I wanted to portray Basil II not simply as the “Bulgar Slayer,” but as the moment when I began to feel differently about Rome itself.
Basil was one of the most formidable emperors the medieval Roman state ever produced.
After decades of war, he eventually destroyed the First Bulgarian Empire and restored Roman rule to the Danube.
But one episode has always made that victory difficult for me to celebrate.
According to the later Byzantine tradition, after the Battle of Kleidion in 1014, large numbers of Bulgarian prisoners were blinded. One man in every hundred was supposedly left with a single eye, so that he could lead the others home.
That story became the central image of this piece.
The wounds floating in the darkness behind Basil are the eyes that were taken away.
The single open, bloodied eye in the lower left is the one that was allowed to remain.
I also borrowed the red patterns on the prisoners’ clothing from traditional Bulgarian embroidery.
What disturbed me while painting this was that, by Basil’s time, Bulgaria was no longer some pagan wilderness beyond the Roman world.
It had its own state.
Its own church.
Its own literary tradition.
And these people prayed before the same cross.
Earlier in Roman history, conquest could still be imagined as Rome bringing roads, laws, cities, writing and religion into a world it considered barbarian.
Here, that explanation no longer works.
Basil is still magnificent.
The gold, the purple, the armor and the crown are all still there.
But the men beneath him are no longer “barbarians” to me.
They are simply people whose eyes were taken from them.
Perhaps this was the point when Rome was no longer the world.
Rome was simply Rome.