Scenes of Ravenna, Regaining the ‘Lost Capital’
A Taster
‘In that marsh of yours the laws of everything are always the wrong way about; the waters stand and the walls fall, the towers float and the ships stick fast’
- Sidonius Apollinaris writing about Ravenna (468AD)
Ashlar masonry adorned with the royal red, the smell of flatbread rolled and roasted on sentries’ shields, humidity’s embrace clogging the streets with sweat-ridden officials eagerly awaiting an audience with the new governor.
This city, the capital of contrasts, breaks every rule in the Classical book.
As you may have learned at school, the Romans kept their city populations healthy by draining the swamps nearby. Ravenna, however, is situated in one of the largest marshes in the Mediterranean.
You may also remember that the Romans laid solid foundations for their towers and fortifications. Aurelian pitched his walls in Rome many metres into the ground. In Ravenna, the waterlogged soil makes for such unstable ground that bizarre floating towers, specially designed for the defence of this city, drift here and there to the whims of the wind.
These very unusual characteristics of Ravenna, frowned upon in the Classical era, came to be treasured and adored in Late Antiquity.
The hosts of mosquitoes during summer were almost unbearable for residents, but such discomfort was negligible compared to the disease and devastation that a foreign army preparing to siege Ravenna would experience when pitching camp in this marsh.
Crewmen of merchant vessels must have cursed the sludge as they waded through the swamp, dragging their ship and its cargo into port. But as they lay their mud-stained limbs to rest in silk-woven sheets, annoyance would have turned to admiration, as comforting thoughts of nature’s boggy bulwark rendering any attack by sea impossible danced in their heads, precious thoughts of security in troubled times.
The year is 540AD and Belisarius has done the unthinkable. Ravenna, one of the most defensible cities of Antiquity has been returned once more into Roman arms, and with it all of Italy. It took Theoderic with the whole Ostrogothic nation’s support three and a half years to conquer Ravenna. It took Belisarius mere months.
As this prince in all but title advances towards the red parapet, white flags on battlements greet the soldierly procession in tow, now only spectres of men, their pale and withered faces betraying years of fighting and half-rations. As the Ostrogothic onlookers of such a pathetic parade watch with embarrassment, they laugh a little at the absurdity of war and tears flow at the thought of its human toll. Even in the soldiers’ martial minds does the thought linger: how could this reward possibly be worth the displacement, destitution, and death of so many citizens and friends?
It was a city worth fighting for.
Valerian the sentry thinks so at least, as he rests his pounding head on his knees. It is almost mid-day, and as our guardsman emerges from the tower’s shade he is struck by the choking heat of Summer’s fast approach. He sets off on the road east to his barracks, eager for food and drink, his mind and body still swaying to the drunken tune of the previous night’s festivities, the last of a three-day celebration to mark such a momentous victory. He smirks at his jealous comrades, forced to eat on duty, cooking flattened dough on their shields in the baking sun, adding cold meats and cheese to the mix to make what two thousand years later can be enjoyed for a few euros right opposite the station in Ravenna, the exact location of the once great walls of the city.
As he enters the mess hall, the distant church bells are heard ringing for noon, zealous priests each trying to outdo the other as they heave at their ropes, swinging bronze bells into blazing symphony. Task completed, Eugenius, the priest of doubtful faith but unquestionable devotion, scoops up a handful of purified water to massage the rope burn, and, eyes raised to the painted ceiling of the basilica, praises the Almighty if only for appearance’s sake. Head still aloft, he scans the twin rows of saints, men and women, lining the colonnade of the church, a painted procession of the high and holy glistening in gold. As his gaze trails the room from left to right he cannot help but smile as he notices the craftsmen perched on wooden scaffolding, vigorously scraping away a mosaic of Theoderic, each stone removed making room for the image of the Roman palace to replace him.
One of the fellow priests shares in his laughter, and relates that production of a new mosaic in the Basilica of Saint Vitalis is already underway, depicting the Emperor Justinian, the Empress Theodora, and Belisarius too. How could such displays of vanity adorn these houses of sanctity?
In the palace, the general’s secretary Eugenius tries desperately to hold back the painters and other prancing pests that haunt the imperial offices with their presence and perfume, all wishing their image of such a hero be selected for the mosaic. He watches with amusement as Belisarius personally drives away these men sprung from a thousand barbarian nations, all with adulation their mother-tongue.
He accompanies Belisarius onto the balcony, both gasping for fresh, unscented air. As they catch their breath, exasperated from the toil and tussle of court intrigue and image, an Eastern wind blasts the coarse sea-air against their faces, scathing their cheeks with salt. Staring into the distance eight hundred miles away in Constantinople, Justinian stands facing them on his palace porch. His is the mind that never rests, each and every sinew of his being straining to glory at all times, Ravenna the latest piece in a puzzle that he will never complete. But what is a man if he does not risk it all, his wealth, his title, and his life, to fight for a better future?
I hope that this composition has given readers at least an idea of the life and opinions of some of the inhabitants of Ravenna, and that the historical narrative that underplays this article has sparked an interest in the full story to come…
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