by Marié Heese
The physicians prostrated themselves. “Despoina, the patient never complained,” said the one, scrambling to his feet.
“If it is a canker of the abdomen,” said another, “it can progress far without pain.”
“The patient …”
“She is a person,” snapped Theodora. “You may refer to her as Kyria.”
“Yes, Despoina. The Kyria lost weight, and she was often fatigued, and suffered loss of appetite. But she did not think it worth calling us in for.”
“Also she passed … saving your presence, Despoina …”
“Speak, speak. I must understand.”
“She passed blood. But if one has trouble with hard stools, as the pa … the Kyria did, it seems, one thinks it is merely … well …”
“And now, Despoina, we fear it may be too late. The eyes are yellow. That is not good.”
“Is she in pain?”
“Not too much. We can give draughts of poppy juice.”
“I want to see her.”
In the room, warmed by a brazier, Anastasia lay reduced to almost nothing in the plush embrace of a huge bed with padded silk coverlets. Stasie sat by her side, glaring angrily at her royal sister. “Took you long enough,” she said.
Anastasia opened her eyes. “Stasie, go for a walk. You need some fresh air.” Her voice, though not very loud, still had a sardonic tone.
“Oh, all right. If you don’t need me.” Stasie flounced out.
Theodora took the vacated chair.
“Always hard done by, that one,” said Anastasia.
“Mother. Look at me.” Theodora leaned forward and took her mother’s hand, warm but fleshless, with fragile bones.
The whites of Anastasia’s eyes were, indeed, very yellow. “Don’t scold me,” she said. “Didn’t know it was serious. One puts up with things. Now it’s too late. Don’t let them purge and bleed me and carry on as if it can be cured. It can’t, and they know it and I know it.”
“Oh, Mother!”
“And don’t you bring any of your holy men to pray over me. Not going to have any miracles. Let me go in peace. I’m tired, Theodora.”
“Mother. I …”
“Hush. Not your fault. Just sit here for a bit.” She closed her tiger’s eyes.
Theodora sat, holding on to her mother’s hand with both of hers. Listened to the shallow, sibilant breathing that, for the moment, kept an everlasting silence at bay. What a wonderful thing a hand is, thought Theodora. A small construction of bones and flesh, blood and skin. Capable of an incalculable range of actions. Each person’s hand as clearly theirs as an individual face. I will miss my mother’s hands, thought Theodora, in a sudden spasm of grief.
“I did the best I could,” said Anastasia suddenly. “Only regret one thing. Didn’t do right by Peter. He loved me so much. Not always easy … to be adored. But what else could I do?”
“You were brave,” said Theodora. “You kept us together. As you promised. And coming here, to a strange land, with three small children … that was brave too. I’ve never known, really, why you and Father had to flee. Syria was Monophysite, after all. Surely the priests were not persecuted?”
“It was personal,” said Anastasia. “Not religious. There was a … a very corrupt official. Powerful. He had people murdered if it suited him. Then he took to killing his enemies himself. Garrotted them. Became a … complete fiend. Your father opposed him. Built a case against him. Gathered evidence and witnesses.”
“And lost the case?”
“No, he won it. The man was executed. But he had a son, who swore revenge. Swore to kill us, every one, all of you children also. He actually … stabbed your father once, but the blade struck a rib. That was when we realised we’d have to flee, and have to change our name. Your father never could be a priest again, we had to disappear completely. They could have found us … through the church, you see. Churches have records.”
“Why Constantinople?”
“We thought your father’s brother, who lived here, would help us. But when we got here, he had died.”
“And so, the bears!”
“Yes, and so, the bears. It took my last few solidi to get your father the job. Which, as you know, pays poorly. So, also, the Kynêgion.”
“You never told us. This son … is he still …”
“He died while you were away in Africa. No danger to the Empress of Byzantium. Probably wouldn’t have realised who you were, in any case. My extraordinary daughter,” said Anastasia. “Sign of the Ram. I should have known.”
Chapter 22: Ensuring the succession
So delighted was Justinian with the achievements of Belisarius on the Persian front that he took a sudden decision, which some thought daring and others reckless in the extreme. “Belisarius shall be Master of Soldiers, sole commander of the armed forces in the east,” he announced.
“But Despotes,” his chief military adviser in Constantinople remonstrated, “impressive though his battles have been, he hasn’t always won, and he is a very young man to have such great authority!”
“Much too young,” agreed another elderly sage, “to be promoted over the heads of older and more experienced generals! Experience, after all …”
“Our more experienced generals have never shown such initiative as he has done,” said Justinian. “We need someone with vision, someone with courage, who goes out and acts decisively. A leader who inspires men. Belisarius is the one, the one who will help me recreate the glory of the ancient Roman Empire. He is to be Master of Soldiers in the East. I have decided.”
“Tell me about this Belisarius,” said Theodora to Narses. Although she was now seated firmly on the throne of Byzantium, the spectre of poverty and powerlessness still loomed behind her, breathing coldly in her neck and causing constant vigilance. She had soon enlisted the services of several spies who reported to Narses. Together they constructed a defensive wall around the Emperor, each of them a tireless sentry who swept the surrounding area with suspicious eyes. “A military man so much beloved by his men could easily engineer a coup. Could he not have his eye on the throne?”
“Despoina, the general is that rara avis: a man of absolute honour and integrity. All those who know him are agreed on this. He serves the crown. I do not think we need to fear him. Germanus, now …”
Theodora frowned at the mention of this royal cousin. Blood relations were, if anything, even more threatening than military heroes. “Germanus would grab power, if he could, I know that. We can keep him out, away from Constantinople, but his children … no marriages into the aristocracy for them,” she said.
“Wouldn’t be wise,” agreed Narses.
Justinian was equally gratified by the performance of Cappadocian John. “He’s doing excellent work,” he observed to Theodora. “Already made essential reforms. Put a stop to fiddles and graft straight away, and he’s introducing strict economies. Exactly what we need. He’s filling our coffers fast.” He sank his strong teeth into a juicy peach.
“I still think he’s dangerous,” said Theodora. “I think you’ll regret this appointment.”
Justinian, although he valued their daily conferences, could be obdurate. “Without a substantial treasury, no ruler can be effective,” he said. “Trust me on this.”
Narses later gloomily agreed that the man was awful and likely to bring trouble upon the crown. “He does not fear God, nor regard man,” said Narses. “It’s true that he has acquired a grip on rich tax-evaders, and he’s eradicated some dirty rackets among merchants and tradesmen. But jailing, flogging and torturing rich patricians is not sound judgement.”
“Word is, he himself is getting enormously rich at a remarkable rate.”
“One has also heard that he has the habit of attending to tax-evaders personally,” said Narses. “Goes to their homes. Leaves not a wife, a virgin, a youth, not even a vessel in a house unviolated.”
“It is not good for the throne to have such officials,” said Theodora.
She was seriously displeased when Cappadocian John invited his emperor and empress to dinner, and Justinian insisted that they should attend. “He deserves our public support,” he said.
Cappadocian John’s villa proved to be as opulent and as spectacularly vulgar as she had expected, over-furnished, over-heated and cloyingly scented with incense and roses. “Narses warned me, he heard that it resembles an Egyptian brothel,” Theodora muttered to Justinian. “Only less chaste.”
“Be gracious,” Justinian hissed.
It was a long night, made longer by the entertainments offered between courses. The turns began fairly sedately, with a sweet soprano singing melodiously to a lute, but then came tumbling dwarfs calling out dirty jokes between somersaults, followed by clowns emitting ear-splitting farts which miraculously spread the scent of myrrh, followed by a conjuror who discovered gold solidi after prolonged groping under ladies’ tunics. All greeted with up-roarious, increasingly drunken laughter in which Theodora did not join.
Meanwhile regiments of slaves poured wine – Falerno, from Campania, announced John, “trampled only by the feet of virgins”. Other slaves paraded in and out with ostentatious dishes: phalanxes of oysters and stuffed dormice, baked whole turbot with glassy eyes, stewed pheasant, thrush pie, braised lamb’s testicles, sucking pigs grinning around apples, and a whole roasted boar, borne in strapped to a carrying pole, for the host to serve by slicing off chunks with a gold-handled sword, which he did with great gusto.
Surely, thought Theodora, faint with disgust and boredom and nauseated by excess, this is the finale. But no.
“And now, my friends, the best for last!”
Four slaves marched in, each bearing a silver salver with a tower of golden pastries glossy with honey and studded with nuts. As they passed these around, a drumroll announced the entrance of a pair of dancers. They ran into the room, cartwheeled and executed backflips. One girl was small and beautifully proportioned and had a pockmarked face, powdered white, and extremely long black hair. The other was taller, with ample breasts and a bushy red mane. Both were naked under short, diaphanous tunics.
“Diana and Nerina will now entertain you,” chortled Cappadocian John.
A second drawn-out drumroll accompanied a pantomime donkey, who pranced in with an exceptionally large member swinging below its belly. Rolling, boisterous slapstick filled the overheated room to raucous laughter and applause. The donkey pursued the girls, who avoided its clumsy rushes with agile twists and somersaults punctuated by clashing cymbals. Whistles and stamps encouraged its antics. “Now!” roared the drunken guests. “Now!”
Theodora sat aghast. Justinian, deeply engrossed in conversation with Tribonian, paid no attention to the entertainment, but Tribonian’s shrewd gaze took it all in over his emperor’s shoulder. He caught Theodora’s furious eye and gave a small shake of the head.
The donkey finally cornered the redhead and mounted her as the audience screamed with delight and a trumpet farted rhythmically. Cappadocian John slapped his thick thighs, roaring with hilarity.
The room was in an uproar. Justinian looked up, surprised. Tribonian acted quickly, putting out a foot to trip a passing slave. A sticky pile of pastries cascaded over Theodora’s embroidered tunic. In a moment, Tribonian was there to help her to her feet and wave away fussing hands.
“An excuse to leave. Pretend nothing happened,” he said softly into her ear, his back to their host. “Make it fall flat. Justinian didn’t even notice.” He called a slave to bring the Empress’s shoes and her cloak. Gently, he wrapped her in purple velvet and handed her into the Imperial carriage.
She was saturated with shame, flaming with fury, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. In that moment mere dislike turned to a node of hatred lodged like a canker in her innermost heart.
“Is your costume ruined?” asked Justinian, clambering into the seat opposite her.
“You didn’t … didn’t see … the pantomime?”
“Complete rubbish,” said Justinian, yawning. “Boring.”
“The girls … they looked like … like me, and … and …”
Justinian stared at her. “Like you? Don’t be ridiculous. They were two coarse actresses. Nothing at all like you. Nothing at all.”
A mere fourteen months after the great task of pruning, ordering and recording the laws was begun, Tribonian proudly presented his emperor with the Codex Constitutionem.
“The next stage,” said Justinian, handling the weighty codex as if it had been a sacred relic, “will be to gather the opinions of our greatest Roman jurists into a system together with interpretations. In future, those interpretations will be binding upon all judges. Theodora, we are doing great work, great work, I tell you. A legal system for the ages.”
“Congratulations, my love,” said Theodora, suppressing her urge to comment again on Tribonian’s widely known and deeply resented corruption in office. She felt that she owed him a debt of gratitude; he had supported her in a dire moment of pain and shame. Also she was beginning to feel like a doomsayer. Yet she had seen what might result from corruption in state officials, and she feared the possible consequences.
In complete contrast to the Cappadocian’s excess and vulgarity was a dinner offered for the royal couple by an elderly senator, Aulus Antiochus Calvus. Antiochus had been a military man and still had the upright carriage of a soldier. He had known the generals Belisarius and Sittas as young recruits, and since they were both on home leave, he invited them too, with Comito and Marcus, Antonina and Chrysomallo. The evening demonstrated good taste and judgement: a reasonable number of perfectly cooked dishes were smartly served and whisked away by well-trained servants, while a harpist played discreetly in the background.
Chrysomallo, a clever mimic, entertained their host with tales of comic stage performances. Antiochus had a hearty, bawdy laugh that belied his disciplined appearance. Justinian ate mainly fruit and smiled absently. He’s still working in his head, thought Theodora. He’s probably not hearing a word she says.
Sittas, clearly older than Belisarius, had a lean, leathery look and sun-crinkles around brown eyes. He shared a couch with Comito and told her about his Armenian campaign. How he had successfully conquered a band of brigands called the Tzani. How he had converted them from paganism to Christianity and incorporated them into the Roman army. How he had used locals in his administration. She listened raptly to every word.
Theodora looked across the laden table at Comito. In the kind lamplight her braided crown of chestnut hair shone; her former dancer’s taut body was caressed by pale green embroidered silk.
“Sittas conquered brigands, and now he’s conquered your sister,” muttered Marcus Anicius, who was sitting next to Theodora.
“She’s being polite,” she said, not wishing Anicius to be hurt.
“No, my dear, I’ve lost her. See how she looks at him in awe, no doubt visualising the great Achilles – but not, of course, the heel.”
Another couch held Belisarius and Antonina, who spoke to no one else but each other, and laughed a great deal, their shared amusement keeping them invisibly cocooned.
“So. How did you find Belisarius?” enquired Theodora afterwards. “Justinian thinks he’s a military genius. What’s he like?”
“He was a surprise,” said Antonina. “I was expecting a puffed-up, self-important army person who insists on recounting his victories in excruciating detail, illustrating ambushes with the eating utensils. But there was none of that.”
“What did you talk about?”
“His childhood,” said Antonina. “Which he spent playing soldiers and getting into scrapes, in Thrace.”
“Half the women at court are in love with him.”
“Well, you must admit he’s handsome in a Gothic kind of way, with that yellow hair and those blue eyes,” said Antonina.
“Besides being tall and muscular, and heroic.”
“All that. But he makes me laugh. He’s self-deprecating. Really unexpected.”
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nbsp; “He obviously admires you. Think about this: if you were to marry him, we’d be the wives of probably the two most powerful men in the Empire.”
“We would, wouldn’t we? But admiration is one thing, a proposal of marriage is another. I think the general is challenged by resistance. Let’s see if he perseveres.”
General Belisarius had indeed been enchanted by Antonina, who tested his mettle with alternating moods of loving kindness and chilly disdain.
Much to Theodora’s sorrow, Comito left Marcus Anicius to marry Sittas. “Marcus will never marry me,” Comito said. “And Sittas insists on a wedding before his next campaign. We’re right for each other, truly, Theodora. You’re happily married. Be happy for me.”
“I am, sweetheart. But I’m sad for Anicius. He minds terribly.”
“The Anicii are furious,” reported Narses. “They’re saying that is what comes of having a peasant on the throne: patricians are ignored and insulted at every turn. Many nobles agree with this.”
“They’re up in arms because Justinian no longer pretends to consult the Council and the Senate,” said Theodora. While she feared powerful and ambitious individuals, she considered the patricians to be effete and ineffectual. “It can only strengthen the throne to diminish any claims that lot might have to authority,” she said.
“It is perhaps not altogether wise, Despoina,” suggested Narses, “to antagonise these groups by abolishing an ancient custom.”
“It was only a pretence, you know that – everybody knows it. The Emperor is not answerable to anyone. He is Despotes.”
“True, in principle, Despoina. But previous emperors were careful to maintain the fiction of consultation.”
“Justinian doesn’t consider it necessary. Everyone knows they have no authority.”
Almost immediately, Comito announced a pregnancy. She glowed. Theodora was wrung with anguish. She went to tell Indaro and Chrysomallo, who were now permanently living in the Hormisdas Palace. “I’m glad for her … but it’s not fair,” she wept. “It’s not important for her to have a child. But for me, it’s imperative. I must … I have to provide an heir to the Roman throne.”