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In 627 a biblical prophecy came true-for a while. Five centuries earlier a Jew-for-Jesus, now remembered as St. John, had predicted a decisive battle between the Empires of the East and the West. The Book of Revelation has been cited as a prediction of the Cold War, September 11th and Rupert Murdoch; however, St. John thought that he was writing about Rome and Parthia.

Parthia was Rome’s annoying neighbor to the East. Alexander the Great may have destroyed one Persian empire but with sufficient time and spite the Iranians had created another. Parthia bordered Rome’s Asian provinces and was never shy about raiding them. Of course, Rome retaliated but lost a few armies learning the tactics of desert warfare. The two Empires had already been sparring for a century when John pioneered stream-of-consciousness.

The conflict had lasted nearly two centuries when the Emperor Trajan (53-117) resolved to end it by conquering Mesopotamia. Marching east from Asia Minor, through Armenia (Of course, no one asked the Armenians for permission; no one ever does.) Rome’s army then attacked south along the Euphrates. In a two year campaign (114-115), led personally by Trajan, the Romans conquered Mesopotamia. Unfortunately, the Parthians did not seem to realize that they had been defeated and humiliated. Their forces east of the Tigris were just as annoying as ever. Mesopotamia itself was in continuous rebellion. Trajan died of natural causes-really. The Roman army, hoping to do the same, left Mesopotamia soon after.

And the war continued. Eighty years later, the Emperor Septimus Severus “conquered” Mesopotamia and withdrew two years later. However, the Parthians could hardly feel victorious. Rome had repeatedly sacked their cities but they were in no position to rampage through Italy. Parthia’s leaders realized the futility of their situation and came to one rational conclusion: they needed even more belligerent rulers to fight Rome.

The new dynasty-the Sassanids for you name-droppers-managed to continue the war for another three centuries. Proclaiming themselves as the heirs and avengers of the first Persian Empire, the Sassanids were not merely aggressive and vain; they were lucky. Rome was growing weaker. When the legions were not slaughtering each other in civil war, they were floundering against the barbarian invasions. Rome–divided, diverted and dissipated–could no longer threatened its Iranian nemesis. Indeed, the new Persia was on the attack, rampaging through Rome’s eastern provinces and defeating the legions that Rome could muster. This emboldened Persia demanded tribute and Rome was reduced to paying it.

Byzantium succeeded Rome and continued the policy of appeasement. But if the Byzantines lacked the military resources to thwart the Sassanid empire, they made an art of undermining it. Where there was an idle tribe of barbarians on Persia’s borders, Byzantium would subsidize an invasion. If there were a surplus of Sassanid princes, the Greeks would generously encourage a civil war. Between paying tribute to the Sassanids while subsidizing attacks on them, the Byzantines probably would have found it cheaper to be looted by the Persians.

The Byzantine machinations did achieve a remarkable coup, however. In 590, a deposed Persian king appealed to the Byzantines for support. Always willing to encourage Persian fratricide, the Byzantine Emperor Maurice lent Chosroes II an army and helped restore him to his throne. Chosroes’ response was unusual if not aberrant for a king: sincere gratitude. He established peace between the two kingdoms and dispensed with Persia’s extortion racket. Chosroes, who had overthrown and murdered his own father, behaved like an exemplary son to his Byzantine patron.

And when Maurice was murdered in 602, Chosroes declared war on the usurper: a red-headed and warted miscreant named Phocas. This war was more than the usual Persian exercise in pillage; it was a determined, uncompromising effort to overthrow the usurper. And Phocas certainly was helping the Persians. He executed capable generals, replacing them with idiot relatives. His order to coerce the conversion of Jews set off riots and civil war in the very provinces where the Persians were encroaching. Rather than resisting the invaders, Byzantines were defecting to Chosroes. Persian armies quickly conquered Syria and Asia Minor. The ease of these campaigns convinced Chosroes that he was the rightful successor of Maurice on the Byzantine throne.

However, Chosroes was not the only alternative to Phocas. There were quite a few plots against the usurper, and in 610 one succeeded. The new emperor was Heraclius, and he would live up to his name. His labors included the reorganization of the army, replacing a slapdash, unreliable collection of mercenaries with an uniform system of recruiting, supplying and training an army of Byzantines. This transition took more than a decade, and during that time the Persians conquered all of Byzantium’s Asian provinces and Egypt. Chosroes now ruled a realm as vast as the first Persian Empire. To his frustration, however, the Mediterranean Sea put up a better defense than Byzantine armies. Since Persia had no navy, Constantinople and her European provinces remained safe.

Chosroes should have realized that he had reached his limits. The Byzantines would have negotiated–after all, they were Byzantines–but Chosroes had become insatiable, mistaking his luck for infallibility. He insisted the war continue, no matter how pointless it had become. He kept an army stationed on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, perhaps waiting for the Mediterranean to dry up.

Chosroes certainly had patience but so did the Byzantines, and they also had a navy. In 622, Heraclius and his new army landed in Asia Minor and began the reconquest. Heraclius had created an army superior to any the Persians could muster. Furthermore, the Emperor gladly entered into unsavory but expedient alliances with Huns and other barbarians. Over the next five years, campaigning in Asia Minor, Armenia (as usual) and Mesopotamia itself, Heraclius’ forces smashed one Persian army after another.

On December 12, 627, near the ruins of Ninevah, Heraclius confronted Persia’s last standing army in Mesopotamia. This would be the decisive battle of the war. Chosroes was not there; his boldness did not extend to personal courage. On the other hand, Heraclius was feeling obnoxiously chipper. When challenged to personal combat by the Persian commander, the 52 year old Emperor accepted. The Persian general must have felt embarrassed to be decapitated by a middle-aged man. And the rest of the Persian army had the same kind of day.

Mesopotamia was at the mercy of the Byzantines. In frustration with Chosroes’ disastrous leadership, rebellion was breaking out in Persia and throughout what was left of the empire. But Chosroes refused to acknowledge the defeat and chaos. The next year his son murdered him. (This was a Sassanid family tradition). Persia then signed an apologetic peace treaty with Byzantium.

Byzantine supremacy would last all of eight years. It had recovered from the Persian invasion but had exhausted its manpower and resources in the effort. The Empire could not withstand a few thousand enthusiastic Arab horsemen who wrested control of Syria, Jordan, Egypt and North Africa. (And they still seem to be the predominant influence there.) Another small but equally zealous Arab force overran what was left of Persia.

So, in the war between Heraclius and Chosroes, Mohammed won.

Studying history has given me a high standard for scandal. So I am not impressed by a governor attempting to auction off a seat in the U.S. Senate. No, to merit my interest Rod Blagojevich should have offered to sell the entire state. China might want Illinois just for the soybeans. While I would appreciate Blagojevich’s brazenness, I still could not credit him with originality. That same stunt was pulled by King Theodahad in 535 when he offered Italy for sale.

When faced with invasion by a rich enemy, Theodahad’s offer seemed a practical compromise. Even the Italians shouldn’t have minded. At least, the new owner would have a more pronounceable name: Justinian. Besides, Theodahad was not exactly an heroic inspiration–or even a paisan. He was an Ostrogoth, although with a veneer of Roman culture. (Theodahad fancied himself a classical scholar, which by Ostrogoth standards meant he could read.) His uncle Theodoric, leading a barbarian horde, had conquered Italy some 40 years earlier.

Theodoric (454-526) had proved to be an excellent ruler. In fact, he was last competent leader that Italy has had in the last 15 centuries. Unfortunately, his abilty was not hereditary but his monarchy was. Theodoric left the throne and Italy to an idiot grandson who managed to drink himself to death. With his preoccupying vice, the royal sot forgot to have heirs. His mother, Amalasuntha, was Theodoric’s daughter and assumed that she was next-in-line to the throne; she had been the regent during her son’s youth–although that clearly was not a glorious success. However, the Ostrogothic nobility did not like the idea of being ruled by a woman. To placate this barbarian misogyny, in 534 Amalasuntha agreed to share the throne with her cousin Theodahad.

That arrangement lasted only a few months. Although Theodahad had never shown any previous interest in politics, once he was on the throne he wanted the power all to himself. At least Amalasuntha did not seem to mind her ouster. In fact, she was planning a luxurious retirement in Constantinople. As regent and queen, she had been in correspondence with the Emperor Justinian and they had developed a friendship. There were suspicions that Justinian was smitten with the Ostrogothic queen, who was said to be a beautiful, voluptuous blonde. The Empress Theodora–who was a petite brunette–felt the need for her own foreign policy.

The ambassador from Constantinople presented Theohadad with a Byzantine puzzle. Justinian demanded the protection of Amalasuntha, but Theodora wanted a distinctly different form of care for her perceived rival. The Emperor and the Empress clearly had imcompatible aims, and Theohadad was in a hopeless position. Whatever he did, he would have an enemy and a war. The Byzantine ambassador confided this advice to Theohadad. Justinian would be the more congenial enemy; at least, he might forgive. Soon after, Amalasuntha died her in bath–strange accident.

Theohadad planned for the inevitable war by negotiating the surrender. Once the Byzantines landed in Italy, he would cede the kingdom in return for a yearly income of 1200 pounds of gold. (That would be the equivalent of 15 million dollars.) Of course, Theohadad did not mention his plans to the Ostrogoth army. So the commanders were surprised that the King did not respond when the Byzantines conquered Sicily in 535 and then invaded Southern Italy the next year. As the Byzantines moved north, the Ostrogoth generals simply decided to mobilize the army without Theohadad’s permission. And if they could ignore him, they might as well oust him. A cousin-in-law replaced him. The Ostrogoth nobles never knew of Theohadad’s treason (the Byzantines could keep a secret); they just despised him as an incompetent and a coward.

You already know the mortality rate among deposed Ostrogoth rulers. In Theohadad’s case, no one pretended it was an accident. The Byzantines would eventually conquer Italy but it took 19 years. The long war would destroy the Ostrogoths, exhaust the Byzantines and ravage Italy. Perhaps a simple if unethical sale would have been preferable…and a bargain.

Of course, the Emperor Alexius I would have preferred a son. But, knowing Byzantine women, he had no doubt that his infant daughter Anna would have a natural affinity for power. Yes, she would need a husband for propriety’s sake, but she would be perfectly capable of ruling through her hapless mate. So Anna Comnena, born December 1st in 1083, received the education and attitudes of an empress. By the time she was four, the princess knew her place in the world–at its apex.

But then the future Empress was undone by an act of treachery: the arrival of a little brother. Through the accident of gender, this unaccomplished infant replaced Anna as the heir to the Empire. Worse, this usurper had the further effrontery to survive the usual childhood diseases; Prince John grew to become a pleasant, dutiful if bland young man. There was nothing about him his sister could slander. Nonetheless, having a Byzantine aptitude for conspiracy, Anna did her best to disinherit her brother. The women in the royal family, including the Empress, sided with the dynamic Anna over the dull John. However, the Emperor Alexis had the final word and it was on his death bed in 1118. While his imminent widow and indignant daughter begged that the throne pass to Anna, the dying Emperor anointed his son.

As the ruler of Byzantium, John had to contend with invading Turks, encroaching Crusaders and a relentless sister; but only one of those three wanted him dead. And Anna wasn’t wasting time. The first assassination attempt was at their father’s funeral, but the Emperor was warned in time. Anna next choreographed a coup and murder at the summer palace. The conspirators assembled there, awaiting a signal from Anna’s husband. (Yes, Anna succumbed to that social expectation.) However, her husband decided that he actually liked the Emperor–certainly less frightening than Anna–and foiled the plot.

Something had to be done about Anna; she was impossible to ignore. The Emperor would have been entitled to execute his sister or at least subject her to the mutilations that were a Byzantine specialty. (Eyes, nose, tongue–when you lost face in Constantinople, it was literal.) But drab John also was remarkably merciful. He was content to have Anna banished to a comfortable convent for the rest of her life. Of course, John also knew that a sedentary existence would be the ultimate torture for his dynamic sibling.

She would spend her remaining 35 years in that convent: from 1118 to 1153.  But if Anna was banished from the Court, the politics and the glory, she found a way to relive it all. In fact, she attained a greatness that she might never have achieved on the throne. In her confinement, Anna wrote the definitive history of her era: “The Alexiad.” The chronicle of her father’s reign, it relates the history of the Byzantine Empire and the First Crusade from the unique and invaluable perspective of a member of the imperial family. Her account of the Crusaders is especially edifying. Through Anna, we know the Byzantine reaction and attitude to their dismaying and quite unwelcome allies: the Crusaders were more barbaric than the Turks and just as dangerous.

But it is Anna’s personal anecdotes and insights that distinguishes “The Alexiad” among histories of the period. The young princess saw, heard and all-too-often smelled the leading figures of the Western armies as they passed through Constantinople and imposed themselves on the Byzantine Court. Even after the passing of decades, the middle-aged writer still nursed a teenage crush on one of those fascinating barbarians: the tall, handsome and dangerous Bohemund of Southern Italy…”He had about him a certain charm…there was a hard, savage quality in his aspect–owing I suppose to his great stature and to his eyes: even his laugh sounded like a threat to others.”

(That was written eight centuries before Judith Krantz and Barbara Steele. No, the rest of “The Alexiad” is not as racy; otherwise, it would have been made into a movie by now.)

If Anna had become Empress, she would have been just a medieval Arianna Huffington. They were common enough in Byzantine history. In failing, however, Anna attained a greatness that eclipses her brother’s claim in history. Yes, he was the Emperor–and a good one–but he is best remembered for being the brother of Anna Comnena.

In the news reports from Baghdad, if you still bother to pay attention, you would have heard of the Yarmouk Hospital. It is that dilapidated, pathetic locale for hapless Iraqi civilians to get some facsimile of healthcare. So, who was this namesake Yarmouk? An outstanding physician? A generous (or guilt-ridden) philanthropist?

In fact, Yarmouk was a battle. (So much for Iraqi charm. Wouldn’t you want to go to a hospital named for Iwo Jima?) Of course, Yarmouk was an Arab victory and–however obscure it may be to you–it was one of the most significant battles in history. But for Yarmouk, the Middle East might still be Christian.

Until 636, Islam was still confined to Arabia. The Caliph of the new religion had sent large raiding parties to plunder the infidel neighbors; and the affluent Byzantines certainly had lots worth stealing. In fact, given the lethargic Byzantine defenses, the Arabs burglarized the entire city of Damascus. That heist finally got Constantinople’s attention. (We’ll have to postpone this theological debate over whether or not the Christ child was born potty-trained.) The Emperor Heraclius ordered the army to stop the Arab incursions.

The approach of perhaps 80,000 Byzantines convinced the Arab expeditions to make a prudent exit from Syria. Having one third as many men, the Arab forces retreated as far south as the Yarmouk River valley, which forms the border of modern Syria and Jordan. There they took up defensive positions and awaited the Byzantine attack. And waited and waited and waited. The Byzantines had stopped on the other side of the valley, and began a three-month-long staring contest.

During that three months, the Byzantines made several attempts to negotiate. Considering the Imperial forces’ numerical superiority, the Arab Commander must have been impressed with the Byzantines’ generosity or stupidity. Had the situation been reversed, he would not have hesitated to attack. However, under the circumstances, he was willing to negotiate if only to stall for reenforcements. They arrived, but he still had half as many men as the Byzantines. So the staring contest continued until the Byzantines blinked.

They had no choice in the matter; they were downwind of a sandstorm. And they soon found themselves downwind and under the Arab cavalry. Taking advantage of Allah’s gift of weather, the Arabs attacked. At least half of the Byzantine army was annihilated, the survivors were in disorganized flight. Syria and Palestine were defenseless; the Arabs’ strategy was no longer smash and grab. They were there to stay, and they soon found that Egypt and North Africa were easy pickings as well.

So on this day in 636, Byzantine incompetence lost half of an empire, gave the Arabs the Middle East and left us with the consequences.

Blaming the media for your misfortunes–especially the self-inflicted ones–is a time-honored tradition dating back 1300 years to my beloved Byzantines. In just a 50-year period, c. 630 to 680, the Byzantine Empire had lost two-thirds of its territory: the provinces that we would recognize as Egypt, Israel, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Libya and Morocco. Incompetent generals were partially responsible: try not to station your troops downwind from a sandstorm and Arab arrows. But the Arab Conquest could also be attributed to Islamic Charm.

Many Christians in the Middle East and all the Jews actually preferred the Arabs to the Byzantines. Constantinople had never been light with taxes, but it was even heavier with its dogmatic if erratic religious policies. Every week, it seems, Constantinople was issuing a different interpretation of the Trinity and all Christian subjects were expected to keep up with the theological fashion. That would have exhausting for a dutifully orthodox Greek, but it was exasperating for the Christians of Syria and Egypt who generally adhered to a different Christian denomination. Most of Egypt’s Christians were Coptic, many of Syria’s Christians were Nestorians; but in Constantinople’s view, they were all heretics. The Byzantine government had occasional persecutions with a few martyrs, but lacking a consistent ferocity, the Byzantines were more aggravating than intimidating. They only succeeded in making the Arabs look like the lesser of two evils.

The Moslems promised religious tolerance and also less taxes; but for their polygamy, they could have been Libertarians. Syria and Israel barely resisted. Jerusalem, the city that defied the might of Babylon and Rome, nonchalently submitted to ragged bedouins without siege equipment. Alexandria threw open its gates, welcoming a flabbergasted Arab cavalry patrol that never expected to take the second city of the Byzantine Empire.

So, how did the Byzantines react to these humiliating losses and defections? They blamed the media, of course. The denounced media, however, was not left-leaning scribes or town criers with liberal biases. No, the accused culprit was art, specifically religious paintings. What could be more obvious! Why were the Arabs winning? Their Islamic faith forbade the making and worship of graven images, a prohibition derived from the Bible. Yet, the Christian churches were adorned with art and every Byzantine home had an icon or two of Christ and a favorite saint. This veneration of icons smacked of paganism. All those prayers before graven images were an affront to Heaven. If you are praying to an icon of St. Michael, you might as well be praying to an idol of Ares. No wonder God was siding–temporarily–with Moslems. If aesthetic deprivation was good for Islam, then it should be even better for the true religion. (The Byzantines never considered emulating the Islamic practice of circumcision.)

The Arab threat had not ended against the Byzantine Empire; the Caliph wanted Constantinople for his capital. By 717, the Arabs had a wealthy empire and could send a powerful army and fleet to attack the Byzantine capital. Constantinople withstood the 12-month siege, but the Emperor Leo III was not complacent about his victory. God had given the Empire a second chance, and Leo would restore his realm by a puritanical austerity. In 730, Leo ordered the churches of the Empire to remove, cover or destroy all art that depicted the human form. Unadorned crosses would be the sole art permitted in the Empire’s churches. Additional edicts prohibited icons in homes. This aesthetic suppression is known as iconoclasm–the breaking of icons.

The policy was very unpopular. Church leaders protested and risked persecutions. Many individuals refused to turn over or destroy their household icons. One province successfully revolted against iconoclasm. An iconophilic bishop raised a local militia to defend his diocese’s art. The Byzantine governor backed down and gave up any further attempt to enforce iconoclasm. So, that successful rebellion has preserved for us some of the best examples of early Byzantine art, and you can see those glorious mosaics today in that renegade province–Italy. As for the bishop, he apparently enjoyed raising armies, wielding power and defying Constantinople. He certainly established a number of precedents for his successors. The political independence of the Papacy begins with a bishop’s devotion to religious art.

Yet, for all the unpopularity and defiance of iconoclasm, it remained the policy of the Empire from 730 to 787. Why? Because the Byzantine armies started winning, pushing back barbarians in the Balkans and Moslems in Asia Minor. Evidently God really was an iconoclast. In 787, however, the dynasty of iconoclast rulers ended with the death (possibly suspicious) of a young emperor; his widow Irene (possible suspect) wanted to rule in her own right and so she courted popularity by restoring art to the churches.  First as regent for her son and then, after disposing of that annoying offspring, Irene lasted on the throne until 802.  Her reign and the aesthetic restoration did not coincide with any catastrophes to the Empire–at least for a while.

Iconoclasm can be regarded as an aesthetic disaster. Very little Byzantine art survived the period. Greek artists, many of whom were monks, actually were in danger. Some ended up imprisoned; a few were executed. Ironically, a number of Byzantine artists found haven in the Arab world. The Caliphate had no prohibitions against art in the Christian churches in its realm. The Byzantine artists were free to paint whatever they wanted in Arab-controlled Damascus and Jerusalem. Other Greek artists ventured west. They found work with a family of nouveau riche–Pepin and his son Charlie–who wanted to be classy. So Iconoclasm may have been the beginning of French art.

Have you ever wondered why most Greeks don’t look like Colin Farrell or Val Kilmer?

Of course, you could say that Oliver Stone is a lunatic; and that would end the argument. However, if you further added that Macedonians are not Greeks, then I would venture this correction. In antiquity, Macedonians were the equivalent of redneck Greeks. They would have fewer teeth than Athenians, and would probably paste hardware decals on their chariots. Nonetheless, they would have been–barely (over Demosthenes’ battered body)–included in the Hellenic world.

Which brings us back to our original question: why do Greeks look like Armenians? (Come on: you can’t tell the difference, either.) The fact is that they are Armenian, the descendants of a massive relocation program undertaken by the Byzantine Emperor Nicephorus I.

By the ninth century, Greece was largely unpopulated. Five centuries of barbarian invasions were not great for demographics. Those Hellenes who had not been massacred or carried off into slavery huddled behind the walls of the few remaining cities. Yet across the Bosphorus, Anatolia was thriving. (Visigoths, Huns, Bulgars and Slavs evidently couldn’t swim.) Emperor Nicephorus, who was a financier by training, decided to redistribute Anatolia’s surplus population to Greece. The Armenian provinces had people to spare, and the Imperial coercion was mitigated with the promise of free and rich lands.

Of course, there still was a problem with Bulgarian invasions, but the Emperor intended to take care of that. He certainly tried; today is the 1196th anniversary of Nicephorus’ death and defeat of his army. Mountain passes in Bulgaria can be tricky. Nicephorus was a much better accountant than general. He apparently also made an excellent goblet. The Bulgar Khan used Nicephorus’ skull as a drinking vessel.

Nonetheless, Nicephorus’ head had thought of a way to stabilize and revive Greece. It is just that Greeks no longer look like Greek Gods.

On this day in 532 the citizens of Constantinople protested against a corrupt and tax-loving government by burning down half of their city. The rioters displayed a remarkable unity; they were composed of two political factions–the Greens and the Blues–who usually hated each other. These two parties had evolved from the fans of two competing chariot racing stables; green and blue were the identifying colors of the respective teams.

However, the Byzantine personality (Greek pedantics + Christian theology – Hellenic charm) would not be content with just rooting for a sports team. The fans organized into political parties with vying interpretations of the Trinity. Of course, each interpretation of the Trinity would have a militia to expound it. Between the Greens and the Blues, Constantinople was always on the verge of a riot; but the Imperial government was usually adroit at balancing the factions, playing one off against the other.

The Emperor Justinian should have been a master of this statecraft. He had an amused contempt for mankind and had a genius for cultivating the vices in others; he literally brought out the best in your worst. Appreciating their “talents”, Justinian would appoint thieves to be treasurers, hucksters as diplomats, and elevated an actress to empress. Yet, this wily Emperor misjudged the temper and the patience of Constantinople’s factions.

The two rivals joined forces, and they give their alliance a name: Nika. It is the Greek word for victory. In a week of rage, half of the city was destroyed. Demonstrating their new-found ecumenism, the Nika rioters even burned churches. Yet, the rioters did not attack the Palace. Since the Imperial Guard was content to hide in the barracks and avoid any dangerous exertions such as defending the city, the rioters respected the army’s privacy.

Revelling in their power the rioters now proposed a new emperor, a reluctant but pliant noble named Hypatius. The “old” emperor was free to flee the city: the rioters had left him unimpeded access to the port. Indeed, Justinian was about to take that itinerary. He had called an imperial council of his few remaining supporters to plan the evacuation. However, this ignominious flight was scorned by the Empress Theodora.

Still very much the actress, she declaimed, “For one who has been an emperor it is unendurable to be a fugitive. May I never be separated from this purple, and may I not live that day on which those who meet me shall not address me as mistress. If, now, it is your wish to save yourself, O Emperor, there is no difficulty. For we have much money, and there is the sea, here the boats. However consider whether it will not come about after you have been saved that you would gladly exchange that safety for death. For as for myself, I approve a certain ancient saying that royalty is a good burial-shroud.”

If the Empress was prepared to fight and die for the throne, the men of the court were shamed into being just as heroic. (The court eunuchs probably were still eager to leave.) Although the Imperial army was unreliable, several of the loyal officers had personal retainers who would follow orders. These troops numbered no more than a thousand, but they were an elite force of veterans. The rioters were in the tens of thousands but they were an undisciplined mob and, worse for them, oblivious to the danger. The Nika rioters had gathered at the Hippodrome, the social center of the city. It was a great place for a celebration but an even better place for a massacre.

The Hippodrome’s entrances were all at one end of the stadium. The troops seized the gates and then proceeded to scythe the trapped mob. Thirty thousand were killed; the Nika Riot was crushed. The hapless Hypatius was captured. He pleaded his innocence and Justinian believed him; however, Theodora still insisted on an execution.

As for Justinian, he did not view the riots as a warning but rather as an opportunity. First, he would have to raise even more taxes to rebuild the city. More importantly, Constantinople now would be rebuilt his way. For example, the rioters had destroyed the old church of Hagia Sophia. Justinian envisioned the new church to be a monument to him.

And it still is.

What Christmas gift can you give the man who has everything–or at least control of France, Germany and Italy? That was the challenge confronting Pope Leo III. You just couldn’t give Charlemagne a Christmas card. It would only remind the Warlord that he was illiterate. Charlemagne was a widower, so there was no point in offering him a gift card for an annulment. Then Leo thought of the perfect gift for his Frankish friend. True, Leo had to steal it; but a Pope can always absolve himself.

So, on Christmas Day in 800, the Pope proclaimed Charlemagne as the Holy Roman Emperor. Unfortunately, Charlemagne was not pleased with his fancy new title. Western Europe’s King was not ostentatious, and he certainly was uncomfortable with a “hot” crown. The real owner–in Constantinople–would certainly object.

The Pope–looking perfectly innocent, which should be a prerequisite for the job— had a perfect rationale for his crowning presumption. He had only made Charlemagne an Emperor; the reigning sovereign in Constantinople was named Irene. The Empress Irene was a widow, which she probably arranged; so there was no Byzantine male to contest the role of Emperor. (Irene had a son, but she had him ousted, blinded and killed; to her credit, she never harmed her grandchildren–who happened to be girls–and one would become Empress.)

In proclaiming Charlemagne to be Emperor, the Pope was not criticizing Irene. On the contrary, the Church liked her. When Irene overthrew her son and seized the throne, Pope Leo had congratulated her. That unfortunate young Emperor, like his conveniently dead father, had been proponents of Iconoclasm, a dogma condemned by the Roman branch of Christendom. Irene, however, agreed with the Roman reverence for art; she certainly preferred icons to her family.

Of course, with her aesthetic refinement, Irene would not have appreciated sharing the most prestigious title in Christendom with an illiterate warlord. The Byzantines refused to recognize Charlemagne’s title. Frankly (sorry about that), neither did Charlemagne. To legitimize his Imperial rank–and make an honest man of himself, Charlemagne offered to marry Irene.
The Empress was not flattered or tempted: she declined the proposal.

Given Irene’s family history, Charlemagne probably was lucky. At least, he lived another 14 years. His Empire did not last much longer than he did: squabbling grandsons whose ambitions surpassed their competence shredded it into warring states. For another three centuries however, Byzantium would remain the greatest power (and only civilized one) in Christendom.

Its only rival was, ironically, the Roman Church. When Pope Leo III assumed the right to appoint and crown an Emperor, he had also given the Church the perfect Christmas gift: authority over the temporal world.

None of your gifts will be that good, but try to enjoy the holidays anyway.

The fall of the Roman Empire was somewhat exaggerated. There was no massive barbarian offensive that overran and annihilated civilization; the fifth century Germans were more subtle than their modern descendants. Indeed, many of the tribes were invited into the enfeebled empire. Rome hoped that the barbarians might be better behaved as guests than invaders.

Given the Italian male’s increasing reluctance to leave an orgy to stand guard on the Rhine, Rome had to employ barbarians as mercenaries. If five centuries of mutinies, assassinations and civil wars give any indication, Roman armies were not conspicuously loyal. Now, however, they were not even Roman. The legions and the tribes became ethnically indistinguishable. Rome merely had the better dressed Germans.

In Western Europe the Empire simply succumbed to reality. Germanic armies had been ruling in the name of Rome, pledging their nominal allegiance to whichever powerless cipher was sitting on the throne that day. But the etiquette grew tiresome; the pretense was simply abandoned. It was not a cataclysmic end. The roads did not disappear or the aqueducts collapse overnight. With the exception of the Angles and Saxons–who destroyed Londinium before they decided that it might be a nice place to live, most barbarians genuinely admired Roman civilization. Looting was just their form of affection. The Germanic kinglets and chieftains actually tried to perserve the civilization they had conquered. The day to day administration of their realms was entrusted to Roman councilors; who else knew how to read and count?

The deterioration was gradual but unavoidable. Without the knowledge and resources to maintain aqueducts, cities dried up into villages. Provinces that had once been integral parts of an thriving empire now were insular and isolated. Furthermore, the Germanic invasions continued, and the semi-civilized Visigoths and Ostrogoths were supplanted by more barbaric tribes. (The Franks were especially notorious for their treachery, but after 1500 years you have to admire their consistency.)

A century after the Roman Empire had collapsed in Europe, so had civilization. A few vestiges would tenuously survive; the local mispronunciations of Latin would become Spanish, Portuguese and French. And there still was a church that identified itself with Rome. (The barbarians showed a superstitious consideration for other peoples’ religions; their religion would not receive the same courtesy.)

However, Europe was only half of the Roman Empire. The Mediterranean Sea was a little harder to ford than the Rhine, and the Germans had yet to invent the U-Boat. The Empire’s richest and most cultured regions–Anatolia, Syria and Egypt–were more threatened by Byzantine bureaucrats than barbarian tribes. The Dark Ages were Europe’s embarrassment. If the Byzantines felt superior, they had every reason to think so.

What did the Byzantines do for fun? The eunuchs certainly indulged in wishful thinking, and everyone loved debating the correct prepositions in defining the Holy Trinity. But for pure hilarity the medieval Greeks had their own version of MadLibs: the Justinian Code.

The Emperor Justinian was a workaholic and he expected everyone else to be one, too. The legal department was ordered to compile 400 years of imperial edicts and publish them in one handy reference. Tactfully named the Justinian Code, it was a best seller. Every Byzantine bureaucrat bought a copy, if only to learn what laws he would have broken by not buying it.

Now the Byzantine magistrate knew all the legal precedents for judging a merchant who shortweighted anchovies on St. Halitosia’s Day. (That would be the St. Halitosia of Cappodocia, not the one of Epirus.) According to the Code, the correct punishment would be amputation of the right side of the nose. Furthermore, the Code would establish the cost of the surgery. If the amputation was performed by an in-network torturer, the government would cover the cost–after the victim’s initial co-payment. The government would cover only fifty percent of the cost for an out-of-network torturer.

Finally, establishing the definitive standard for government bureaucracy and human resource departments, the Code was in Latin and its audience read Greek.