse. The fingers that gripped his bridle were like those of a giant, for each of them was as thick as a man's arm - such were the effects of the disease from which he suffered. His face, too, preserved not a trace of its former beauty.

It was his last public appearance. As the year went on his condition grew steadily worse, until on 10 December, feeling the end to be near, he had himself carried to his own monastery of St Cosmas and St Damian. There he took off his imperial robes and diadem, donning in their place the robes of a simple monk. His brothers, John in particular, could not restrain their tears; only he remained happy and serene, confident that he had at last obtained the forgiveness for which he had so long striven. To the astonishment of all, the old Empress Zoe appeared at the monastery gate, having heard of her husband's condition and anxious to see him before he died; but Michael refused to receive her. (Before we condemn him for so unnecessary a snub to the old woman to whom he owed everything, we should remember that he had only a few hours to live, that he was in the last stages of exhaustion and that he knew Zoe a lot better than we do.) When the time came for Vespers, he called for a pair of sandals; hearing that those which were being made for him were not yet ready, he refused to wear the imperial purple buskins and hobbled barefoot into the chapel, supported by two of his fellow-monks. But the effort was too much for him. Gasping now for breath, he was carried back to his cell, where an hour or two later he died.

Of all those who occupied the Byzantine throne, few had risen from more lowly origins; few had attained power by more questionable methods; none, certainly, suffered a more agonizing end. And yet, had he lived, Michael might have proved a great Emperor. He might even have reversed the slow process of disintegration which had begun with the death of Basil II in 1025. He possessed wisdom, vision and - as he showed in that last astonishing Bulgarian expedition - almost superhuman courage. He was a truly tragic figure; and, in the reigns that followed, there would be many who desperately regretted his loss.