by Marié Heese
Despite the tension, she had almost drifted into sleep when a wave of nausea suddenly hit her. She barely made it to the commode before she began to vomit. The bitter fluid, lumpy with sour chunks of undigested food, rushed out through her throat and her nose as she retched miserably. She dampened a towel strip and mopped her face, panting. Crept back to bed. Waited. Shivered.
Again the uncontrollable urge to heave. Stagger to the commode. Back to the bed. Again. Again. This won’t work, she thought. It’s just making me sick, all the medicine will come out, and it won’t be any use.
Then the cramps began. Her bowels ran in noisome farts and spurts. She remained sitting on the commode for a long time, afraid of making a mess in Rosa’s room. The stench itself made her even more ill. She sat and stared at her pale, trembling legs as if they belonged to someone else. Poor girl, she thought. Poor sick girl.
Then there was a respite. She mopped herself and dropped the mucky strips into the bucket. Still there was no sign of blood. Surely, she thought, surely there must be blood? She lay down again, gingerly, feeling as if she had become brittle. She wrapped her arms around herself. Poor sick girl.
The cramps would not let her sleep for long. It felt as if a hard, relentless hand had been thrust into her insides and was twisting her gut in a merciless kind of rhythm.
The hours went by. The room lightened around her, a pale wash of early light against the white walls. Her eyes were heavy and her head ached. Then Rosa knocked; she stomped in, went over to the commode and flipped the lid up. Theodora cringed.
“No blood yet? No, I see not. It’ll come, never fear. I’ll just take this lot away and clean it out. Won’t be two ticks.”
Her heavy tread receded. She had not yet returned when an overwhelmingly painful cramp in her stomach took hold of Theodora. She gasped, unable to draw sufficient breath to cry out. Her belly was tearing apart. Then she felt hot fluid course out between her thighs. She got up shakily, to avoid making a mess on the bed. Clotted blood dripped onto the tiled floor. Then she saw, amid the red slick, a tiny form. A tiny mannikin. Small enough to hold in the palm of her hand. A head, disproportionately large, emerged from a kind of transparent sac, complete with features that might have been formed in clay: blind eyes, a nose, a half-open mouth. Tiny arms and legs that ended in stumpy, clublike hands complete with fingers. A vestigial member.
Theodora screamed. And went on screaming. Rosa thundered back with the bucket.
“What is it? Theodora?” She looked down. Saw. “Ah, it’s worked,” she said with satisfaction. She took some towelling, scooped up the mess and dropped it into the bucket. Theodora screamed.
“Goodness, girl, it’s not so bad, surely? Now stop that,” and she took Theodora by the shoulders with her bloodstained hands and shook her. “People will think Rosa is murdering you. Easy now. Easy.”
Theodora took a gasping breath. “It’s a baby,” she wept. “It’s a baby, it’s a boy baby!”
“Well, of course it’s a baby,” said Rosa, surprised. “What did you think it was? A frog?”
“I thought … I thought it was … just a … kind of blob,” wept Theodora. “I mean, it’s just started. I d-didn’t know … how could it be … a baby already?”
“They form up very soon,” said Rosa. “There, there. The worst is over now. Lie down, there’s a good girl.”
With a firm hand, she massaged the girl’s lower belly.
“Ouch, that hurts,” protested Theodora.
“Have to make sure it’s all out. There! Looks good, not too much blood. Rosa will clean you up now, and you’ll soon be as good as new.”
Briskly she drew the basin of water nearer and proceeded to wash Theodora roughly but competently. She made a roll of towelling and inserted it between Theodora’s defenceless thighs. She pulled a clean nightgown over her unresisting head and covered her with the blanket.
Theodora shook from head to foot. Her teeth chattered.
“Shock,” said Rosa. She fetched another, thicker blanket and tucked it in all around. Theodora lay and shuddered. She felt the hot blood seeping out. The room stank. Rosa patted her shoulder. “Try to sleep,” she advised.
I’ll never sleep again, thought Theodora. Never. But gradually she grew warm under the heavy covers and the shivering fit subsided. Exhaustion overcame her. At last she slept.
She went on sleeping for most of the day. Rosa came in from time to time, changed the towelling roll and offered broth. Theodora took a few sips and slept again.
Towards late afternoon she came properly awake and sat up. I should get up, she thought. But she felt paralysed by lassitude. “I must get up,” she said aloud, surprised at the thin sound of her voice. She sat up and swung her legs to the ground. This made her feel faint, and she had to cling to the bed as if to a raft on deep water. She sat and breathed deeply. At length, shakily, she stood up, managed to get dressed, and walked through to the next room. Rosa was sitting in one of the chairs, doing some mending.
“Ah! Up, are we? Feeling better?”
“Yes,” said Theodora. She sat down abruptly. Her legs were not very obedient as yet. She looked around her. Suddenly she realised that Rosa’s rooms were just like their own. There were only two rooms, and there was no extra bed. “Where did you sleep?” she asked, aghast. “Rosa?”
“Oh, this chair is comfortable enough,” said Rosa. “Just put my feet up.”
Tears ran down Theodora’s cheeks. She hadn’t given Rosa a thought. “You shouldn’t have,” she said. “I didn’t … I wasn’t …”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Rosa’s tough. Now, we need to get some proper food into you.” She got up and whipped a cover off a large ham bone, some bread and olives. “Eat,” she invited.
“I’m not hungry.” But she sat down, and once she had taken a bite or two, she was suddenly ravenous. The ham had been boiled with cloves and it was delicious. Rosa worked through two heaped plates, while Theodora did well enough.
“Right,” said Rosa, sitting back with a loud burp. “What you need to do now, is to go to the baths. Only the steam room, mind, and have an attendant cool you down with poured water. You’ll still bleed a bit, for a while. Stuff in some strips. Have you got the fee?”
“Yes, just.”
“Good. You’ll feel like a new woman. Trust Rosa.”
“You’ve been wonderful,” said Theodora. “What do I owe you?”
Rosa licked her puffy fingers. “You don’t earn much money, do you?”
“No,” admitted Theodora.
“Tell you what, you come in and help me sort out my books. I’ve got into a mess. You’ve a good head for numbers, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I can do that. Are you sure …”
“Be a big help,” she said and nodded till her chins quivered.
“Very well, then. Can I help you clean up?”
“Nah. Got a slavey,” said Rosa. “Get along with you now. Go to the baths.”
Theodora walked out into the late afternoon sunlight. The narrow streets were thronged with people chattering with excitement. Among all the faces she recognised Macedonia, who had danced with Comito.
“Theodora! Did you see it?” Macedonia asked breathlessly.
“No, I’ve been ill,” said Theodora. “See what?”
“Absolutely marvellous race,” Macedonia told her. “Gaius Lepidus won for the Blues, last race of the afternoon. There was the worst pile-up, three chariots in pieces, horses going wild, two drivers trampled, blood all over the place …”
“Sounds exciting,” said Theodora.
“Oh, it was grand! And there was just the narrowest space, right up against the spina, nobody thought he’d get through – I couldn’t look, I tell you!”
“But he made it?”
“He simply surged through. Oh, it was magnificent! Not a person who wasn’t standing up and cheering, even the Emperor!”
“Must have been thrilling,” said Theodora.
Macedonia danced off to join
the happy throng.
The bath did Theodora a considerable amount of good, just as Rosa had promised. When she emerged, the streets were emptier. She felt clean, and although still shaky, rather hungry. She wrapped herself in her cloak and just managed to get home on tired legs.
She found her mother putting a meagre meal on the table. Anastasia looked at her daughter eagerly. “So? Is Comito well? And … did you see him? What did he say?”
“He said no,” Theodora said wearily.
Anastasia sat down, dishcloth in hand. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”
“Never mind,” said Theodora. “I’ll be in the market for a rich protector soon, don’t worry.”
Her mother looked suspicious. “Theodora, what have you done? Where have you been?”
“I did what was necessary.”
“You didn’t … you didn’t …”
“Yes, I did.”
“You dreadful girl! You couldn’t have … you aborted my grandchild!”
Pure fury arose in Theodora. She shook with rage. “For God’s sake, Mother! What else could I have done? He would have none of me! I’m not good enough! But I’m all you’ve got to depend on, and I’ve done what I had to do, and you’ll never mention it to me again! Keep your mouth shut, and be thankful!”
Anastasia buried her face in the dishcloth, and wept.
Second interlude: The Nika revolt continues, 15 January, AD 532
Narses the eunuch: his journal
In the year of Our Lord 532, January 15
Most of us in the palace, I suspect, spent a sleepless night. Before sunrise Justinian called a council of war. Theodora had not yet made an appearance; she dearly loves to lie late abed, and then be bathed, dressed and pampered by numerous attendants and slaves. Since the riots began, though, she has not gone to her quarters in the Daphne Palace, but remains with Justinian in shared rooms in the Sacred Palace, the inner sanctum of the Imperial Palace complex. Her ladies would have trouble washing the smoke out of her beautiful hair, I thought.
The men huddled together. “It’s now obvious that force is the only option left,” declared Justinian. “I had hoped it would not come to this. Yet order must be restored, and I see no alternative.”
“Quick strike,” said Belisarius, and Mundus nodded. “Sudden and decisive.”
“It’s just a ragtag bunch of disaffected peasants and common folk who’ve lost their heads and are tearing around like a pack of wild dogs,” said Tribonian scornfully. “Soon come to their senses if you take out the leaders.”
“Slaughter ’em,” agreed Cappadocian John. “Must be ruthless. String up a few headless corpses. Only way.”
Justinian reluctantly gave the order. Belisarius gathered his Goths and Mundus marshalled his Heruls; I believe they counted some two thousand men, barbarians all, who had no connections with nor love for the people of the city. In a chilly dawn General Belisarius led a punitive raid on the rampaging mob. My excubitors were mustered in the palace, ready to defend to their last breath the royal couple and the Sacred Palace. The treasure of the Empire is housed within its vaults, and it would be a rich haul for traitors.
I reckoned it was time once again to put on the garb of a simple slave so that I might observe events and carry dependable reports back to the palace.
Outside those protective walls the raw wintry air was still thick with smoke. It made my eyes water and my throat burn. The usual rabble of beggars had gone to earth, sensing danger; shops seemed to crouch behind blinds and barricades, and the wind moaned along deserted streets. The mob had congregated in the Augusteum, milling about, clutching makeshift weapons. I clambered up a stepped wall where I could cling to a pillar. As I watched, the mercenaries marched in close formation across the large forum in front of me, using their short swords with contemptuous ease to despatch anyone who dared to oppose them. The bodies were tossed aside as if they had been wild hares destined to be skinned and cooked. Soon the soldiers reached the streets on the far side of the forum, and I scuttled along behind to perch on a balcony.
The battle continued, face to face, hand to hand; cut and thrust, whack and stab and kick. Grunts, groans and screams carried on the smoke-laden wind. The common folk were being mown down by the soldiers, and I sensed that the tide was turning in favour of the generals. The soldiers had suffered very few casualties. Soon, I thought, they would prevail.
Just then, from the direction of the ruined Hagia Sophia, a procession of monks entered the arena. An elderly fellow with a wispy beard and an evangelical light in his eyes walked in front, struggling through the combatants, a tall gilded cross bobbing in his grasp. Behind him a much younger monk did his utmost to keep the Virgin Mary above the fray, and several more bore a scorched coffin saved from the blaze, which held the bones of some reputed saint, source of many a miraculous cure. Doubtless they were intent upon achieving, in this way, a miraculous peace.
But alas, the mercenaries, barbarians that they are, saw no difference between these sacred objects and the posts and broomsticks that many of the mob had used as weapons. I saw a huge Goth wrest the cross from the leading monk and use it to brain the elderly cleric, after which he broke it across his knee. The serene face of the Virgin was dashed to the ground and the burnt coffin crashed into firewood while the soldiers stomped on the holy bones.
An unearthly howl of fury went up from the surrounding crowd. Many had seen the sacrilegious acts from their houses. Now the mob was driven by righteous fury, and more and more citizens joined in the violent uprising, using whatever weapons came to hand. Roof tiles were hurled; chairs, pans and chamber pots flew through the air. A shrieking woman poured boiling water from her window onto the barbaric enemy.
“Fight!” I heard her yell. “For the Virgin Mary! Fight the murdering bastards! Fight, damn you, fight!”
More and more men stormed into the arena and the seething crowd surged to and fro. Suddenly the soldiers seemed to have come up against a wall of ferocious resistance. Now the vicious mercenaries had met their match. No longer were they opposing householders wielding broom handles. They were faced with fighters just as able and as ruthless as themselves. Step by step they were stopped and driven back.
Belisarius and Mundus with their men were surprised to find themselves outnumbered and forced to beat an ignominious retreat. I ran back to the palace in their wake, dodging missiles all the way.
Justinian was predictably furious. “Two of the best generals in the Byzantine Empire, and you allow yourselves to be beaten by a motley crew of householders wielding rolling pins! For shame! For shame!”
“Despotes,” I said. “If I may report?”
“What?”
“No longer only householders, Thrice August. I recognised several armed retainers and bodyguards of great landlords. It is much more now than merely a mob.”
Justinian let out a hiss. He understood at once that the battle had become political. Belisarius and Mundus both nodded.
“Despotes,” said Belisarius, “it is as Narses says. Suddenly there are many men who know how to fight. This is an insurrection.”
“Very well,” said Justinian, “it is more serious than we thought. We must consider our options.”
He consulted with the generals. They decided to despatch messengers urgently requesting help from the outlying provinces. A couple of Mundus’s Heruls volunteered to make their way through the city and ride hell for leather to Hebdomon, where there are soldiers expected to be loyal to the crown.
For the rest of the day and the night the violent mob, now whipped on by experienced fighting men, continued rampaging across the city, setting fire to every government building in sight. We huddle here, suddenly aware that the walls of the royal compound and the palace itself are no stronger than the shell of a snail awaiting the crushing stamp of an enormous boot.
Part 3: The courtesan AD 516-518
Chapter 9: A spectacular performance
Within days, Theodora’s young and healthy body had recover
ed from its ordeal. Very soon the goose girl had to perform again. Drums and trumpets heralded her entry through a marble arch. Herding her geese, she stepped into a vortex of noise as the massed ranks of men roared and whistled and stamped. The bright rags of her peasant outfit, lightly stitched at the seams so that the jealous Chrysomallo could tear them off easily, swirled around her lithe legs. As the prince who fell for the exquisite goose girl, Indaro rendered the usual love song with passion. Chrysomallo sprang onto the stage and cast the spell that turned the love-struck prince into a goose. Indaro departed, honking mournfully.
The other two girls leapt into their double striptease combined with gymnastics; Chrysomallo whirled the tassels attached to her nipples to the usual rapturous applause. But when the moment arrived for Theodora to be caught and cast onto the couch so that the seeds could be sprinkled between her legs for the geese to peck up, she froze. She stood dead still on the stage in the middle of the Kynêgion, that vast amphitheatre where as a small child she had known first humiliation and then redemption and lately had achieved notoriety. Again, as when she was little, the ranks of staring men overwhelmed her.
Up to that day, she had been able to distance herself from her actions on stage; she had felt like a puppeteer who manipulates the arms and legs of a separate creature, while her real self remained safely hidden behind the masking curtains of a booth. Now it was as if the protective cloth had been ripped away, leaving her exposed and caught out: guilty of obscenity. She avoided Chrysomallo’s outstretched hands, leapt over the couch, hunkered down and cowered to the side of it with her arms around her shaking knees, absolutely incapable of carrying on. No, she thought. I can’t do it. Can’t do it. Can’t.
The frustrated geese waddled around and cackled loudly; they associated the trumpet cue with being fed. A long, puzzled hush was followed by a general murmur. Chrysomallo realised that there was a major problem. In an unrehearsed dance, she circled the empty couch and pretended to execute some strange spell. The musicians picked up the rhythm and provided backing. The audience settled down, prepared for a new variation on the popular pantomime.