CRISTO RAUL. READING HALL THE DOORS OF WISDOM

THE HISTORY OF THE POPES

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF POPE GREGORY I THE GREAT. A.D. 540 – 604

BOOK I. CHAPTER VI.

GREGORY AT CONSTANTINOPLE

LET us in fancy accompany the Nuncio as he makes his entrance into the strange and gorgeous city of the Emperors of the East—the centre of the civilized world in the sixth century.

After receiving his letters of appointment, Gregory probably travelled by sea to Durazzo, whence he would post along the Egnatian Road, passing on his route the cities of Thessalonica, Heraclea and Selymbria, and arriving at length before the Golden Gate of Theodosius the Great. Here the great road from the West entered the walls of the Imperial city. And here, beneath the triple-arched marble gateway Gregory would find awaiting him the court functionaries whose duty it was to extend an official welcome to ambassadors and escort them to their residence.

From the Gate of Theodosius broad, colonnaded streets stretched away in an easterly direction, for a distance of between two and three miles, to the Augusteum, or Place Imperiale—the noble piazza around which clustered the principal buildings of the city, and which, like the Forum of Old Rome, was the centre of all its restless life. But before he reached this Gregory would pass beneath the old Golden Gate of Constantine, would traverse three Fora (Bovis, Amastrianorum, and Tauri), and cross the Agora of Constantine, with its surrounding porticoes and multitude of statues. Here, perhaps, he would pause for a moment to gaze on the porphyry Column of Constantine and its engraved dedication, "0 Christ, Master and Ruler of the world, to Thee have I consecrated this obedient city, and this sceptre and the power of Rome. Guard Thou it, and deliver it from every harm." The column, when Gregory first beheld it in 579, still bore upon its summit the bronze Apollo of Phidias, with the Emperor's effigy, though the lance and globe which the figure had once grasped in its hands had been shaken away by earthquakes. During his six years' sojourn in Constantinople, the Papal Nuncio must have become familiar with the monument of the city's founder. For hither on every first day of September he would repair in state with the Emperor and the whole Court, to attend the annual service of thanksgiving, when hymns of joy were chanted round the column, and from a window in the chapel built against it a bishop intoned a special prayer.

Quitting the Agora of Constantine, Gregory would pass along the Mese, or Middle Street, the main thoroughfare of Constantinople, crowded with loungers and lined with splendid shops, and so emerge at last into the Augusteum. He would now find himself standing in the midst of an open rectangular space, 1000 feet long by 300 feet broad, paved with marble and bounded by stately buildings. On the north was uplifted in superb majesty the domed splendour of the Church of St. Sophia. The eastern and southern sides were enclosed by the Senate House, the Baths of Zeuxippus, and the Great Palace with its dependencies. Westwards of the Palace lay the gigantic Hippodrome. And at the north-west corner of the Augusteum, on a piece of rising ground, was the Milion—an open building, which marked the point from which all distances were measured, and which constituted the goal of all the Imperial roads.

The most notable structure in Constantinople, and indeed in the whole Christian world of the sixth century, was the splendid Church of St. Sophia—"a great and incomparable work," says Evagrius, "hitherto unparalleled in history, the Church's greatest temple, fair and surpassing beyond the power of words to describe." The beauty of this building, called by Sir John Mandeville "the fairest church in all the world," gave force and meaning to Justinian's boast, "I have vanquished thee, 0 Solomon." It measured 241 feet in length and 224 in breadth, and the huge dome soared grandly aloft, 180 feet above the grey veined marble pavement. The exquisite proportion and finished perfection of the edifice has been the subject of universal eulogy. Procopius, for instance, the historian of Byzantine buildings, speaks of it in the following terms: "The church presents a most glorious spectacle, extraordinary to those who behold it, and altogether incredible to those who are told of it. In height it rises to the very heavens and overtops the neighbouring buildings like a ship anchored among them, appearing above the rest of the city, while it adorns and forms a part of it. One of its beauties is that, though growing out of the city as a part, it rises so high that the whole city can be seen as from a watch-tower. The length and breadth are so judiciously arranged, that it appears to be both long and wide without being disproportionate. It is distinguished by indescribable beauty, excelling both in its size and in the harmony of its measures, having no part excessive and none deficient; being more magnificent than ordinary buildings and much more elegant than those which are not of so just a proportion." The great dome, the peculiar glory of the church, was supported by two semi-domes and by four supplementary semi-domes; and the effect produced was one alike of astonishing vastness and of perfectly balanced harmony of arrangement. "All the parts," says Procopius, "surprisingly joined to one another in the air, suspended one from another, and resting only on that which is next them, form the work into one admirably harmonious whole, which spectators do not dwell upon for long in the mass, as each individual part attracts the eye to itself. The sight causes men constantly to change their point of view, and the spectator can nowhere point to any part which he admires more than the rest." In the nave, on the right and left, were stately and beautiful columns, "wrought of Thessalian stone," the spoils of classic buildings; and the whole interior was ablaze with glittering mosaic and many-tinted flash of marbles, "like a meadow full of flowers in bloom." Finally the lighting was wonderfully arranged. "The church," declares Procopius, "is singularly full of light and sunshine; you would declare that the place is not lighted by the sun without, but the rays are produced within itself, so abundant is the light that is poured in." And the enthusiastic author brings his whole description to an end with these words: "Whoever enters this church to worship perceives at once that it is not by any human strength or skill, but by the favour of God that this work has been perfected ; the mind rises sublime to commune with God, feeling that He cannot be far off, but must especially love to dwell in the place which He has chosen; and this is felt not only when a man sees it for the first time, but it always makes the same impression upon him, as though he had never seen it before. No one ever became weary of the spectacle, but those who are in the church delight in what they see, and when they leave they magnify it in their talk."

This splendid monument of the genius of Anthemius—the Giotto of the age of Justinian—can scarcely have failed to make a deep impression on the mind of Gregory. Never before had he beheld magnificence such as this. We can imagine him gazing in stupefaction into the airy firmament of the dome; or letting his eyes be dazzled by the sheen of the glistening marbles—the green Carystian, the red-and-silver Phrygian, porphyry "powdered with bright stars," Lydian "of crocus-colour glittering like gold," emerald-green from Sparta, stone "showing slanting streaks, blood-red and livid white," and other that had the semblance of "blue corn-flowers in grass with here and there a drift of fallen snow";—or perhaps regarding wonderingly the mighty arches, the hundred columns with their varied capitals, the sanctuary which contained no less than forty thousand pounds' weight of silver; or examining with admiration the solid golden altar, and the ambo with its costly decoration of gems and precious stones; or losing himself amid those spacious galleries and cloisters, which, with their stately grace, enhanced the dignity of the building. Marvellous as it was, however, this splendour would be likely to alarm rather than to attract the Papal Nuncio. He would doubtless discern in it a type and symbol of the power and pompous grandeur of the Constantinopolitan Church, whose bishops, supported by the Emperors, were becoming inveterate rivals of the Patriarchs of the West. Hence he would have but little love for the place, bound up as it was with unpleasant memories, and seeming by its very richness and greatness to hold out a menace of worse to come. Probably he rarely came here, save on high festivals, when the Court attended in state, or when perhaps the Patriarch, by way of compliment, invited him to serve in the celebration of the Holy Mysteries.

Leaving the church and pursuing his way in a southerly direction along the eastern side of the Augusteum, the traveller would pass by three fine buildings, separated from the wall of the Emperor's Palace by a long portico called the Passage of Achilles. The first of these buildings, that nearest St. Sophia, was the Palace of the Patriarch, containing the famous Thomaites, or hall of audience, in which was stored the patriarchal library with all the important documents of councils and synods. South of the edifice, and linked to it by a colonnade, was the Senate House; and beyond the Senate House were the Baths of Zeuxippus. It seems that in Constantinople the baths were a far less prominent feature in the city life than they had once been in that of Old Rome; nevertheless, even in Constantinople they served as club-houses and agreeable places of popular resort. The luxurious Baths of Zeuxippus were at once the most fashionable and the most beautiful in the city. They had once contained a priceless collection of treasures of art, brought together by Constantine from the cities of Greece and Asia, and including, among other renowned pieces of statuary, the Athene of Lyndus, the Amphitrite of Rhodes, and the Pan consecrated by the Greeks after the defeat of Xerxes. These, however, were all destroyed in the Nika fire; and although Justinian rebuilt the baths on a sumptuous scale, with lavish decoration of marbles and statues, yet the masterpieces of the Greeks could never be replaced.

Behind these three buildings, bounding the Augusteum on the east and south, sprawled out the Imperial Palace. This mighty mass of architecture, begun by Constantine and enlarged and embellished by Justinian, consisted partly of isolated and disconnected palaces—such as the Chalke, or bronze-roofed palace of Zeno, and the Porphyry Palace with its pyramidal roof and red porphyry casing of walls and floor;—partly of palaces connected with one another by covered passages, so as to form practically one architectural whole, to which the name of "the Palace" was given. Of these buildings particular reference need here be made only to the Chrysotriklinon, or Golden Hall, erected by Justin the Second some eight years before Gregory arrived at Constantinople. In this splendid presence-chamber the Emperors held their state receptions, and on such occasions the scene must have been one of unsurpassed magnificence. The porticoes and passages were lined with guards whose bodies were covered with gold, and who carried gilded spears and bucklers. Behind the massive silver doors, in an atmosphere heavy with the reek of incense, there struggled and seethed the wealth and rank and fashion of Byzantium. All the élite of society would be there to offer grovelling homage to the "divine" Emperor—hard-faced officials robed in rustling silks, with shoes and waist-belts curiously wrought in gold; portly prelates in rich vestments with jewelled crosses; aristocratic fops brimful of foreign affectations, with beards trimmed more Persico, and hair close-shaven in front and flowing behind, after the fashion of the Huns; stalwart generals; gouty millionaires, abbats, foreign ambassadors, and, perhaps, some great ladies, whose rouged complexions, yellow-dyed hair, and innumerable golden ornaments, proved that the exhortations of St. Chrysostom had been in vain. In the midst of the throng the Emperor sat on a golden throne beneath a canopy supported by four columns. He wore an embroidered tunic of white silk, red buskins, and the purple chlamys of empire; on his head was a diadem ablaze with jewels. With sublime indifference he looked on while the courtiers in turn prostrated themselves before him—a gorgeous, impassive idol, sorely wearied by his worshippers. Beyond the hall of audience the ante-rooms and galleries were dense with a shifting multitude of minor officials, barbarian servants, eunuchs, monks, and men-at-arms; and outside the courts were blocked with the beautiful litters and chariots, and the white gold-harnessed mules of the exalted personages within. In this brilliant scene our simple monk from St. Andrew's must often have participated, feeling, no doubt, most strange and out of place amid the luxury and display of this most splendid of all courts.

West of the Palace lay the Hippodrome—"the pivot (it has been called) round which revolved all the Byzantine world." It was the theatre at once of the amusements and the politics of Constantinople, and the scene of many of the most stirring events of the time. According to a modern estimate, the Hippodrome occupied an area of rather more than twelve acres, and was capable of accommodating as many as eighty thousand spectators. At the northern end was the kathisma, the large box with several hundred seats, appropriated to the use of the Emperor; underneath which were the mangana, or porticoes in which the horses and chariots were kept. On either side of the kathisma was an entrance—that on the right being the Gate of the Blue Faction, the left the Gate of the Greens. The two remaining entrances were called, respectively, the Gate of Decimus and the Dead Gate. The southern end of the Hippodrome was crescent-shaped, and this, together with the two sides, rose up in a solid mass of benches, galleries, and staircases, finely designed and finished off with elegant carvings. On the top of the tiers, raised to a height of forty feet above the ground, a magnificent, marble-railed promenade, 2766 feet in length, stretched away under the shadow of enormous awnings. In the midst of the arena itself were three antique memorials—the obelisk brought by Theodosius from Heliopolis, resting on a pedestal of marble and granite, adorned with fourth-century reliefs; the Serpent Column of Delphi, with the names of the patriot cities who fought at Plataea inscribed on the wreathing brazen coils; and the square Colossus, towering half as high again as the obelisk, and covered with bronze plates. But, in addition to these curiosities, the sides and ends of the theatre were adorned with a bewildering variety of statues—some of enormous proportions, some grotesque, some of perfect symmetry chiselled by the masters of antiquity—and in such quantity that a writer of the twelfth century informs us that there were as many heroes, emperors, and gods along the seats of the Hippodrome as living men. Along the outer eastern wall again were more statues, and several small chapels.

South of the Hippodrome, in the quarter of Hormisdas, close to Julian's Harbour on the Sea of Marmora, stood a building which the historian of Gregory ought not to pass over without mention. This was the Church of SS. Sergius and Bacchus, the two soldier-saints who were martyred under Maximian. It was square-shaped, with a dome and a small apse lighted by six windows. Procopius describes it as “reflecting the rays of the sun from its glittering polished marbles”, and as being "covered with a wealth of gold and filled with offerings." In quaint, half-jesting allusion to the name of St. Bacchus, the freize and some of the capitals were decorated with vine-leaves. Within this place the representatives of the Latin Church were permitted to use their own familiar rite, and it was here, therefore, that Gregory, so long as he remained at court, was accustomed to worship.

We now return to the Hippodrome, and mounting up behind the benches on to the grand promenade, we take a bird's-eye view of the fairest, the richest, and the most civilized city in the sixth-century world. Stretched out upon her seven hills, Constantinople lies before us—a bewildering maze of gorgeous palaces and churches, of convents, baths, gymnasia, and hospitals. We look on splendid marble-paved piazzas, adorned with classic columns and precious statuary; on streets shaded by graceful colonnades, and alive with jostling throngs of every nation under heaven; on markets full of chattering Greek merchants and swarthy Alexandrine Jews; on sculptured porticoes and public halls; on the entrances of the subterranean cisterns, where the imagination pictures dark waters and hundreds of marble columns, dimly discernible by the flare of the explorer's torch; on harbours, lines of aqueduct, and long perspective of lofty walls. The eye is dazzled with the gleam of burnished plates that roof the palaces of the Emperor and the great Byzantine lords, or cover the rising domes and semi-domes of churches. The city seems all lustrous with a glory of gold and brass and marbles. Beyond it the blue waters of the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmora shimmer in the sunlight, and the narrow Golden Horn crowded with foreign shipping; further off we catch a glimpse of the trading settlements of Pera and Galata, and the fashionable suburb of Chalcedon, where the gouty nobles have their summer villas and shady gardens; and in the background stretch away the Arganthonius Mountains and the snow-clad peaks of Bithynian Olympus. It is a veritable city of enchantment, this Constantinople—a city of which the beauty (says Themistius) covers the whole area “like a robe woven to the very fringe”. And scarcely can we conceive a greater contrast than that between this new Eastern capital, with all its glittering loveliness and abounding wealth, and the ancient seat of empire now falling slowly into ruin on the banks of the Tiber.

The city was a very busy one, an active industrial centre. Fleets of merchant vessels from every quarter in the world came to anchorage in the Golden Horn, and the streets were always thronged with foreign traders. Large manufactures, too, were carried on of silk, pottery, mosaic, jewel-work, and war-engines. As in Alexandria during the reign of Hadrian, so in the Constantinople of Justinian, "no one was permitted to live in idleness." Any stranger found within the city, who was neither gaining a livelihood by trade or profession, nor engaged in a law-suit, was expelled by the quaestor; and any able-bodied citizen who refused to work was likewise banished. Constantinople gave no harbourage to loafers.

The city, again, was exceedingly wealthy. The palaces of the millionaires were dwellings fit for the gods—enormous mansions, with private baths, porticoes, walking-alleys, and gardens. The apartments were decorated with an extravagant if somewhat ponderous magnificence. The walls were encrusted with multi­coloured marbles or covered with plates of gold, sometimes inlaid with precious stones. The doors were of ivory; the beams and ceilings were gilded; the pillars of the domed halls were of marble with gilded chapiters. The floors were covered with rich carpets, and round the walls was a profusion of priceless statuary, pictures, and mosaics. The benches and chairs were made of ivory, the tables were frequently bordered with silver, and even the meanest vessels were of precious metal. Battalions of servants were attached to such palaces—perfumers, cooks, footmen, eunuchs, barbers, cupbearers, musicians—generally young barbarians of great personal beauty and magnificently dressed, with collars and bracelets of gold. Chrysostom says that in his time some of the wealthy men had as many as a thousand or even two thousand retainers. The entertainments and banquets given in these marble halls were on the same extravagant scale, and the gourmands of Constantinople, though perhaps less prodigal than the Luculli and Hortensii of Old Rome, were dissatisfied unless the rarest delicacies were served for their enjoyment—“wonderful strange birds, fish from distant seas, fruits out of season, summer snows and winter roses”. These sumptuous establishments belonged, of course, only to the wealthy; but they served as models, which every householder in Constantinople sought to imitate, more or less, according to his means.

The tone of society was not high. The upper classes were selfish and luxurious, destitute alike of moral principle and of sincere religious conviction. The old aristocracy of birth had died out, and in its place had arisen an exclusive official bureaucracy, the members of which were the creatures of the Emperor, to whom they were bound by ties of interest. These official lords passed their lives in plotting and counter-plotting for places and precedence. There was no form of servility or personal degradation to which they would not stoop to enrich themselves or conciliate the Emperor’s favour. Avarice and a corrupt ambition were the motives of their activity; and their leisure was generally spent in gluttony, gambling, and indulgence in the grossest pleasures. The greatest attention was paid to etiquette. Ranks were defined with scrupulous exactness, and, as at the court of Louis XIV, prodigious energy was wasted in settling minute points of ceremonial, and disputing over rules of precedence and empty high-sounding titles. The great dames of the capital took example by their husbands. They were frivolous, fond of luxury and splendour, lovers of pasquinades and scandalous stories, and given to meddling in the affairs of Church and State. They filled their drawing-rooms with fawning priests and eunuchs, and pursued their political intrigues not less passionately than their private liaisons. Their morals, in general, would not bear close scrutiny; sexual immorality was common, as also was the use of drugs to procure abortion; and we have several instances of cold-blooded treachery on the part of great ladies towards those who trusted them, and of deliberate, calculating cruelty towards those who were in their power.

A similar levity and lubricity characterized the Byzantine populace. Impatient of control, fiercely partisan, regardless of everything in moments of fury, it was at all times a source of grave anxiety to the Government. It was divided into two irreconcilable factions—the Blues, who were conservative, loyal, and orthodox; and the Greens, who were radicals in politics, and inclined to heresy in religion. Each faction hated the other; and though on rare occasions they united against the authorities, yet the coalition never lasted, and the old feud broke out with greater vehemence than ever. The famous sedition of 532, in which the most beautiful buildings in Constantinople were destroyed by fire, and more than thirty thousand lives were lost, illustrates the danger to which the city was exposed when the lawless passions of the mob were really roused. And though it is true that such an outbreak was exceptional, and that the people could be usually restrained by liberal doles and free amusements, yet there was no depending on their good behaviour. Frequent faction-fights are reported by historians. We read, too, of many very curious scenes enacted in the Hippodrome. Here even the great Justinian was howled down with shrieks, “Thou Hest! Silence, donkey!”. In the time of the Emperor Maurice, the mob dressed up a negro-slave who chanced to bear some resemblance to the sovereign, crowned him with garlic, and led him about seated on an ass, crying with yells of derisive laughter, "See, Maurice, see how you look!”. Phocas again tried to conciliate the people by scattering handfuls of gold from the kathisma; but they only gathered up the pieces while they loaded the donor with insults and obscenities. The unbridled insolence and strange freedom of the Byzantine mob is a very remarkable feature of the life of the city, and one which should be taken into full account in forming an estimate of the domestic policy of the Emperors.

As in the old Rome, so in the new, the popular cry was for “panem et circenses”. The Emperors responded with free doles of bread and oil and wine, and with a constant succession of spectacles and pageants. The enthusiasm for the latter among all classes in Constantinople was extraordinary. Not only the people, but the nobles, the clergy, even the patriarchs, were passionately addicted to them. The Hippodrome and the various theatres of the city were always filled with eager crowds, and on special occasions hundreds would take their places on the night before, in order to make sure of an uninterrupted view. The performances thus sought after were of various kinds. Besides the horse-races in the Hippodrome, there were beast ­baitings, ballets, and dramatic representations, frequently of an extremely immodest character. Rope-dancing was a favourite attraction. The ropes were fastened slanting fashion, so that there was no walking upon them save by ascending or descending; and sometimes the acrobats, after walking upon the rope, would lay themselves down upon it, strip as though they were going to bed, and then dress again—"a spectacle from which some turned away their eyes, and which made others tremble at the sight of so perilous a performance." Other performers again gave wonderful exhibitions of flying through the air; others balanced poles upon their foreheads; others flung up naked swords in quick succession, and caught them by their handles as they fell; others gave shows of trained animals, of dancing bears, learned monkeys, and wise dogs. Anything novel was always sure to attract an enormous crowd, and the more indecent the spectacle the greater, seemingly, was the applause.

In addition to the performances in the Hippodrome and theatres, the people were amused with frequent fetes and gorgeous public ceremonies. Perhaps the most popular of these were the military pageants. The impressionable Greek mob loved to gaze on the evolutions of the Imperial troops, admired the stalwart beauty of the barbarian soldiers, and copied their military fashions. But if the military reviews were thought delightful, the ecclesiastical celebrations pleased scarcely less. Whenever the Emperor assisted in a solemn procession of relics by torchlight, or attended the annual service of thanksgiving at Constantine's Column, or went in state to the Church of the Virgin at Blachernae to adore the holy robe of Mary, and afterwards, himself clad in a gilded tunic, bathed in the sacred fountain, the streets and squares of Constantinople were almost impassable with the dense, excited throngs.

As in the days of Gregory Nazianzen, the people took the liveliest interest in all matters ecclesiastical. Every man was a theologian. The carpenter at his lathe, and the cobbler at his last, argued with heat the dogmatic questions of the hour. Logical combats between Catholics and Monophysites were a favourite form of entertainment, and the deliberations of councils and synods were followed with breathless interest by the masses. At the same time, the Christianity alike of the aristocracy and of the people was little more than a veneer; only, while in the case of the former it served to cover a pagan infidelity, in the case of the latter it concealed, in very imperfect fashion, a pagan superstition. Soothsayers, magicians, and fortune-tellers were in great request; auguries were religiously observed; all kinds of heathen customs connected with marriage or the birth of children still survived; the use of charms and amulets was almost universal. And the Church, which had originally endeavoured to combat superstition, had ended by itself becoming infected with the all-pervading heathenism.

Since the death of Justinian society had become anarchical. The absolute power of the Emperor had declined, while the power of a rapacious aristocracy had increased. Three great classes—the aristocracy, the army, the people—struggled for pre-eminence, and the Emperor, instead of holding all alike in subjection to himself, was forced to give support and countenance now to one and now to another, in order to maintain his tottering authority. Tiberius, for example, favoured the people against the aristocracy; while Maurice endeavoured to use the aristocracy to render the army an efficient instrument of his will—which instrument he seems to have intended afterwards to turn against the aristocracy itself. Thus class was in conflict with class, interest with interest; the various elements in society were at war with one another, and there existed no common sentiment of patriotism or loyalty which might serve as the basis for a reconciliation.

When Gregory passed through the Golden Gate in 579, the Emperor Justin was dead, and the tall, grey-eyed, yellow-haired Tiberius had succeeded to the purple. Of this man all the historians, both Greek and Latin, speak in the highest terms; and certainly his disposition and character contrasted favourably with that of his predecessor. Gentle, compassionate, generous, and brave, gifted with personal beauty and engaging manners, Tiberius found no difficulty in conciliating the love of all classes of his subjects. His popularity was unbounded. The army admired his military abilities, as displayed in his conduct of the war in the East. The Catholics respected him as "a great and true Christian." The people were won by his open-handed generosity. It was said of him that he valued more than all things else the prosperity of his subjects, and that the gold which was scraped together with suffering and tears appeared to him debased. The late Emperor Justin had laboured under the imputation of avarice; Tiberius, by way of contrast, ran into the opposite extreme of reckless expenditure. The farmers and landed proprietors were granted a remission of a year's tribute; the soldiers were conciliated by large and frequent Augustatica; princely donations were made to physicians, jurists, and the other professional classes. As Evagrius puts it, Tiberius in his almsgiving considered not so much what the needy ought to receive, as what it became an Emperor to bestow. A tale was current that the Empress Sophia, the wife of Justin, once remonstrated with Tiberius on the subject of his extravagance. “The treasure which I took years to accumulate," said the Empress, "you are scattering in a moment”. But Tiberius said, “Our treasury will never be empty so long as the poor receive alms and the captives are redeemed. For this is the great treasure, as our Lord says, Lay up for yourselves treasure in heaven”. A piety so much to the advantage of the people could not fail to meet with its reward—if not in fact, at least in popular gossip. One day, the story goes, Tiberius was walking through his palace, when he observed in the pavement a marble slab graven with a cross. The Emperor cried, “We fortify our brow and breast with the Lord's cross, and yet here are we treading it underfoot”. He ordered the slab to be removed; but when it was taken up another similarly marked was found beneath it, and a third beneath that. Under the last was discovered a great treasure, which enabled the Emperor to be yet more bountiful in his gifts to the poor.

Tiberius was a thoroughly amiable man; but our evidence seems to show that he was a feeble statesman. His profuse liberality, which brought the Empire almost to the verge of bankruptcy and occasioned the most serious embarrassment to his successor Maurice, was but an indication of his general weakness. He had not the vigour of character that was requisite to check the forces of dissolution which were sapping the life of the Empire. The most that he could do was to patch things up for a time. Theophylact relates that an angel once appeared in a dream to Tiberius, and revealed to him that, as a reward for his virtues, the days of anarchy should be postponed until after his death. And the anecdote well illustrates the extent of the Emperor's capacity to avert the disaster which threatened the Roman world. He could postpone the evil day—that was all.

Tiberius, however, did a service to the Empire when he laid himself out to strengthen the army. He spent large sums, Theophylact tells us, in collecting troops. He enrolled, says Theophanes, a corps of fifteen thousand slaves, which he placed under the command of Maurice the Cappadocian, giving him the title of " Count of the Federates." He seems to have contemplated extensive reforms in matters of military discipline and administration; and, so far as the war in the East was concerned, he displayed real vigour and ability. "To him," writes Menander, "the Persian War was everything, and to that he devoted his whole strength." The Western provinces, on the other hand, were abandoned to their fate. Hordes of tall, blond Slaves were allowed to overrun Thrace, Illyricum, and Northern Greece, and in Italy the inroads of the Lombards were entirely unchecked. When Pamphronius came from Rome with the tribute and an urgent request for succour, Tiberius (then Caesar) would do no more than return the money to the envoy, with the advice "that he should, if possible, induce some of the Lombard chiefs, by the hope of gain, to pass over with their forces to the side of the Romans, to abstain from troubling Italy any more, and to help the Romans in the war in the East. But if the Lombards, as was likely to be the case, rejected his proposals, he should take a different course, and gain the assistance of some of the Frank chiefs by gifts of money, and so weaken and break the power of the Lombards."

When Gregory reached Constantinople, his first act naturally was to present himself, in company with the other members of the second embassy, before this easy-tempered Emperor, and endeavour once more to persuade him to come to the relief of Italy. The ambassadors were kindly received, and their mission was not entirely without result. “At that time”, writes the contemporary historian Menander, "the war with the Persians in Armenia and throughout the East, so far from being completed, was becoming more and more serious. The Emperor could not therefore send to Italy a force sufficient for its requirements. Nevertheless, he collected and sent such troops as he could, and for the rest he earnestly endeavoured to win over to his side some of the Lombard chiefs with promises of great rewards. And in consequence of his overtures several of them actually did pass over to the side of the Romans”. Such was the effect of the embassy of Pelagius. When they found that nothing more was to be obtained, the envoys returned home, leaving Gregory behind in the Imperial city to watch the interests of the Pope and Italy.

So far as he could consistently with the discharge of his official duties, Gregory endeavoured to continue at the Byzantine court the simple habits of monastic life. The splendour and luxury by which he was surrounded had for him no attractions. The magnificent official functions in the Golden Hall—the pomp, the ceremonial, the etiquette—were all inexpressibly irksome. He was disgusted with the intrigue and petty jealousy of the courtiers, with the restless ambition of the great lords. The noise and glare and bustle of the world's greatest city stunned and sickened him, and he pined for the quiet and seclusion of the palace of Gordianus. A monk by deliberate choice, he found his peace and greatest happiness in carrying out the duties enjoined in the monastic rule. Hence, though compelled to reside in the most brilliant of courts, he preserved, as far as possible, the usage of the cloister, and lived in the gay world as one who was not of it. This was rendered easier for him by the circumstance that several of the monks of St. Andrew's had accompanied him to Constantinople. "I see," wrote Gregory in after-times, "that this was ordered for me by Divine Providence, that when I was driven to and fro by the constant buffeting of worldly business, I might by their example be anchored, as it were, to the firm shore of prayer. To their society I fled as to a harbour of perfect safety, and while I was employed with them in the careful study and discussion of Scripture, the yearnings of penitence daily gave me life." One result of these Scriptural meditations was the composition and delivery of a series of lectures on the Book of Job, which were afterwards revised and edited, and are still extant under the title of Magna Moralia. This important work, a storehouse of sixth-century theology and morals, will be referred to more at length in a succeeding chapter. Here we need only remark the power of detachment which enabled Gregory, in the midst of his multifarious official business, to attempt and to carry through so great an undertaking.

The little community in the quarter of Hormisdas was at one time reinforced by a party of old friends from St. Andrew's Monastery. At their head was the abbat himself, one Maximianus, who will be heard of again as bishop of Syracuse. This good man, having once reached Constantinople, was in no hurry to leave it, but settled down with his brethren, apparently not intending to return until Gregory himself should be recalled. After one or two years, however, he was summoned by Pope Pelagius to resume the superintendence of his neglected house, and with great reluctance he set sail for Italy. The circumstances of his voyage, believed at the time to be miraculous, are narrated by Gregory in his Dialogues. It seems that the ship containing the monks was overtaken in the Adriatic by a violent tempest. The sails and mast were blown overboard, and the hold filled with water, which reached at last the planks of the upper deck. The sailors and passengers abandoned all hope, gave one another the kiss of peace, received the Eucharist, and commended their souls to God. But strangely enough, though the hold was full of water, the vessel kept afloat for eight days, and on the ninth put into the harbour of Crotona. Here all disembarked unhurt. Maximianus was the last to leave the ship; and the moment after he had set his foot on land the vessel sank.

The period of Gregory's sojourn at Constantinople was marked by more than one outburst of fanatical orthodoxy. In this city the persecution of heretics was always a favourite pursuit both with the clergy and with the people, and, since the death of the Monophysite Empress Theodora, the savage bigotry and intolerance of the Catholic party had blazed forth with greater vehemence than ever. In the reign of Justin the Second repressive measures had been taken against the Samaritans and Monophysites. The latter were expelled from their monasteries; the orders of their clergy were annulled; and in many cases their persons were subjected to gross indignity and outrage. The Emperor Tiberius, if he did not approve, at least permitted the continuance of these proceedings, and further, in the last year of his reign, he sanctioned a persecution of the Arians, who had provoked the people by requesting that a place of worship might be granted them. By such methods of coercion the great heresies were for the time stamped out, and orthodoxy triumphed. Still the restless, inquisitive temper of Eastern Christianity could not rest satisfied with the victory it had gained, but was ever on the alert to scent out new doctrines and opinions which might be branded as heretical, to suspect gross errors in ambiguous phrases, to exaggerate differences of opinion, and, in cases of doubt, to affix the worst interpretation. "There are many orthodox people," wrote Gregory, as the result of his experience of the Constantinopolitan divines, "who are inflamed with misguided zeal, and fancy they are fighting heretics while really they are creating heresies." Gregory's own method of dealing with suspected persons was sensible and straightforward. He made it a rule to become personally acquainted with those who were accused of heresy, to talk over their opinions with them in a friendly way, and to accept the orthodox assurances of those whose general veracity he had no good reason to doubt. Often he received visits from persons who were reputed to maintain erroneous views—for instance, that marriage could be dissolved if one of the parties desired to enter a monastery; that past sins were not completely remitted in baptism; that anyone who had done penance for three years might thenceforth sin with impunity; that anathemas uttered on compulsion were not binding on those who uttered them—opinions which, in Gregory's view, no real Christian could hold. Yet, when he had conversed awhile with his visitors, the Nuncio generally found that they did not really maintain these errors, but rather that the errors themselves existed only in the too-lively imagination of the orthodox zealots. In such cases, even in defiance of popular opinion, Gregory did not hesitate to give his friendship to the reputed heretics, and to protect them to the utmost of his power from injury and persecution.

On the other hand, when he was convinced that heretical doctrines were indeed being promulgated, Gregory felt it his duty to express publicly his disapprobation, and on one occasion at least he engaged in a somewhat notable theological dispute. His antagonist in this affair was no less a person than the Patriarch himself—that inconvenient rival of the Bishop of Rome in the guardianship of the Faith. There was a certain piquancy about a controversy with so eminent an opponent, that perhaps made Gregory more eager than he would otherwise have been to fling himself into the theological arena. The Patriarch in question was one Eutychius, who had been nominated by Justinian in 552, deposed by the same arbitrary authority in 565, and restored to his see by Tiberius. He was a man of acute and philosophic intellect, and had published a treatise on the subject of the Resurrection, which contained the proposition that the risen bodies of the elect would be "impalpable, more subtle than wind or air." This assertion the orthodox Roman monk emphatically denied, maintaining, on the contrary, that the risen body would be "palpable by virtue of its own nature, but rendered subtle by the efficacy of spiritual power." He emphasized the analogy between the risen bodies of the elect and that of the Lord, and pressed Eutychius with the words, "Handle Me, and see; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see Me have". The Patriarch replied, "The Lord did this that He might remove from the hearts of His disciples all doubt of the Resurrection". "What!" cried Gregory. "Are we then to doubt of the very thing which cured the doubt of the disciples?" and he charged his opponent with holding Docetic views. The Patriarch explained himself thus: "The body which Christ showed them was certainly palpable; but after that the faith of those who handled it was confirmed, all that was palpable was reduced to a certain subtle quality." To which Gregory responded that such a change would have been, in a sense, a return into death, and would therefore imply a denial of the true resurrection of the flesh of Christ. Eutychius then quoted, "Flesh, and blood shall not inherit the kingdom of God". But Gregory met this argument by distinguishing two senses in which the word "flesh" is used in Scripture—that "according to nature," and that "according to sin or corruption." The distinction was accepted by the Patriarch, who nevertheless adhered to his original proposition that the risen body would be impalpable. Meanwhile the controversy had grown protracted and embittered, and at length the Emperor determined to bring it to a close. The Patriarch and the Nuncio were accordingly summoned to a private audience, and requested to state their respective views. After carefully considering all the arguments, Tiberius declared himself on the side of Gregory, condemned the Patriarch's opinion, and ordered his book to be burnt. The end came none too soon. Both the disputants, worn out with excitement, fell dangerously ill. Gregory's youth pulled him through; but to the aged Patriarch the controversy proved fatal. Some of Gregory's friends went to visit him on his death-bed, and the old man, taking hold of the skin of his hand, exclaimed, "I acknowledge that in this flesh I shall rise again"—a statement that was regarded as a recantation of his error.

While Eutychius was still alive, a disturbance occurred in the city, which went near to having serious consequences. The outbreak and its cause are characteristic of the times. A certain official at Antioch, named Anatolius, was detected in the practice of sacrificial rites. He was accordingly brought to trial, together with his associates, but by a judicious distribution of bribes secured an acquittal. The populace of Antioch, however, feeling themselves defrauded of the grateful spectacle of a magician's execution, broke out into riot, and so terrified the judges that they promulgated a sentence of condemnation. Here the matter would doubtless have ended in the usual way, had it not been that Gregory, the Patriarch of Antioch, was suspected of being an accomplice of the condemned. A charge of such magnitude preferred against a Patriarch could not be hushed up, so the Emperor ordered Anatolius and his confederates to be sent to Constantinople, that the whole matter might be thoroughly investigated. Hearing of this decree, the magician was in despair, and foreseeing nothing but a painful death, he fled as a suppliant to a certain celebrated image of the Mother of God. But when he approached, the image, so rumour said, deliberately turned its back. The wretched man, therefore, with the rest of his party, was carried to Constantinople; but here even the most excruciating tortures failed to elicit any evidence incriminating Bishop Gregory. Indeed, the inquisitors seem to have concluded that many of the condemned men themselves were less guilty than was supposed, for, instead of sentencing all alike to death, they let off some with the comparatively light penalty of banishment. This leniency, however, greatly displeased the mob, and a serious outbreak occurred. A cry was raised that the Emperor and the Patriarch were betraying the Faith. The judges and Eutychius were sought for through the city, and, had they been caught, they would undoubtedly have been torn to pieces. The unfortunate criminals, who had no chance of effecting their escape, were dragged from their prison and burnt alive; Anatolius alone was reserved for the wild beasts. So at length, the mob having spent its fury and upheld to its own satisfaction the sanctity of the Christian religion, the tumult subsided.

The Patriarch Eutychius succumbed to Gregory's argument and his own infirmities in 582, and after a vacancy of only six days his place was filled by John, a Cappadocian and "a deacon of the great church." The new bishop was familiarly known as "the Faster," inasmuch as, in the quaint language of Theophylact, "he had completely acquired a philosophic mastery over pleasures, and a tyrannical authority over the passions, and had made himself the despot of the appetites." He cultivated an extreme asceticism—lived in poverty, dressed meanly, and ate barely enough to keep body and soul together. When he died, thirteen years later, his only available assets were a wooden bed, a worn woollen blanket, and a dirty cloak, all of which were promptly annexed by the reigning Emperor as precious relics of a saint. Stern to himself, John was not less severe to others. Grave, rigid, and austere, he possessed but few of the lighter graces and amenities which make men popular. He was universally respected, however, as a man of sincere, if somewhat harsh, piety, as a theologian of no mean attainments, and an author. Of personal and private ambition John seems to have had but little. He professed to be, and he probably really was, unwilling to accept the dignity of the patriarchate. But, once consecrated, he set himself with the utmost deliberation to increase, by every means, the power and influence of his see. His object was to secure for the Patriarchs of Constantinople an acknowledged supremacy over the Church of the East, and thus to raise them to a position of complete equality with the Patriarchs of the West, i.e. the Popes. With this end in view, he adopted the policy of undermining, on the one hand, the authority of the Patriarch of Alexandria, his most formidable rival in the East, and, on the other hand, of asserting on all occasions his own independence of the Bishop of Rome. This ecclesiastical ambition brought him at a later time into conflict with Gregory, who was never tired of rebuking the "wicked pride" of his brother Patriarch. But even from the first it is scarcely probable that there could have subsisted any great cordiality between these two men—each the best product of his world, each noted and admired for his ascetic piety, and each bent on extending the power of his own Church at the expense of that of the other. John and Gregory were drawn by circumstances into rivalry, and were compelled, of necessity, to regard one another with entire distrust. This feeling, on Gregory's part at any rate, seems soon to have developed into positive dislike.

In the first year of his patriarchate John distinguished himself by his zeal in an affair which provides us with another curious illustration of the social conditions of the time, and of the gross superstition that permeated all classes of society. The incident, as related by Theophylact, is as follows. The Church of St. Glycera at Heraclea was renowned for a miraculous flow of oil which was believed to exude from the body of the martyr. The bishop of the city, having remarked that the vessel which received the oil was only of common brass, took upon himself to substitute for it a silver bowl which he had recently purchased at Constantinople. But no sooner was the change made than the miracle abruptly ceased. Days passed by, and the supernatural gift was still withheld. Then a solemn fast was ordered, and days of mourning, and the whole city gave itself to lament and intercession. At length it was revealed to the bishop in a dream that the silver bowl which he had purchased had originally belonged to a sorcerer, who had used it in the celebration of his illicit rites. It was the contact of this abomination which had caused the stoppage of the oil. Of course, after this, the tainted vessel was at once removed, whereupon the saint renewed her miracle, and "the fountain of her grace" commenced to flow as before. The bishop then hastened back to Constantinople, found out the silversmith who had sold him the bowl, and dragged him before the Patriarch, into whose horrified ears he poured out his dreadful story. As the result of a searching inquiry, it was discovered that the original owner of the vessel was a certain Paulinus, a man of education and respectable standing, who, however, "had sunk his soul in the depths of sorcery," and had used the bowl as a receptacle of the blood of victims which he had sacrificed "while conversing with the apostate powers". Great was the indignation of the saintly Faster when these facts came to light. He hurried at once to the Palace, and urgently demanded the punishment of the guilty man. The Emperor, averse to extreme measures, thought that more might be gained if the criminal were brought to repentance than if he were led to execution. But the Patriarch insisted, "with apostolic zeal," that one "who abandoned the Faith ought to be burnt alive," quoting in support of his contention a passage of the Epistle to the Hebrews, which ends with the words, "That which beareth, thorns and briars is rejected, and is nigh unto cursing; whose end is to be burned." The Emperor yielded so far as to permit Paulinus, together with his son and disciple, to be condemned to death. The son was beheaded before his father's eyes, after which the unhappy "sorcerer" himself was strangled, and the blood-lust of the rabid Byzantine mob was once more satisfied.

Before this occurrence, however, an event of great political importance had taken place, at which Gregory, in his capacity of ambassador, must necessarily have assisted. In the month of August of the year 582, eight years after his adoption by Justin, and four years after he became sole Emperor, Tiberius, conscious of failing strength, determined to elect a successor. His choice fell on Maurice, commander of the newly enrolled corps of the Foederati, a man of mature years and experience, who had been selected by the Emperor as his principal agent for carrying out the scheme of army reform, and had recently been serving with distinction in the Persian War. At the time of his birth and afterwards prodigies and portents had seemed to foreshadow his elevation to the Imperial dignity; and when in the summer of 582 he returned from the East to Constantinople, he found the promised diadem awaiting him.

On the 13th of August, the day fixed for the public nomination of the new Emperor, Tiberius summoned the Patriarch and principal clergy, the praetorian guards, the nobles of the court, the foreign ambassadors, and the prominent leaders of the circus-factions, to meet him in the open court before the Palace. When all were assembled, the dying prince was carried in on a litter. He was far too ill to make a speech himself, but the address, which he had previously dictated, was read aloud in his presence by an official. In this speech, after alluding to his anxiety to find a suitable successor, and declaring his entire confidence in Maurice, whose distinguished career in the past was a pledge of his future zeal and ability, the Emperor continued with the following exhortation: "I pray you, Maurice, let your reign be the noblest epitaph in my honour; adorn my tomb with your virtues; shame not the hopes of those who have trusted you; forget not the virtues you possess; cast no slur on your nobility. Let reason be a curb upon your power, let philosophy guide the helm of your government. Think not that you surpass all men in wisdom, because you surpass them in the gifts of fortune. Seek eagerly to be loved, not feared, by your subjects. Prefer reproof to flattery; and let justice be your constant councillor. To you, as a philosopher, the purple should seem no better than a worthless rag, the jewels of the crown no better than the pebbles on the shore. To a philosophic mind the Imperial sceptre denotes, not the unbridled licence of power, but an honourable slavery. This is my advice to you: as you follow it or not you will have for your judge that Power which gives honour to virtue and brings vice to naught, and which no bribes can turn aside." When the speaker ceased, the great throng was dissolved in tears. Then the dying Emperor rose with an effort, and invested his successor with the purple chlamys and placed the diadem on his brow. Maurice faced the people, and was greeted with shouts of acclamation; and thus, adds the historian, the nomination of the new Emperor was formally completed "in accordance with the laws of the Empire."

The dying Tiberius was carried back to bed, and expired on the following day. The grief of the people was intense. Every one put on mourning and hastened to the Palace of the Hebdomon, where the body lay in state, and all night long processions wound slowly through the streets, carrying torches and chanting funeral hymns and litanies. At daybreak next morning an enormous concourse accompanied the funeral cortege to the Church of the Holy Apostles, and all united in praising the virtues of the departed Emperor and lamenting his decease. But when the last rites were performed, and Tiberius had been gathered to his predecessors in the mausoleum of the Emperors, his fickle subjects dried their tears and turned to pay their court to the new sovereign. As Theophylact cynically remarks, "It is human nature to forget the past and care only for the things of the present."

Maurice was a native of Arabissus in Cappadocia—a short, sturdy, round-faced man, forty-three years of age, with bald head, straight nose, and high complexion. His abilities were second-class, his virtues uninteresting. Hardworking, precise, well acquainted with the details of public administration, and eager to discharge with conscientious exactness the duties of his position, he was nevertheless, as a ruler, "almost completely ineffectual." He lacked sagacity and breadth of view, and was quite incapable of winning the esteem and confidence of the public. His position was, of course, exceptionally difficult. The State was nearly bankrupt, the army was undisciplined and extravagant, the administration was utterly corrupt, the aristocracy turbulent and insolent; and in addition to these internal disorders the resources of the Empire were drained and its integrity threatened by wars both in East and West. Maurice endeavoured to overcome his difficulties by a system of rigid and irritating economy, and by a policy of close alliance with the oppressive aristocracy. But these measures, without materially relieving the tension of the situation, increased the Emperor's embarrassment by making him unpopular with the army and the people. The troops grumbled when their pay and rations were cut down and their irregularities checked; and they had little respect for "a military pedant" who "found time to write a work on military tactics, without succeeding in acquiring a great military reputation." The people, on the other hand, resented his alliance with the detested nobles, and avenged themselves by spreading about all kinds of rumours extremely prejudicial to his fair fame. It is clear that Maurice was the type of man out of which good ministers and subordinates are made, but he wanted that force of judgment and discretion which alone could qualify him for piloting the State in this distressing crisis of its fortunes.

For the rest Maurice's private character was prosaically unimpeachable. He was curiously free from the vices and weaknesses which had brought contempt on many of his predecessors. He was neither avaricious (though he was reputed so) nor extravagant. A true Christian and entirely orthodox, he had yet no wish to arbitrate on theological matters, and he refused to persecute. He was calm, self-restrained, prudent, and merciful. His tastes were of the simplest. He subjected himself to strict discipline, "having banished from his soul the mob-rule of the passions and installed in its place an aristocracy of reason." Morally he was a pattern of decorum; intellectually he had no mean share of common sense, was quick-witted, a diligent student of literature, and a patron of literary men. His manners, however, were stiff and difficult; he granted audiences sparingly, and only to persons who came on serious business; and he closed his ears against the idle conversation and the flatteries of courtiers. Maurice, in short, was a thoroughly worthy man, but his heavy and measured virtue was not of the sort to inspire enthusiasm or conciliate affection.

Shortly after his accession, Maurice was joined in marriage with Constantina, the younger daughter of Tiberius, a somewhat homely lady, of a pious and retiring disposition. The wedding was celebrated with great magnificence. The rite was performed by the Patriarch in the Palace. Maurice wore a purple robe, embroidered with gold, and covered with Indian gems, and on his head a golden coronet set thick with jewels. He and his bride were escorted by all the most distinguished civil and military officials, who carried nuptial flambeaux and chanted bridal songs in their honour. For seven days in succession the city abandoned itself to the festivities. The Emperor provided banquets for the magistrates, and equestrian games for the people. Bands of music patrolled the streets. There were theatrical performances in the open air, with broad farces, and mimes, and conjurers, and buffoons; and, to evidence their loyalty, the rich merchants and nobles increased and prolonged the revelry, squandering fortunes in lavish hospitality, and vying with each other in their display of jewels, sumptuous dresses, and gold and silver plate.

Two years later, in August, 584, these rejoicings were renewed on the occasion of the birth of a son to Maurice. The people, who had good cause to dread a disputed succession, were delighted when they heard that there was an heir to the Empire; and when Maurice appeared in the Hippodrome, they shouted to him, "God grant thee well, for thou hast freed us from subjection to many." The child was called Theodosius, in memory of Theodosius the Second, the last Emperor who had been born in the purple, and Gregory himself stood sponsor for him at his baptism.

Meanwhile, when the marriage festivities came to an end, the grave-faced Roman monk presented himself at the Palace, to urge once more the request which for the last four years he had been ceaselessly pressing upon the Government, that assistance might be sent to Italy. Unfortunately for his hopes, however, Maurice proved even less tractable in this matter than Tiberius. Indeed, his hands were already over-full. The Persian War continued to be, in the phrase of Theophylact, the ulcer of the State." The Avars and Slaves were extending their depredations with ever-increasing boldness. The armies of the Empire were insufficient to cope successfully even with these enemies, and certainly no extra troops could be spared for Italy. Maurice, therefore, frankly told Gregory that he was quite unable to send succours; he offered, however, to open negotiations with the Franks, with the object of persuading them to turn their arms against the Lombards.

Now, it happened that Pope Pelagius had already, in his extremity, turned to Gaul for aid. Since the conversion of Clovis, the Franks had been of the orthodox belief: hence Pelagius was well disposed to welcome them into Italy in the character of defenders of the faith. In 581 he had addressed a remarkable letter to Aunachar, bishop of Auxerre, in which, after bewailing his "tribulations and temporal straits ... the shedding of innocent blood, the violation of holy altars, the insults offered by idolaters to the Catholic Faith," and reminding his correspondent that the Franks were "members of the Catholic Church, united in one body under One Head," he continued: "I believe that God has in a wonderful manner united your kings to the Roman Empire in the confession of the orthodox faith, in order to provide a protection for the whole of Italy and for the city from which the orthodox faith proceeded. Beware lest your kings, through levity of purpose, fail in their high mission. Persuade them as far as possible to keep themselves from all alliance with our most unspeakable enemies the Lombards, lest, when the day of vengeance dawns (God send it may do so speedily!) your kings share in the Lombards' punishment." Maurice thus was not acting without good precedent when he sought for assistance from the conquerors of Gaul. In 584 he sent an embassy to the Austrasian king Childebert, who consented to expel the Lombards from Italy for a consideration of fifty thousand solidi. The money was handed over, and Childebert crossed the Alps. Having crossed, however, he allowed himself to be bought off by the Lombards, and so returned quietly to his own kingdom, having made a very handsome profit out of the whole transaction. Maurice, of course, was exceedingly indignant at this display of Frankish perfidy, and repeatedly demanded the repayment of his money; but in spite of all the Emperor's threats and protests, not one solidus was ever returned into the coffers of Constantinople.

Things went from bad to worse; and in 585 Gregory received a distracted letter from the Pope. "We have taken care," Pelagius wrote, "to inform you, through our notary Honoratus, of everything which it is necessary for you to know, and we have sent him to you, with our brother and fellow-bishop Sebastian, that, as he has been up to the present time at Ravenna with the Glorious Lord Decius the Patrician, he may give you full information on all points, and may make such statements to the Emperor as you may consider desirable. The miseries and tribulations inflicted on us by the perfidy of the Lombards, in violation of their oath, are such as no one can describe. The Commonwealth in these parts is reduced to such straits that unless God inspires the heart of our Most Religious Prince to display his natural benevolence to his servants, and relieve our troubles by sending us one Master of the Soldiery or one Duke, we shall be utterly destitute and defenseless. For the district of Rome is more than any other left unguarded, and the Exarch writes that he cannot help us, as he protests that he cannot even protect the districts where he is himself. May God direct our Prince speedily to relieve our perils before the army of that most unspeakable nation prevails so far as to seize those places which still as yet belong to the Republic." Gregory, we may believe, did his best to second the Pope's appeal; but his efforts met with no success.

One remarkable circumstance connected with Gregory’s sojourn at Constantinople deserves a passing notice. Although he resided some six years in the Greek-speaking capital, he yet never succeeded in mastering even the rudiments of that language. This is the more extraordinary, since Greek was by this time firmly established as the official language of the Empire. Justinian was the last Emperor who either in public or private life used the Latin tongue. The old Roman titles of the Emperor and the great officials—the prefects, praetors, patricians, etc.—still survived; but of these magnates with Latin appellations few could speak the language of Old Rome. Greek was now the language of officialdom, and John Lydus, a civil servant of Justinian's age, already complains that knowledge of Latin, which he had once found a useful and valuable accomplishment, was no longer profitable. Even professedly literary men were rarely acquainted with the tongue of the West: Procopius, for instance, though he had travelled in Italy, was utterly ignorant of the idiom of the country. In Gregory's time, therefore, at Constantinople Greek was the language of the court, of the Church, of the law-courts, of the bureaus, of the Hippodrome and the streets. The residents in the city, whether noble or plebeian, learned or ignorant, could rarely speak anything else, Greek was the language alike of diplomacy, literature, and ordinary life. And thus it seems to us strange, in the first instance, that Gregory, who knew only Latin, should ever have been appointed permanent ambassador at this Hellenistic court. Still stranger, however, is the fact that, after all the years during which he resided there, he should never have acquired even a smattering of the Imperial idiom. Was he more than ordinarily stupid? Our general knowledge of him seems to contradict such an hypothesis. Or was he negligent and careless? Or was he contemptuous—"an old-fashioned Roman," disdaining to learn the dialect of New Rome? Whatever the explanation may be, the fact remains that to the day of his death Gregory was unable either to speak or read or write the simplest sentence in the Greek language.

Gregory's official position in Constantinople naturally brought him into contact with a number of influential people, with some of whom he contracted close friendships. His relations with the Emperor himself do not appear to have been cordial. Maurice's lukewarmness in the Italian cause disgusted the patriotic Roman, while Gregory's importunate and impracticable demands annoyed the Emperor. For the Empress Constantina, however, Gregory entertained a genuine regard, and he frequently wrote to her in later times, to ask her help or give her spiritual advice. With two other members of the Imperial family he was on terms of intimacy—with Theoctista, the aunt and governess of the royal children, and with Domitian, cousin of the Emperor and Metropolitan of Armenia. Of the people connected with the court his best friends were Theodore, the Emperor's physician, Gregoria, one of Constantina's ladies of the bed-chamber, and Narses, who may perhaps be identified with the celebrated general who won his laurels in the Persian War, and was afterwards burned alive by the Emperor Phocas. Among his other acquaintances we may mention Cyriacus who later succeeded John as Patriarch, Constantius who became archbishop of Milan, the nobles Alexander and Andreas, Priscus the Patrician, Philippicus the Comes Excubitorum, Rusticiana a Roman lady who had taken up her residence in Constantinople, and Anastasius, the deposed Patriarch of Antioch. This last was a learned theologian who had dared to publish a refutation of the Aphthartodoketic Edict of Justinian, and who had earned the dislike of the succeeding Emperor by squandering the property of his see, "to prevent" (as he said) “its being carried off by that pest of the universe, Justin”. For this offence and for his insulting language, Anastasius was deposed in 570, and came to reside as a private person at Constantinople. Here he met Gregory, and a friendship soon sprang up between the men. Anastasius looked upon the eloquent, ascetic Roman as the very "mouth and lantern of the Lord"; while Gregory, on his side, was no less attracted by the austere, disciplined character of the persecuted Bishop, and at a later period, as we shall see, he used all his influence to get him restored to his patriarchate.

Gregory's most intimate friend, however, was the saintly Spaniard, Leander, archbishop of Seville. This man had come to Constantinople to further the interests of his convert, Hermenigild, the Catholic prince of Spain, who had taken up arms against his Arian father, King Leovigild. After Hermenigild's death, Leander dared not return to his native country until after the decease of Leovigild, which took place in 586. During his stay at Constantinople, the famous archbishop was Gregory's constant companion. The tastes and interests of the two closely corresponded. A theologian, a controversialist against the Arians, a writer of discourses on the Psalms, a musical composer, a student of matters liturgical, a charming letter-writer, au enthusiastic admirer of the monastic life, Leander was a man after Gregory's own heart. At all hours he was to be found at the house of the Nuncio, assisting him in his studies, criticizing his expositions, and advising him on the affairs of his Church. He it was who importuned Gregory to compose his Commentaries on Job, and to him that work was appropriately dedicated. He was the closest friend that Gregory ever had, and although the two never met after Gregory's departure from Constantinople, yet the latter, many years later, could say in one of his letters, that in a certain sense he had Leander before his eyes continually; "for the image of thy countenance is impressed forever on my innermost heart."

In spite of these friendships and alleviations, Gregory found his duties at Constantinople increasingly irksome. He was bombarded from Rome with distracted appeals to accomplish the impossible and get troops sent to Italy. He was regarded by the Emperor with disfavour as a tiresome petitioner, whose repeated complaints and demands were becoming a nuisance. The Patriarch and the clerical party were suspicious of him; the brilliant and luxurious courtiers disliked him for his aloofness and inaccessibility. At the same time, he was weighed down with a sense of failure and ineffectiveness. The senseless pageantry of the capital went on from day to day, and no one stopped to listen to the sorrowful monk pleading vainly for his beloved fatherland. It was natural that Gregory should be discouraged. Yet, after all, his mission was not quite without result. For Italy, it is true, he had not accomplished much; but for his own career his experience at the Imperial court was of the highest value. He had tried his hand at diplomacy; he had studied the characters and capacities of the leading men of the day; he had made himself acquainted with the workings of the Imperial Government; and he had learned at least this one important lesson—that the Empire was a broken reed to lean upon, that Rome and Italy must be saved, if at all, by the vigorous and independent action of the powers at home. Thus Gregory's time had not been wasted. If in the present there was but little to show for his work during these six years, yet in the future it was destined to bear much fruit in the making of a great career, and the shaping of the history of the Papacy and all the West.

It was probably in the spring of 586 that the archdeacon Laurentius was sent as apocrisiarius to Constantinople, and Gregory was recalled to Rome. He returned in great joy, carrying with him, it is said, the arm of St. Andrew and the head of St. Luke—precious relics presented by the Emperor for the enrichment of his monastery. To this longed-for refuge he was for a while permitted to retire, until the course of events made it necessary for him to exchange it for the dignities of the palace of the Lateran.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER VII.

THE LOMBARDS, 574-590