by Marié Heese
Apollonia was a surprise. Theodora had expected something much smaller, hotter and less civilised. “Look at that, there are Roman baths!” she exclaimed, “and basilicas, and forums, and fountains, and statues, and shops!”
“And we have parks, and trees,” added Hecebolus, admiring his new domain.
Their journey from the harbour along the broad main thoroughfare and up the slope to the Governor’s Palace that dominated the city from its commanding position just inside the encircling wall was a triumphant procession. Soldiers from the Roman battalion permanently stationed in the Pentapolis formed a guard of honour as they disembarked, and escorted the impressive litter carried by ten stalwart bearers that transported them to their new home. Flushed with pleasure, Hecebolus waved regally at the vociferously cheering bystanders who gathered as if to witness a circus parade.
Up and up they went, preceded by priests from the church attached to the palace who chanted prayers and swung censers that sweetened the air to the accompaniment of braying trumpets, drumrolls, the clash of cymbals and the rhythmic crump of marching boots.
The palace was another surprise. It was far bigger and grander than anything Theodora had imagined as she lay in her bunk on the bucking ship and wondered what was to come. An enormous stone edifice set amid a terraced garden brilliant with blooms, it had more than a hundred rooms: barracks for the guards, rooms for the palace staff, slave quarters, offices, reception rooms, kitchens complete with still room and laundry, capacious cellars stocked with dry goods and wine, and, on the upper floors, luxurious suites for the Governor and the Governor’s lady and their entourage. “Oh! And a library! Hecebolus, we have a library!” rejoiced Theodora. The palace had pillared peristyles with gravel walks and fountains, flowering shrubs and Grecian and Roman statues of pagan gods. Also its own Christian church with resident priests.
Amazed as she was by the size of her new home, Theodora was not overwhelmed by the prospect of managing the palace. She applied the lessons she had learned as Darius Pollo’s hostess. Nothing escaped her critical eye; she knew exactly who was responsible for which task, and how it ought to be done. She won over the eunuch major-domo, one Denderis, a thin, anxious, disapproving person, by asking advice and being generous with praise – and most of all, by insisting on punctuality and smart service.
She made friends with Father Rufus, the chief priest of the palace church, a sturdy, pink-cheeked man with a fringe of red hair, who looked more like a peasant farmer than an ecclesiastical scholar. Yet he had made a study of Christian visionaries, and could discourse for hours on some of his favourite saints. The palace workers grew used to seeing the two seated on a marble bench, the woman with her hands folded on her rounded belly, her dark head tilted to listen as the tonsured priest held forth. The smell of the sea laced with incense became, for Theodora, the essence of Apollonia.
“Father, you should know that I am not truly the Governor’s lady,” Theodora told him. “We are not wed.”
“Is that your choice, Kyria?” His brown eyes were kind.
The gentle question almost brought tears. “No,” she said, and swallowed. “No, it is not. But I am … I was … an actress. So it would be against the law in Constantinople for Hecebolus to marry me. Here too, of course, but here I do not have … the … the dreadful reputation that I have there. So I’m hoping that he will be permitted an exception. Father, truly, I am not a wicked woman.”
“Saint Augustine wrote that conscience and reputation are two things,” observed the priest. “Reputation is owed to society. Conscience, now, conscience one owes to oneself.”
Hope burgeoned in her heart while the baby grew in her belly. She attained a certain stature in the town. And as the weeks went by, she came to feel that she deserved to live there; she felt a certain entitlement: pride of possession. She felt it every time she climbed up the broad stone steps edged with scarlet pelargoniums leading to the atrium, which could be shut off from the sea wind with elegantly carved cedar panels. When it was open, the stone arches framed the turquoise and azure water, the passing ships, the gulls that swooped across the busy harbour looking for scraps. She felt it as she walked through the splendid reception rooms, checking for dust on the white marble statues of Aphrodite and Heracles, footprints on the floor mosaics, fading flowers, worn fringes on the draped velae. This, she thought with satisfaction, this is my domain.
Theodora did her utmost to be the kind of wife Antonina had described to her. She remembered her advice about being informed as to her husband’s interests, and she tried to be as supportive as she could. She listened attentively as he told her about his daily triumphs and his long-term aims. He had considerable energy, and he pursued various goals with great intensity.
“We must never forget that we have barbarians on our borders,” said Hecebolus. “Sooner or later our neighbouring territories should be brought into the Byzantine Empire. It should not be necessary for this city to be run like an armed camp. The Vandals … Ah, yes, Theodora, my shoulders are knotted, that helps. Dig deeper with your thumbs. As I was saying …”
Soon, she thought, he would make good his promise to marry her. He would obtain the permission that he told her was needed. So that there could be no objections.
Her daughter was born with a minimum of fuss, and very little pain. In the middle of one of the lavish dinners that Theodora arranged to ensure the desirability of an invitation to the Governor’s Palace, the first pains began and quickly became intense. Marcellina, the large, motherly wife of the Praetorian Prefect, noted Theodora’s gasp as a strong contraction took hold, swiftly whisked her hostess away to a bedroom and refused to leave her alone with only a midwife and some house servants to help her. “A girl wants her mother at a time like this, and I’m the next best thing for many a Roman mile,” she said in her booming voice, and proceeded to marshal events.
Within three hours, everything was over and done with, the room clean and strewn with lavender, the baby bathed and fast asleep, a wet nurse sent for. The somewhat bemused new mother lay back on plump pillows and drank the herbal tea her new friend put into her hand.
“As quick and easy a birth as I’ve seen, and I’ve had some myself,” declared Marcellina. “In fact, I’ve had ten, and the last few just slid out easy as eels. Wouldn’t think this was your first, you’re a fortunate girl.”
“Yes,” said Theodora.
“I’ll leave you to sleep, now,” said Marcellina. “It’s only just after one in the morning. Excellent timing, my dear.” She flung her cloak over her shoulders and shooed servants out like chickens.
“Thank you,” said Theodora, as if she’d had a choice. “Thank you for everything. You’ve been so good.”
The room seemed larger and suddenly very quiet when everyone had left. A small oil lamp next to her bed cast a soft glow that encompassed the wooden cradle holding her new daughter. She listened. There was another breath, in the silence, besides her own. A faint, snuffling sound. A mew. Then the faintest of sighs.
I hear you, she thought. I can hear you breathing. I can hear you.
I have a daughter, she thought. This was such a tremendous thought that it filled her completely. She lay contemplating it. Not sleeping. She wasn’t sleepy at all. She was wakeful, awake, aware. Aware of a new feeling that was so strange she couldn’t quite recognise it. Then it came to her: She was happy. She was purely, simply and completely happy. She wanted to be awake so that she could lie there: just being happy.
Towards morning she slept at last.
Hecebolus, when presented with his daughter, peered at the tiny crumpled face and said, uncertainly, “She’s quite a pretty little baby. Isn’t she?”
Theodora laughed. “She’s beautiful. I thought we might call her Juliana, if you agree.”
“Call her what you please,” said Hecebolus, and turned to leave the room.
“I’ll give you a son next time,” said Theodora to his retreating back.
Juliana was an easy baby.
She flourished. It did not take long before she slept through the night; she seldom cried – only the night before tiny new teeth made their appearance – and she wasn’t shy with strangers, charming the many people who came to the Governor’s residence with her dimpled smiles. Marcellina was a favourite, and the child leapt with delight when she saw the broad face with the horselike teeth grinning above her.
Marcellina came often, always with gifts. “My dear, you are a model hostess,” she said, with frank admiration. “There are some terrible snobs in town, and you’ve quite won them over.”
Theodora glowed at this praise. In spite of certain tensions since the birth of her daughter, she still wanted to be the best of wives.
“Oh, and listen, Theodora, a word of warning. I’d stay at home today,” advised her friend. “The praetorian guard has been put on full alert. There might be some demonstrations.”
“What kind of demonstrations?”
“Protests,” said Marcellina. “Your hubby’s seen fit to raise taxes again. Quite sweeping raises, one hears.”
“But taxes are necessary,” said Theodora. “How else raise revenue to run the country?”
“One suspects,” said Marcellina, “that there might be a … um … discrepancy between the taxes as imposed from Constantinople and the amounts demanded locally. But don’t worry, I’m sure everything will be under control. Just don’t go down the hill.”
No sooner had she voiced this warning than a commotion broke out at the palace entrance. The slave whose duty it was to receive all visitors came running into the small reception room where Theodora and Marcellina sat. “Kyria, Denderis begs that you will come. An emergency.”
“See to the baby,” said Theodora, and handed over a sleepy Juliana to the slave. “It’s time for her bath.”
In the atrium, a stretcher had been laid on a couch. There lay Hecebolus, unconscious and covered in blood. The stretcher-bearers, members of the praetorian guard, backed out leaving one grey-haired man in attendance on his knees beside the sofa, a hand on the prostrated governor’s pulse. Denderis hovered in anxious distress.
“What’s happened? Is he … is he … ?” Theodora clung to Marcellina, almost overcome. An odour of mingled sweat, smoke and blood had intruded on the elegant space usually scented only by fresh roses.
“This man is a physician, Kyria,” said Denderis. “From the hospital.”
“He breathes, Kyria, but he has a head wound,” said the man. “I have brought my equipment and I will sew it up, if you could provide a slave to assist me, one unlikely to faint and cause further havoc.”
Marcellina turned to Denderis. “Stop dithering, fellow, and make yourself useful,” she boomed. “The doctor requires a basin with hot water and some clean cloths and towels.” Denderis went off at a trot. She addressed herself to the physician. “Why was the Governor not attended to at the hospital?”
“There’s rioting,” he said, shortly. “Some arson. Several buildings are in flames. We judged it would be safer at home. You should alert your guards.”
“Denderis will do that at once,” said Theodora. “How serious is the wound? What happened?”
“It’s a laceration, caused by a thrown stone. Probably not nearly as bad as it looks. Head wounds always bleed profusely.”
Hecebolus stirred and groaned.
“The Governor should regain consciousness soon. Now, where are those slaves?”
“A stone thrown by whom?”
“Doubtless one of those disembodied senior officers,” said the physician sourly. “One of the living dead.”
Denderis arrived, shepherding slaves who brought a steaming basin, towels and a bucket. “You should leave this to us now, Kyria,” he told Theodora. “I have set a double guard. When the Governor has been seen to, we’ll get him to bed.”
Marcellina swept Theodora out, sat her down in a deep chair and ordered a hot ginger infusion as if it had been her own home.
Theodora sipped and trembled. “What do I do if he dies?” she asked. “He has never married me, I suppose you know that.”
“There have been rumours,” said Marcellina, looking embarrassed.
“I thought he loved me. I thought he’d marry me, he promised. Said he would seek permission. And I … I loved him, I only wanted to be with him. I left everything familiar … everybody …”
“Must have been hard.”
“But he’s not the same person that he was in Constantinople. It’s as if I don’t know this man at all. He’s grown distant, and harsh, and he … he doesn’t come to my … doesn’t …” The ginger burned into her throat and nose. She blinked back tears.
Marcellina frowned. “If you mean he doesn’t come to your bed, you’re in trouble.”
“You see, towards the end of my pregnancy, he didn’t want to sleep with me, in case it injured his son. Then it turned out to be a girl, and he was dreadfully disappointed. And he … he hasn’t been back since.”
“You need to entice him back, lovey, or he’ll throw you out, sooner rather than later.”
“I know.” Theodora nodded miserably. “But he seems to have turned against me completely. He watches me suspiciously, all the time. I think he has people spy on me too, wherever I go, whatever I do.”
“You’ve not given him any reason to distrust you, surely?”
“None, but he knows … he knows I had a bawdy stage show, and then I was … I had a … protector, you know? But I’ve never been a common whore. I haven’t slept with … with all kinds of men, I …” She choked, and swallowed down ginger and misery. “It feels as if he hates me. And if he dies … if he dies …” She did not need to spell out the harsh truth: If he died, she would be stranded in a foreign country without any resources. She would not be the Governor’s lady, nor the Governor’s widow. She would be nothing.
It seemed to her that the acrid scent of smoke had seeped into the palace. Suddenly the huge stone building felt as fragile as a cage of bamboo.
Third interlude: The corridors of power, AD 518
In the old emperor’s bedroom the only sound to be heard was the voice of the priest, intoning a prayer for the soul of the late departed. The most senior physician among the group in attendance had just reached across the piles of bedding, smelling of sweat and medications, of old man and incense and death, to close the eyes of what had been His Most Glorious Majesty, Basileus, Emperor of Byzantium, ruler of the Eastern Roman Empire for twenty-seven years, but was now merely a cadaver that would soon begin to stink. Firmly, the physician’s veined hand drew down the lids: first over the blue eye, then the black. Old Odd-eyes, he had been irreverently called, but never to his august face.
The small man in the tunic of a decurion stood well back, waiting for the final word to be spoken so that he could instruct his silentiaries to take up their positions in the corridors. He knew that the people would now assemble in the Hippodrome, waiting to acclaim the new emperor. The Great Electors – high officials, the senators and the Patriarch – would gather in the palace, in the Triclinium of the Nineteen Couches. They would deliberate and then announce their choice. The Master of Offices would urge them to choose with dispatch, for otherwise the army might wrest the initiative and proclaim someone they did not want. The Master would be anxious to undertake his fateful march along the corridors lined with ushers to speak the name at the Ivory Gate, which communicated between the palace and the Hippodrome. The chamberlains would stand prepared to deliver the Imperial robes, so that the chosen one could appear in the Kathisma appropriately clothed, to be cheered by the thousands of his subjects waiting there. That was the way it should be done.
The small man was one who habitually observed men closely, and he noted the expression on the face of the Grand Chamberlain, a tall eunuch with a bald domed head and a hooked nose, as he looked down at the body of the late emperor. It was, momentarily, an expression of gleeful satisfaction, of flaring hope. Then the hooded lids closed, wiping out the betraying emotions. When they o
pened again the Grand Chamberlain had schooled his face into a mask of appropriate seriousness and sorrow.
“Should the death be made public now, Doctor?” he enquired gravely.
“It must be made known,” agreed the chief physician.
“The Emperor did not speak, Doctor? No word, for days now, no word of the … the succession? You are all witnesses to that?”
An assenting murmur from the group of physicians. “No word at all,” the chief physician affirmed. “A pity. I know the issue will be fraught. But … the patient never spoke of this.”
The Grand Chamberlain nodded, turned on his heel and strode away.
As the physicians began to leave the stuffy room, the small man bowed them out. The chief physician lingered to the last.
“Well, Narses?” he enquired. “What say you? Who is to reign? One might have thought the Grand Chamberlain to entertain ambitions, had he not been a eunuch. Beardless ones such as yourself may never reign, not so?”
“Not much escapes your keen eye, good sir,” the small man said, his expression vigilant, looking around to check whether any stragglers remained close enough to hear.
“Ah, you noticed it as well.”
“Oh, yes. Amantius is usually a model of restraint, but for a moment he betrayed himself to anyone who glanced his way. He was delighted.”
“But he cannot reign. Is he perhaps a particular favourite with Hypatius? Surely as the eldest nephew, Hypatius must ascend the throne?”
“One can be sure of nothing,” commented Narses. He knew what that fleeting expression had portended. But he would not pass it on. Better to keep a still tongue in one’s head, especially at such a time.
“Really? More than one pretender?” The doctor’s small black eyes were avid.
“Of course,” assented Narses. He would not be drawn. The doctor left.
Yet Narses knew what he knew. He swiftly left the room and ordered the thirty silentiaries under his command to take up their positions as ushers in the corridors. Then he sought the ear of the man he judged to be capable of executing the only plan that would avoid chaos. That man was Justinian. He was an excubitor, and a member of the candidati, the elite corps of the Emperor’s personal bodyguards who had been on standby since the old man took to his bed, surrounded by a bevy of fussing physicians. Narses knew where he was to be found.