by Marié Heese
Past the Church of the Holy Wisdom with its tall towers they bore her; up to the imposing Chalkê with its huge bronze doors. And the stately portal opened to admit her. She was being welcomed into the royal precincts of the Imperial Palace, into the very centre of power.
There to welcome her as she stepped out of the litter was Justinian himself. His appearance was not at all regal; he wore a plain, wide-sleeved dalmatic over a simple linen tunic, and his bushy hair, still damp, bore the tracks of a comb. She almost felt overdressed in the light cloak over a pale blue embroidered silk tunic she had borrowed from Comito and altered to fit. He took both her hands as she descended, but he seemed at a loss for words, his dark eyes uncertain. He looked, she thought, for all the world like a boy anxious for his mother’s approval.
She smiled at him confidingly. “Thank you so much for meeting me,” she said. “I was feeling … overwhelmed.”
“I’m delighted to see you,” he said, straightening up. “You are most welcome. I thought you might feel strange with all these guards and officials and so on …” His hand waved at the palace guards in their livery, now forming up to escort them further.
“Most thoughtful,” murmured Theodora, allowing her arm to be drawn through his, and stretching her step to keep up as he walked her through the endless corridors and reception rooms, pillared and walled in polychrome marble, gleaming with gold-inlaid mosaics, draped in damask, furnished with chairs and couches of exotic wood and ivory crouching on lion-clawed feet. Their progress was watched by statues of classical beauty alternating with silentiaries in white silk holding silver arms, stationed at intervals along the walls, staring into the middle distance; statues and ushers equally silent and, it seemed to Theodora, equally disapproving.
“We’ll not eat in the Sacred Palace,” said Justinian. “It’s far too big and formal. We’ll just pass through. Now, over to that side, there’s the Daphne Palace, it’s the women’s domain. Empress Euphemia has her rooms there, her ladies, all that … She’s had everything redecorated in red and gold, very grand, for a former slave.”
“But then, where …”
“I’m taking you to the Palace of Hormisdas,” he told her. “There are back stairs to it from this one … I love it, I often work there. It’s more human in size. And it has a magnificent view.”
“I never realised how much space there was up here behind the walls,” said Theodora. “Nor that there are actually several palaces.”
“Oh, yes, it’s almost a separate city. Also has churches, offices, barracks …” He waved again, with a dismissive air. His regard was fixed on her, he was carefully attentive and courtly as he guided her all the way to a door leading out of the palace in the direction of the sea. Here he ordered the guards in peremptory tones to stop, clearly accustomed to being instantly obeyed. “Stay on watch here, at the door.” Then he helped her down the stairs outside, which led to a considerably smaller building backed up against the hulking outer curve of the Hippodrome. Through the atrium they went, through a triclinium, and out onto a flagstoned terrace, protected from the drop down to the ocean by a curving stone wall. The wide expanse of the Sea of Marmara lay before them, edged with glistening white foam around the rocks below, the dark indigo water stretching to infinity.
“Oh!” said Theodora. While they had been traversing the interminable passages, the sun had dropped below the horizon; now a myriad flickering spots of light glowed against the dark hill-side: all the rich folk in their villas had lit their many lamps. They seemed to be dwelling in a place suspended between earth and sky. “Oh! How beautiful! A city of light! The City of God!”
“Glorious and celestial,” said Justinian, smiling at her delight. “You know the works of Saint Augustine?”
“Yes, I do,” said Theodora, surprised, for her part, that apparently so did he. “I studied the texts in Alexandria, when I was a catechumen.”
“I remember,” said Justinian. “I remember you told me about being confirmed. In fact, I now know a great deal about you. It is useful to have spies.”
“Oh.” She looked away, distressed. Then he knew exactly how poverty-stricken her childhood had been. Clearly it was useless to hope that her antics with the geese had escaped his notice. He knew – he must know – about Hecebolus; probably his spies had reported that Hecebolus had thrown her out. Doubtless, then, he had also heard the calumnies of Procopius. She could not hope to redefine herself. She could never become the person she had tried to create since her return as a spinner of wool. He must be convinced that she was nothing but a whore. An insatiable whore.
She bit her trembling lip, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She reached up to dash it away, trying to regain her composure.
“I know, for instance, that your father was a priest in Syria. I know that your mother is a good woman, despite being an actress. And I know that you all had to survive as best you could without a breadwinner after the bearkeeper Peter died.”
She nodded, keeping her face turned away.
“I also know, about you …”
She tensed. Here it came. The truth about her. According to Procopius.
“… this important thing: as St Augustine tells us, no one can ever control your will, even if they are able to control your body. If the soul is pure and virtuous, then it cannot be lost, even if the body is violated.”
Violated! The word struck her like a blow to the solar plexus, it took her breath away. Yes, indeed, indeed, it was the truth! She bent forward, hiding her face in her hands, completely undone by his understanding.
“If the soul is pure,” he said, gently, “then nothing that happens with the body matters.” With those words he had reached out to her; he had penetrated the polished shell, the carapace that she had created to hide behind. He had touched her to the core. She took away her hands and raised her head.
Standing behind her, he put his arms around her small frame, drew her against his sturdy body, and leaned his cheek on her head. They looked out across the darkling water and inhaled the salt-laden air. “Whenever I stand here,” he said, “I have a sense of the concentric rings of human society that St Augustine identifies. First, the domus, this house, particular and immediate. Then the civitas, not just the city, but the entire state. And then the orbis terrae, the earth and the whole of human society that inhabits it. And finally …”
“The mundus,” said Theodora, calmer now, leaning back against the warm bulk of him. Glad that her mother’s teaching and her lessons in Alexandria had made her fluent in Latin, which was Justinian’s mother tongue, although his Greek was excellent. “The cosmos. Encompassing the earth and the heavens and the constellations, God and his angels and the souls of the departed as well as human society now alive.”
“And the Emperor bears the responsibility for the civitas,” he said, “as God’s Vice-regent here on earth. It should be governed in such a manner that it comes as close to the ideal City of God as is humanly possible.”
“It must be righteous,” said Theodora.
“Exactly. And to achieve that, first there must be justice, in a framework of consistent law.”
“In this country? In any country? I have only seen one set of laws for the rich, and another for the poor, both frightfully confusing and pretty much applied at the whim of those in power,” said Theodora, recalling Apollonia.
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. “That’s the problem, that’s exactly the problem! Come, you see we have some bread and wine and fruit set out on this table … simple, I didn’t want any slaves around. Let’s sit here and then I can tell you …”
She listened with rapt attention as he expounded and explained, outlining his vision for a better civitas. “I have three dreams,” he said, his dark eyes bright with the intensity of his feeling, leaning forward over the hardly touched fruit and bread. “First, the whole legal system must be overhauled, and codified, and made to be a solid foundation upon which the civitas can stand.” His large peasant�
�s hands clenched to demonstrate the solidity of his imagination.
“Surely that alone is a lifetime’s work?”
“Not to be done by one person, but by the best legal minds, working together. With concentrated effort it is possible, believe me. Then, I have a comprehensive building plan,” he said, gesturing widely to show its compass. “I love to build. Well, not with my own hands, but I love to conceptualise, to work with the men who design, to watch superb edifices take shape.”
“Your dreams becoming real,” said Theodora.
“Exactly. I can beautify the civitas, to the greater glory of God.”
“How wonderful, to have the power to do that,” said Theodora. “And your third dream?”
“To reunify the Roman state,” he said, soberly. “For that I will need great generals. To recreate the glory that was Rome. It’s an ideal, a great empire, not merely a city.”
“Based on specific principles. Not those held by the barbarians,” said Theodora.
“Yes, that is the essence, precisely.”
On and on they talked, eating little, sipping wine, exhilarated by the energy generated by their communion. It was a meeting of minds. Justinian was tireless as he propounded his ideals, his plans, what needed to be done, how it could be done, whom he would task with doing it. If he were the Emperor. As indeed he believed he would be one day; it was clear that already he had considerable power. But she did more than listen; she had suggestions and ideas that were new to him. Sometimes she argued and he listened in his turn.
“You could do such great things for women,” said Theodora. “There is much injustice as the laws now stand. I have often argued with Marcus Anicius …”
At last the lamps began to gutter and flicker. They had been talking for hours. He fell silent and looked around with a dazed expression, as if he had just realised where he was. Then his serious eyes fixed on hers again, intently. He reached across the table and took her hands. “I’m sorry. You must be tired. You should have stopped me.”
“I enjoyed it,” said Theodora.
“You have such soft hands,” he said, rubbing them. “You are so … altogether … beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“When I saw you for the first time, sitting there with your child,” he said, “it was … it was like … a living icon. The Virgin Mother, with the Holy Child.”
“I am very, very far from being holy,” she said, gathering her cloak around her.
“Don’t go,” he said, urgently. “Please don’t go. Don’t go away. We can … we can sleep here. Please. Stay with me. Will you stay with me?”
“Yes,” said Theodora.
She allowed him to lead her to a bedroom. To disrobe her gently and carefully with his large and slightly clumsy peasant hands, as if unwrapping something delicate and precious, like an old and fragile codex, she thought. Something to be treasured. Not to be broken, not even scuffed.
Yet the taking was urgent, it was driven; he was a man of passion but not, thought Theodora, experienced with women. On her part, she was attracted and willing, but her body was stiff with memories of being conquered and plundered; it remembered blood and pain and loss, possession and betrayal. It would hardly allow simple intercourse, let alone a joint journey to heights of ecstasy. Soon he had spent himself in a viscous dribble across her thighs. He groaned, slumped with one arm across her and turned his head aside on the pillow. “I am a poor lover,” he mumbled. “I fear I have disappointed you.”
“No,” said Theodora. Gently, she stroked his back. “It was a beginning. We both have much to learn.”
He turned to look at her in wonder. They lay face to face on the pillow, so close that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. “You are a gift,” said Justinian. “Theodora. You are a gift from God.”
She did not go home. He installed her in the Palace of Hormisdas. He sent servants to fetch whatever she wanted from her little house. He paid off the rental contract, as if to make sure that she had no other home than with him. Anastasia should bring Juliana to the palace, he said, and Stasie too could be accommodated. There were enough rooms.
“Oh, my word,” said Anastasia, “we’re a few steps up from the Kynêgion, aren’t we? No more need to be fucked by a bull! Not for me, at any rate.”
“Mother,” said Theodora furiously, “this is the palace. Kindly restrain yourself from bawdy stage talk. We must be dignified.”
Juliana tore along the endless corridors, shouting with glee, but soon found herself enrolled in the palace school, being trained by slave pedagogues in acceptable deportment, reading and writing, together with the children of palace officials and courtiers. Stasie had new silk tunics and a lady’s maid to order her thick brown curls. She discovered the palace library and the gardens, grew less tense, then bloomed.
Several ladies-in-waiting were allocated to Theodora; also a secretary, cooks, guards and numerous household slaves, plus a eunuch to supervise the household. Justinian sent for seamstresses, jewellers, shoemakers and perfumiers. Many hands now served her, bathed and massaged her, dressed her and made her up. Sprayed her with the concentrated perfume of roses. Perfected her appearance.
She met one Narses, who was tasked with showing her the correct way to behave at court. He was a small, insignificant-looking eunuch, with a crumpled, sad simian face and observant dark brown eyes. Yet despite his lack of stature it seemed that he knew everything about everybody, and also had every tiny detail of protocol at his fingertips. He managed all the silentiaries, who had the job of maintaining order in the palace, particularly at ceremonies, and Theodora noted that he ensured apparently effortless and faultless precision.
“The Consul will present you to Their Majesties at a large reception,” Narses told her. “It will be easier among so many people. I think the Emperor will approve, he’s always had an eye for an attractive young woman. But the Empress …” He shook his head. “No, she’ll be a hard nut to crack.”
“I thought she was a slave, originally,” said Theodora. “Not an aristocrat, not a patrician.”
“Oh, yes, it’s true that she was a slave and concubine who went by the name of Lupicina, and she belonged to another man. Justin bought her, freed her and married her. Now she has a crown and the name of a martyred saint, and no one could be prouder. No, Kyria, with all due respect, I must warn you she will not approve.”
Theodora was duly presented to the Emperor and Empress, who were seated on chairs raised on a dais in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches, where receptions were held. Justin, although somewhat stooped by age, still retained to a degree the bearing of a soldier; Justinian had told her he had indeed fought valorously in a number of campaigns. The Emperor nodded vaguely at the pale, dignified and fragile-looking young woman who genuflected as she had been taught by Narses and responded in a low but firm voice to his few gruff and inconsequential words.
The Empress Euphemia, however, refused to recognise her. She was as plump as a partridge, and not even swags of silk, ropes of rubies, jewel-encrusted fingers and pearls dripping from a kind of coronet could transform the dumpy old woman into a regal figure. But the set of her head, together with pursed lips and staring eyes, conveyed outraged disdain. Once again Theodora was greeted with contemptuous silence, and again she felt reduced to nothing and completely humiliated.
“Well,” said Narses afterwards, “when a crumb turns into a loaf, it acquires pretensions.”
Theodora had to laugh. The little fellow had fast become a friend.
“Take no notice,” said Justinian angrily. “She has no real power. The one to please is my uncle, and I think he liked you. She can’t have you sent away. You are here to stay.”
Weeks turned into months and months into a year. Once again Theodora behaved like the best of wives, turning a palace into a home that was a haven of tranquillity. Again she planned and hosted elegant small dinners, mixing men that Justinian liked to talk to, such as the suave Tribonian and shrewd Marcus Anicius, with the
still beautiful and witty Antonina, with Indaro, who was given to making outrageous pronouncements in her deep, lugubrious voice, and Chrysomallo, who could still sparkle.
Justinian wanted above all things to marry Theodora, but they could not overcome the obstinate refusal of Euphemia to countenance any such thing; the passage of time only made the slave turned Empress ever more obdurate. She simply reiterated that the law forbade a union between an actress, even a retired one, and a person of high estate. Which was unfortunately true.
“It’s plain and simple snobbery, of course,” said Anastasia. “But then again, nothing is simple in this city. It’s also the religious issue, don’t ever forget that. It wasn’t for nothing that she took the name of a saint who pointed to a document of the Chalcedonian creed from her coffin with a cold dead hand.”
“Yes, she knows I’m a Monophysite,” said Theodora. “But it doesn’t bother Justinian, though he’s a Dyophysite and has Chalcedonian beliefs.”
“Oh, if he marries you, it’ll be useful to him,” observed Anastasia. “He’ll use it to maintain a balance between factions.”
“But we’ll never be able to get married,” said Theodora dolefully. “There’s Euphemia. And there’s the law.”
“Emperors tend not to be bound by laws,” said Anastasia. She leaned forward. “Theodora, tell me. It’s clear enough that he adores you. But you – do you love this man? Or is it Peter all over again, only with a better job?”
Theodora considered. “Mother … I don’t love him the way I loved Hecebolus. In the beginning, when I followed him to Africa, I loved him so much. I could see no fault in him. I would have gone with him anywhere, given up anything for his sake. Then he … he turned into a devil and he nearly … Well. Anyway, as for Justinian … We are friends, first and foremost. I’ve never been friends with a man, except maybe Father Rufus, but I am with him.”
“Well, the two of you certainly talk endlessly. And he showers you with gifts. People are gossiping, they’re saying you have bewitched him. He’s never been known to be hot-headed, and now look at him.”