by Marié Heese
“We’ll have complete prostrations,” ordered Justinian. “Narses, see to it.”
In future all persons who approached the royal couple, or either one of them, would have to prostrate themselves completely, arms stretched out, and kiss the ground in front of the royal feet. Both his and hers.
“Let them laugh about that,” said Theodora.
All the same, her friends from the Hippodrome and the Kynêgion were always welcome at the palace. Antonina came often, bringing news of the city, where Theodora no longer walked like a common person, but only rode in her special carriage drawn by white mules, or walked in a grand procession, regal, distant and iconic.
It was Antonina who told Theodora that her old partners in the goose pantomime, Indaro and Chrysomallo, had fallen on hard times. “They’ve been sacked, told they’re too old to perform,” she said. “And neither one of them has any family to look after her. Chrysomallo has a daughter, name of Anna, eleven years old, I think, and you know what’s likely to become of her.”
Theodora did know. Slavery and prostitution awaited the child. Indaro and Chrysomallo would soon be begging in the streets. Justinian found her in tears.
“My love? What’s the matter? Are you ill?” he asked anxiously. When she explained, he couldn’t see a problem. “So, if they have nowhere to go, allocate them some rooms.”
“Rooms? Where?”
“You have a palace,” said Justinian. “I gave it to you.”
“You mean the Hormisdas … can they live there?”
“I gave it to you,” repeated Justinian. “You can do with it what-ever you please. I don’t want to be bothered with this matter.”
It pleased Theodora to house the two women and the child, a pink-cheeked imp with golden curls and a skin so fine that it seemed luminous. It also pleased her to instruct her staff to be hospitable to the two former actresses, just as they had to be to her mother and Stasie, and of course her own Juliana, all still living in the Hormisdas. Hospitable: deferential and scrupulously polite. The slightest suggestion of a sneer at these lowborn females would earn instant dismissal. Juliana mothered the child and began teaching her to read. At bedtime she sang to her, the plaintive lullaby that Denderis used to sing in Apollonia – a song Theodora could never hear without a wrenching of her heart.
Always it reminded her that she had quickened, aside from Juliana, not once but twice; that she might have had a son – perhaps even two – but she had expelled the one and lost the other in violence and fear. She mourned silently for these two children, who might have been but who would never be. When they slept together three times a week in shared rooms in the Sigma section of the Imperial Palace, she and Justinian strove to achieve a pregnancy. Fruitlessly. Perhaps, she thought in moments of despair, her barrenness was a punishment, and perhaps it was deserved.
Justinian threw himself into his work with all his considerable energy. “The first great task is structuring the legal system,” he told Theodora, his eyes shining with a missionary fervour. “We must systematise, clarify and reform the laws.”
“Won’t that take years?”
“I’ve appointed a commission of ten able jurists, and it’ll be headed by Tribonian. I’ve a bet with him … he says he’ll get it done much sooner than I can possibly imagine.” Justinian chewed some crusty bread.
“Is he the proper choice?” worried Theodora. “You should eat more than just fruit and bread for lunch. I don’t know how you can work when you eat so little.”
“I don’t need more,” he said. “I know you’ve been hungry in your life, my dearest, but truly, we have enough.” He drank from his mug of beer, a peasant taste that had persisted.
“They say Tribonian is an atheist. Pagan at best. And Narses says he’s known to be corrupt.” She knew that Justinian valued her political instincts and experience of an underworld he did not know at all.
“I’ve heard that,” admitted Justinian. “But he’s the best man for the task at hand.”
Theodora sighed. Ultimately, of course, Justinian’s will would prevail. She knew that.
“He has far and away the most brilliant mind,” said Justinian. “He sees the whole and the parts and how things fit together. He distinguishes between the essential and the peripheral. He slashes through excess verbiage and repetitions. And he knows the law.”
Also, like Theodora, Tribonian was capable of sharing Justinian’s vision. In response to criticism and mockery from legal colleagues who considered the undertaking to be ridiculous and impossible, he smiled sardonically. “The Emperor merely hopes to bring a cosmos out of chaos,” he remarked.
At the same time, new laws were introduced, such as a law on sexual offences that prescribed capital punishment for rapists and kidnappers of women, both free-women and female slaves. “So, even lowly women below the rank of barmaid can now claim redress,” said Anastasia.
The second important appointment that Justinian made disturbed Theodora considerably more. Cappadocian John was made Praetorian Prefect of the East and put in charge of the Imperial finances, empowered to gather taxes across the Empire. “I can’t abide that fellow,” she said. “He’s a rough, unmannerly peasant and he has a lust for power. You shouldn’t promote him. You’ll regret it.”
“Nothing wrong with a man of good, sturdy peasant stock – and peasant craftiness,” said Justinian.
Too late, Theodora remembered that her husband and his royal uncle had both answered to that description. “But one can learn better manners,” she said.
“I need a man who neither fears nor favours powerful land-owning aristocrats,” said Justinian. “And who understands finance, and who can drive change. Cappadocian John is that man.”
“He wouldn’t listen to me,” lamented Theodora to Antonina. “And I just know that man is trouble.”
“Did you hear about his performance on the night he was promoted?” asked Antonina.
“No. What did he do?”
Antonina laughed. “Raced his carriage all the way along the Mesê. It was a spectacle to behold. Great big black thing it is, black inside too, you might take it for a hearse except for the gold J’s on the doors, and it’s drawn by four huge bays.”
“Gracious! All the way along?”
“Yes, and it was crowded at the time, it wasn’t late as it was when we did the same thing,” said Antonina, her green eyes sparkling with mirth. “Everybody had to leap and scramble out of the way, a couple of other carriages got sideswiped, one old patrician’s team bolted and probably didn’t stop running before they charged into the Bosphorus, some people fell and a beggar was trampled to death. But then John leapt out of his carriage and ordered open house in all the taverns. No more complaints.”
“Well, at least he had clothes on,” said Theodora.
Justinian was determined to restore law and order to the streets of Constantinople. Eudaemon, Praetorian Prefect of the city, had strict instructions: no favouritism was to be shown to the Blue gangs, no mercy to the Green partisans. The marauding, lawless youths who terrorised the streets were to be brought under control.
“It’s bad for trade,” said Justinian, “when the streets are not safe. We hear people have even taken to wearing glass imitation jewellery. I will not reign over a country held to ransom by criminals. There’s a law against carrying arms in public. Eudaemon, I expect you to enforce it. Do not tolerate even small infringements.”
“I hear and I obey, Despotes,” said Eudaemon. A disciplined and authoritarian man, he had long itched to implement existing laws more efficiently and even-handedly. Street patrols were put in place across the city. They had orders to treat the barbaric gangs as ruthlessly as necessary to achieve peace and quiet in Constantinople.
Justinian strove to combat chaos, whether in the shape of civilian criminality in his capital or military onslaughts on the borders of his empire.
Persian invaders persistently attacked the eastern frontier. “They are tirelessly belligerent,” said Justinian
, “But I have every confidence in Belisarius. I’ve sent him with Sittas to hold our new fort at Daras, and I’m sure he’ll offer firm resistance.”
“Why do you have such confidence in this Belisarius? Isn’t he rather young for such an important command?” asked Theodora.
“I’ve had him observed carefully, and I’m impressed by his performance. He has audacity, and he has luck. Sittas has experience. I expect to hear good news very soon. Procopius will send us detailed despatches.”
“Why him?”
“He’s secretary and legal adviser to the military command.”
“I despise that man,” said Theodora.
“Procopius? Why?” Justinian was surprised. “He seems quite …”
“For personal reasons.” Her black eyes were implacable. “Please don’t ask me. Just accept that to me he is … anathema. I would prefer him to be dismissed.”
“I’ve no reason to do that,” said Justinian. “Procopius is extremely good at what he does. He’s an able historian.”
It was not long before a weary, dusty messenger galloped into Constantinople bearing news from the eastern front. Seated on his throne chair in the Triclinium of the Nineteen Couches, Justinian received the sealed scroll and eagerly unrolled it. He read it aloud to the curious assembly of courtiers, officials and petitioners:
Greetings and salutations to the Emperor Justinian!
Be it known that the generals Belisarius and Sittas have achieved an outstanding victory. In a day, the Romans decisively defeated the Persian army, a feat they have not been able to achieve in more than a hundred years.
Justinian gave a shout of delight, then read on:
Using new and dangerous tactics, Belisarius held the Persians locked, while a flying contingent of Huns under General Sittas charged out of hiding and thoroughly routed them. The fleeing enemy cast aside their shields as they ran, but were overhauled and slain. This signal victory was achieved, furthermore, with a significantly smaller number of soldiers on the Roman side.
“Also, Thrice August, Commander Belisarius has sent thee this,” said the kneeling messenger, handing over a rolled piece of cloth. The dirty linen wrapping fell to the floor, the cloth unrolled and Justinian found himself holding the crimson standard of the Persian general Baresmanes, large blots of blood staining the embroidered lion and sun. There was a moment of shocked silence, then a murmur of admiration and general applause.
“A superb achievement,” said Justinian. “We were outnumbered, you say? Did the enemy lose many men?”
“Five thousand Persians fell that day, Despotes.”
“Excellent, excellent.”
After the success on the eastern front, Justinian was determined to expand and strengthen his empire’s military stature and capability. He gave instructions to rebuild and extend the Theodosian walls at home, acquire more armaments and build a large fleet to press forward with expansion abroad. “We shall be great again,” he told Theodora. “Rome will conquer the Persians and the barbarians and regain our former land. We shall be great again.” However much that grand dream cost, taxes would have to provide.
As Empress, Theodora had no constitutional right to share the Emperor’s authority. But that authority was absolute, and Justinian chose to share it with his wife. She took a firm grip on the reins of day-to-day government, regularly held court and handed down decisions that no one dared to question. Together, they formed a formidable autocracy.
Theodora declared war on the many whoremasters who sold vulnerable and helpless children into slavery. “I could easily have ended up homeless, starving on the streets or forced into common prostitution,” she said.
“You can’t pick up every stray waif in Christendom,” said Justinian.
“No, but I can punish the wretches who prey on them,” said Theodora.
Her inspectors had instructions to bring persons accused of trafficking in children before her to be sentenced. One stocky, swarthy fellow who was thrown down at her feet with the guard’s boot planted on his back to ensure complete prostration was highly aggrieved.
“Majesty, it is merely a matter of business,” he whined, when at last he was allowed to stand.
“Kidnapping is a capital offence,” said Theodora severely.
“I’m no kidnapper! The parents sell ’em to me. Poor peasants, Majesty, desperate for money, and then there’ll be one less mouth to feed. They’d rather have a goat than a girl child, mostly.” He looked, and smelled, rather like a goat himself.
Theodora’s heart rose up in protest. “But you shouldn’t buy them!”
“There’s a demand, Majesty.” He shrugged. “That’s how business works. Besides, we have contracts. The girls sign them. Legal, and all.”
“What contracts?”
He put a hand into his tunic and brought forth a roll of parchment tied with a red ribbon.
“Let me see.”
She unrolled the document. Scanning it quickly, she noted legal terms of the kind usually to be found in contracts for workers. No word of a whoremaster or a brothel. The nature of the work was not specified. Nor was payment. The worker was bound until the “original investment” had been paid off.
“Where is it signed? I see no signature.”
“Bottom – there, Majesty.” He leaned forward to point, exhaling beer and garlic.
“I see no name.”
“The girls are illiterate, Majesty. That’s their sign, right there.” A stubby finger insisted.
What Theodora saw was a Christian cross, neatly inked in. She said: “A cross! A cross, to sign this atrocity! Jesus would weep!”
“Majesty?”
“Take this pimp away and flog him,” said Theodora. “Thirty lashes.”
“No! No! Mercy, Majesty, mercy!” His howls receded and were cut off as he was dragged away and a pair of double doors closed behind him.
“Despoina, you must understand the root cause,” Narses commented. “Many small farmers are being dispossessed by the greedy big landowners. The landowners lend them money, then when they can’t pay, the landowners grab their farms instead.”
“I know. The Emperor is determined to put a stop to it.”
Justinian promised his wife: “We will consider some specific laws about prostitution. I’ll tell Tribonian to look into it.”
“They’ll need somewhere to go,” said Theodora. “The girls, I mean. Can we build a convent for them? I was protected by a convent once. I always remember how safe I felt, and the atmosphere of peace.”
“Certainly,” said Justinian. “Identify a site. We can begin building at once.”
Instead, Theodora suggested converting a seldom-used palace on the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus near to the Black Sea. “It will be faster,” she said. “I’ll call it the Metanoia Convent. The Convent of Repentance. And I’ll have it properly furnished and staffed.”
“As you wish, my love,” said Justinian. He smiled at her. “I am Despotes, you are Despoina. Together we are improving the civitas.”
His smile made her feel again the strength and warmth of his arms around her when she had first come to the Hormisdas Palace and they had stood together, looking at the glowing lights of the city suspended over the dark water.
“The City of God,” she said, remembering. She recalled the words of the priest at their wedding ceremony: “Bless also these thy servants, Justinian and Theodora, guiding them unto every good work …”
Ah yes, she thought. We labour in the City of God. Together.
One morning the Mistress of the Bedchamber in the Daphne Palace announced an unexpected visitor: Stasie, who did not normally visit the other buildings in the palace complex. Theodora was sitting up in bed, having breakfasted on pomegranate juice, sliced melon and quail’s eggs. An usher smartly removed the silver tray.
“What can I do for you?” asked Theodora, somewhat annoyed at the intrusion. She liked to lie late and her ladies knew she did not wish to be bothered. Stasie had grown tall, she thought.
Not very feminine, though. A bit heavy-set. And she’d always had an unhappy droop to her mouth.
“Mother’s ill,” said Stasie. “I think she’s dying.”
“What!”
“Very ill,” said Stasie.
“But … but … she hasn’t complained, not to me.”
“You don’t see her very often,” said Stasie, accusingly.
“Well … perhaps not very, but … have the palace physicians been called?”
“Just this week,” said Stasie. “We didn’t know … she never said …”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“They think it’s a … canker,” said Stasie, her speech punctuated with sobs, “of the … the lower abdomen. And … the liver, they think. She’s not been eating, and her skin is … yellow. Her eyes as well. You should … she’s asked for you.” She wiped away tears.
“I’ll dress and come at once. Why haven’t you told me of this before?”
“She didn’t want you bothered. You were too … too busy saving the country and being Empress. Too grand for us, we’re tucked away out of sight, and that’s all you …”
“I have looked after you! You have wanted for nothing!” Theodora felt the old aggravation that Stasie, with her complaining nature, had always made her feel rising up again in an angry flush.
“But you pay us no attention. You don’t ever really see me. How old am I?”
“You’re … two years younger than me,” said Theodora. “So … twenty … twenty-five?”
“See? You didn’t know, you’re surprised. And what’s to become of me? Tell me that!”
“I’ll find you a rich husband. But why are we talking about you, when Mother is dying?” Theodora had slid off the high bed and looked up angrily at her sister. “Get out and let me get dressed. I’m coming.”
She encountered the palace physicians in a huddle outside the bedroom in which her mother lay. “What can you tell me? Why have I not been informed?”