The Colour of power: A story of Theodora, Empress of Byzantium

by Marié Heese

  “I could learn,” said Theodora. “You needn’t teach me for free. My mother makes wonderful honey-cakes.”

  He gave a loud guffaw. “No, child, we can’t get fat. Tell me … your mother … is she the actress who does Pasiphae?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “So it’s your father got killed by a bear?”

  “Yes.”

  He asked: “Can you do a handstand?”

  “Yes,” said Theodora, and she did, balancing upside down for several counts.

  “All right. We’ll teach you. If you’re good enough, you can be a permanent stand-in. Sometimes one of the kids is not so well. But no complaints. You’ll do as you’re told. And you’ll practise, and practise, and then practise some more.”

  “Yes, I will,” said Theodora, delighted.

  She was less delighted when she found out just how hard it was. But she stuck to it; she stubbornly and wordlessly endured bruises, falls that whacked the breath out of her body, aching muscles, several sprains and a broken toe. And she learned: balance, suppleness, speed, control. Timing. Self-belief. Until at last she was good enough to be a part of their act. Good enough, in fact, to be the apex of the human pyramid that was the climax of their performance. Only she never had a chance to do this on stage, since the three children jealously clung to their places. Still, she knew what she could do. And one day, she thought, her chance would come.

  Life was not all learning, though. They did have time to play. Theodora was quick and light on her feet and good at skipping. She could win races unless the others were much taller and had longer legs. But the game she liked best of all was the Emperor game. Someone in the group of children who took part hid a scarlet scarf which represented the purple which only the Emperor was allowed to wear, and all the rest had to search for it. Whoever found it, tied it on, and became Emperor for the day. Everyone had to serve and obey the Emperor.

  Theodora had never before been the one to find the magical scarf, but one day she did find it, hidden under a stone beneath a drainpipe. A narrow edge peeped out at her, a rim of scarlet in the grey background. She pounced on it.

  “I’ve found it!” she rejoiced. “I’ve found the scarf! Now I’m the Emperor, and all of you must serve me!”

  “You’re just a girl,” objected the scrawny son of the blacksmith, who was as small and thin as his father was tall and muscular. “You can’t be Emperor.”

  “Nonsense,” said Theodora, and she looped the bright piece of material around her neck. “There’s no such rule. I have the scarf. I’m Emperor.” She stared the objector down haughtily. “And the first thing you people have to do is to build me a throne.”

  Several of the boys grumbled, but such was the power of her black-eyed glare that they did begin to cast around them. They were playing on an empty lot at the end of the street opposite the blacksmith’s shop, with a railing to which horses were often tethered in the shade of a somewhat spindly tree. But there were no horses today.

  “In the shade,” said Theodora as she tapped her small foot. “And hurry up about it.”

  “Well … we could tip the rain butt over,” suggested the scrawny one. “It’s empty. She could sit on its bottom.”

  They up-ended the butt and crowned the new emperor with a garland of yellow flowers picked from a nearby bush – a weed, but no matter. She ascended the throne with the aid of a box that served as a step, folded her hands in her lap and surveyed her kingdom. There was rather a lot of manure about. “This palace needs to be cleaned,” she said regally. “See to it at once.”

  Ordered from above, according to the rules of the game, her minions swept her domain with branches.

  “Now I should like something to eat,” said the monarch. “Something sweet.” A small girl dutifully brought some dates, which Theodora ate slowly and daintily, ignoring pleading looks. As the afternoon wore on, the game continued: she commanded, they obeyed. When she demanded to be entertained, everyone shared in the jokes, the stories and the laughter.

  Finally she clapped her hands. “Now then,” she said, “bring me a goat.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want one.”

  Her subjects stood in a circle staring at one another. “No! I’m not playing any more,” said the scrawny one. “Go find your own goat. Enough is enough.” He turned to go home.

  “You come back here,” ordered Theodora. “I have not dismissed you!”

  “This game,” snarled the boy, “is over.” The rest giggled and backed away from her, bowing in exaggerated submission. Then they all fled, their mocking laughter fading down the street.

  Theodora was furious. She climbed down stiffly and walked home, still clutching the scarlet scarf. She had decided to keep it. They shouldn’t have it back. She hated to be laughed at.

  “Where were you?” Anastasia asked. “What were you playing at?”

  “I was the Emperor,” she said. “But they didn’t want me any more. They ran away.”

  “Were you a good emperor?” Anastasia ladled out the vegetable soup she had made for supper. It was fragrant with herbs and smelled delicious.

  Theodora blinked. In her mind, an emperor was an emperor: a person with all the power who could order everyone else around. A good emperor?

  “What makes an emperor good?” asked Comito, hungrily spooning up soup.

  “They’re a m-mad, b-bad lot,” grunted Peter with a mouth full of bread. “M-murder their m-mothers. M-make people worship their horses.”

  “No, no, they’re not all like that, that was Caligula. He was crazy, yes,” said Anastasia. “But our emperors are Christians now. A good emperor must be close to God. I would think that’s the first thing.”

  “Close to God,” Theodora repeated thoughtfully.

  “And a good emperor serves the people,” Anastasia went on. “Stasie, you can’t eat soup with your hand.”

  “I thought the people are supposed to serve the Emperor,” Theodora said with a frown.

  “Well, yes. But the Emperor has a mission, which is to rule well and wisely, to ensure justice and make the kingdom great. So you see, he serves the people too.”

  Theodora ruminated on this until she had finished her supper. “Mother, where’s my box?” she asked. She wanted to hide the scarlet scarf before she was made to give it back.

  “Box? What box?”

  “My sandalwood box. Father used to keep his sharp knives and small tools in it,” said Theodora. The tools had been buried with Acasius, but there had not been room for the box inside the coffin.

  “Oh, that box. I gave it to Peter,” said Anastasia. “He needed a box for something.”

  Theodora stood and glared from her mother to her stepfather, who was slurping up his second helping. “That was my box,” she said, furiously. “That was my father’s box, and now it is my box, and you had no right to give it to him, and he has no right to have it.” Angry tears glittered in her dark eyes. She had been mocked, and now she felt suddenly, deeply wronged. Her chest heaved with sobs and her voice rose. “He is not my father,” she said passionately. “He came here … he came and he … he takes up all the space, and he uses our father’s things, and he talks too loudly, and he eats too much, and he … he is not my father! And he can’t have my box!” Furious tears streamed down her face. She stamped her foot. “It’s my box! Mine! Mine! Not his! Not his!”

  Peter was shocked to be the sudden focus of such grief and animosity. “I d-didn’t know … I’ll g-give it b-back,” he said, humbly. “I’m s-s-s-s-s-s …” His throat worked to no avail.

  “Hush,” said Anastasia, alarmed. “Theodora, calm down, behave yourself! You have been extremely rude!”

  Theodora wept inconsolably. A suffocating wave of sorrow had engulfed her, at the thought of the tools put away in the coffin, next to the stern face she had loved so much. He had not been stern with her. He had loved her and protected her and taken her to the Hippodrome with him and told her stories and made
her wooden toys. And now he had gone, and he would never come home again. Never. Never. She was wrung with longing, and with anger at the interloper.

  Comito began to look weepy too. Stasie’s round brown eyes also filled with tears and her lower lip wobbled. Loud, cross voices always made her cry.

  “Oh, God,” said Anastasia desperately, and picked up her youngest, who at almost four was amazingly solid, like a small bag of sand, and too heavy to carry around, although she still constantly wanted to sit perched on someone’s hip.

  Peter, clearly overwhelmed by the level of female distress in the small room, got up abruptly and walked out.

  Anastasia sat down on the narrow cot against one wall with Stasie on her lap, and dissolved into tears herself. It was too much. She had tried to hold it all together, but it was too much. She was so tired. And now Peter was probably angry, as he had every right to be. He did his best, he was good to them all. It wasn’t his fault that his salary was not enough. He gave it all to her. He was loving and faithful and he was devoted to her.

  But he would never understand that this very devotion was hard for her to bear, that it was burdensome. Theodora in her fury had said things that Anastasia also felt: He did take up too much space. He was too big, too loud, too demanding; his very devotion, his humility, his unqualified adoration made demands on her patience and on her ability to respond. She was too old for him, she thought. He should have had a much younger woman who had not yet borne children and who had strength and desire to match his. She couldn’t. She felt used up. Hot tears dripped into Stasie’s hair.

  She knew he had been hurt. Perhaps he would never come back. If he didn’t, that would mean the end for them. Yet she understood Theodora’s sorrow and anger. It was as if Acasius had been wiped out. Removed not only in body but in memory. She had done the only thing she could think of to keep them together, but it had been so sudden that none of them had had time to grieve. Now it seemed that all the tears that they had held in check needed to overflow.

  Clinging to each other, the small family of Acasius mourned their loss.

  First interlude: The Nika revolt continues, 14 January, AD 532

  Narses the eunuch: his journal

  In the year of Our Lord 532, January 14

  Today is Wednesday, the day after the ides of January, and chariot races are usually run. This morning, after a night of respite, those of us sheltering in the palace were hopeful that the riot was dying out like the smouldering embers of the previous day’s conflagration.

  Justinian had probably not slept much; he seldom sleeps more than a few hours at the best of times, which this is not. Yet his round cheeks still had a healthy blush, like those of a robust peasant, which is of course exactly what he is – or was, before he took the purple. He summoned me early.

  “Narses,” he said, “I intend to appear in the Kathisma. I will speak to my people. Can you guarantee the loyalty of the Imperial Guard? Will they protect my back?”

  “For certain, Despotes,” I assured him. “The excubitors will be at their posts.”

  Even in so tense a situation he allowed himself a wry smile. He has himself borne the sword of an excubitor, and he knows as well as I do that the other classes of guards are mostly ornamental. “I won’t expect any of the Scholarian or Domestic Guards to sully their elegant uniforms,” he said.

  “Despotes,” said General Belisarius, “my men are quartered in the palace barracks. At any time, they are ready to go forth.”

  “As are my Heruls,” added General Mundus.

  “I am aware of that,” Justinian said. “I know I can count on that support. But I believe further bloodshed can be averted, if we can keep our heads.”

  “What do you intend to do, Despotes?” Mundus looked impatient, Belisarius doubtful.

  “I must talk to my people,” Justinian reiterated.

  He should have spoken before, I thought, but did not say. I feared it was too late. But the Emperor was adamant. He called for the Grand Chamberlain, who controls the races and who looked considerably the worse for wear. The Emperor announced: “The races will go on.”

  “But Despotes,” exclaimed the man, almost breathless with anxiety, “that cannot be wise! The mob, Despotes, has turned into a … a veritable dragon. Belching flames. Such a mob has a mind of its own, I have seen it before, and truly it is to be feared!”

  “The mob has calmed down,” said Justinian, possibly with more assurance than he really felt. “It is extremely important that normal routine should be preserved, and that we should exhibit firm resolve and belief in customary procedures.”

  So the word went out that the races were to be resumed. Justinian strode along the corridors, leading a doubtful entourage, and accompanied by Theodora, who refused to remain behind in safety.

  Justinian took up his position in the Kathisma. A man not without courage, one must give him that. I had the royal party well protected, as unobtrusively as possible, and positioned myself at the shoulder of the Emperor.

  But it was the riot, not the races, that took off again. The dragon gathered its strength and lumbered, roaring, to the Baths of Zeuxippus, where it blasted the elegant building with its fiery breath. The pillared marble venue, together with its magnificent collection of ancient sculptures – another symbol of power and privilege – went up like an enormous torch.

  “Narses,” said Justinian, “if this rampage continues, what else will they destroy? This must stop!” His frown was fierce as he watched the irate mob pouring into the Hippodrome.

  For certain they were in no mood for sport. In fact, so many people piled into the Hippodrome that racing would have been extremely dangerous. In the pen beneath the Kathisma the horses neighed, probably frightened by the acrid smell of fire and trails of smoke carried overhead by the strong wind. Clearly the chariots would not tear around the track on this fateful day; even on the spina people were standing ten deep. High above their heads the sun struck flames from the bronze highlights on the Serpentine Column, atop which the ferocious heads of the three intertwined snakes seemed to be grinning in mockery.

  The demarchs of the Blues and Greens addressed the Emperor as they had done before, but their tone had changed from the formally respectful to the peremptory. They stood shoulder to shoulder, emphasising their unprecedented cooperation, and stated their demands in turn. From my position close to the Emperor, I could see the two men clearly: the Blue tall, broad-shouldered, sporting the partisan shaved forehead, long back hair, full beard, Hunnish trousers, billowing sleeves and short cloak; the Green shorter, stocky, garbed more conventionally in a long tunic that bared his muscular arms. The Blue had an authoritative, carrying voice, the Green more of a deep rumble; both could be clearly heard.

  “Despotes,” said the Blue demarch, and I detected a note of scorn in what is normally an appellation of the highest respect, “Despotes, the two fugitives in the church must be set free. Immediately.”

  “And given full pardon,” added the Green demarch. “God has been merciful. The Emperor can be no less.”

  Justinian stood, rather than sitting as he usually did in the Kathisma. He leaned forward and murmured to his official spokesman, the mandator.

  “Very well,” the Mandator responded. “We hear you. Your petition is granted.”

  A roar went up. But if Justinian had thought that this would be the end of it, he was mistaken.

  “Furthermore, Despotes,” the Blue continued, “the people demand the summary dismissal of those officials who are not worthy of the positions they hold.”

  More cheers rang from thousands of throats.

  “Eudaemon, Prefect of this city,” the Green said, in his deep voice. Enthusiastic applause.

  “Tribonian, Minister of Justice,” called the Blue. Raucous approval.

  “And John of Cappadocia, Prefect of the East,” added the Green. The crowd bellowed its agreement, a wave of sound that engulfed the Kathisma.

  “Granted,” said the Mandator as instruc
ted by Justinian. “We hear you. All three shall be dismissed. We give our word.”

  A sustained roar. Feet drummed. A messenger arrived, black with soot, to inform the Emperor that the northern end of the Augusteum was in flames. Clouds of smoke were billowing across the Hippodrome.

  Angrily, Justinian drew his cloak around him. “Narses,” he ordered, “see to it that the three persons mentioned are brought into the palace so that they may be kept safe.” He turned his back on the populace and swept out with Theodora. In a shaky voice the Grand Chamberlain announced, unnecessarily, that there would be no sport this day.

  I gave orders for guards to escort the three disgraced officials to the palace, together with key senators. Cappadocian John and Tribonian stalked in angrily, while the dour Eudaemon kept his head down, his horsy face miserable, since his men should have quelled this riot at the start. Also shepherded in were Hypatius and Pompeius, since I judged that anyone with royal pretensions would be better under my own eyes. Their youngest brother, Probus, had fled the city at the first sign of rebellion. Probably wisely. The three nephews of the old king Anastasius are but a sorry lot, yet when all is said and done, they do have royal blood.

  What next? We can but wait, and watch.

  Part 2: The actress AD 512-516

  Chapter 5: Comito acts

  “Theod-dora,” said Peter, “you need to g-get ready. I’ll walk you and C-Comito to the K-Kynêgion. I have to p-practise a new act with the b-bears.”

  Comito at thirteen was already a star of the stage, and today Theodora was due to make her first appearance with her sister. A non-speaking part; she would merely be a slave who had to carry a stool. Yet she was nervous. The Kynêgion did not hold good memories for her. Sometimes she dreamed that she had to face that awful, scornful silence again, and in her dreams she and her mother and her sisters always shrank until they were invisible and about to be trodden into the sand, at which point she would wake up screaming.

  On the other hand, in a way she looked forward to it. If Comito could do it, so could she. She knew she was not as good as her sister at dancing and singing, but she was determined to find her own way to entertain all those men. All she had to offer was her body – sadly, it was still just like the body of a young boy, straight and flatchested. No curves, no hips and breasts to unclothe in a teasing way. Nothing to make men sweat and stamp and whistle and cheer. But she had worked hard with the acrobats. She was agile and lithe. She would find a way.