Where The Gods Sleep

In the days of Emperor Justinian, when Rome's glory was but a shadow stretched over the world, the basileus sought to make himself equal to the lords of the heavens. He, whom men called the Great, sought to restore the might of the old empire, bending East and West beneath his rule, raising domes that touched the sky, and fashioning laws that would bind generations unborn.

Yet, in his pride, he forgot the will of the Almighty. Had not the ancient peoples of Babel sought to build a tower unto heaven? Did not the Lord scatter them with tongues of confusion? So too did Justinian, in his boundless ambition, invite divine fury upon his dominion.

It began as a whisper, carried by ships that traversed the endless seas, coming forth from the land of Egypt, that cursed kingdom where once the Hebrews labored under Pharaoh's yoke. The pestilence crept into the heart of Constantinople unseen, like the serpent in Eden, slithering through the streets, coiling around the columns of the Augusteum, sinking its fangs into the flesh of noble and beggar alike.

The air grew thick with the scent of rot, and the earth became swollen with the bodies of the dead. No prayer could stay its hand, no offering could appease its hunger. From the palaces of emperors to the hovels of the destitute, all were marked by the wrathful hand of God. The afflicted swelled with black boils, their eyes clouded with fevered delirium. They cried out in agony, but their cries were drowned by the lamentations of priests and the wailing of women who tore their garments in mourning.

The emperor himself, seated upon his throne of gold, was struck by the pestilence. Did he not weep in his delirium, seeing visions of angels and demons warring over his soul? For months he lingered between life and death, his flesh withering as if the Lord Himself had placed him in the crucible of judgment. And though he recovered, he emerged not as the radiant sovereign of old, but as a man who had glimpsed the abyss and knew its depths.

Still, the gods were not satisfied. The streets of the Queen of Cities became graveyards. The markets fell silent, save for the buzz of flies upon the corpses of the once-mighty. The ships that bore tribute from the provinces arrived with none to receive them. The empire's armies, once the terror of the world, crumbled as their ranks were emptied by death's unseen hand. The plague spread like fire upon a dry field, devouring all before it.

Thus, the mighty works of Justinian, the wars waged, the cities rebuilt, the laws inscribed for eternity—what were they before the judgment of the Divine? Dust upon the wind. His empire, which he sought to make whole, lay broken.

And so, as in the days of Babel, the Lord scattered the pride of men. Let it be known: no mortal, no emperor, no conqueror, may challenge the heavens and go unpunished.

Thus is written the tale of Justinian and the wrath of the Gods.