by Marié Heese
“You’re fairly young yet,” said Chrysomallo. “Time enough.”
Little blonde Anna patted her back.
Indaro boomed: “It’s not as if you can’t breed. Done that already. Probably will again, be patient.”
It had become an obsession. “Oh, God, Antonina,” said Theodora, “we try and try, but … month after month, just when I’ve got my hopes up, there’s the blood. I’ve tried all kinds of things. If Fat Rosa was alive, I could go and ask her. The palace physicians are hopeless, they know nothing about women’s problems.”
“I’d go to the Asclepion, Theodora, if I were you.”
“Go all the way to Bithynia?”
“Why not? Wonderful doctors there, they say.”
Narses was ordered to organise the trip. It should be a spectacular royal progress, decided Theodora, an opportunity for her to show herself to her people in dignity and splendour. She would close the mouths of those who gossipped about the little actress from the dregs of society. She would be radiantly regal.
She would not listen to warnings from Narses that such a show of extravagance could incite anger among the poor who watched the glittering cavalcade march by. “They are hungry, Despoina,” he said, “more and more small farmers are failing and are being thrown off their land. They might …”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said, “I’ll be handing out largesse, all along the way.” After all, she was from the people herself; she could not credit the idea that they could constitute a danger to her when she did so much for them. “They love me. Don’t be such an old woman, Narses. You do fuss.”
His monkey face crumpled in sudden distress and he turned aside. Oh dear, she thought, I have been unkind. But he’ll come around, he always does.
He did, and organised the expedition with his usual precision and aplomb.
She was escorted by a retinue of several thousand persons: ladies-in-waiting, armed excubitors, court officials, eunuchs, cooks, musicians, grooms, assorted servants and slaves, muleteers and one of the resident palace priests, with Narses in charge over all. For the part of the trip that involved sailing, she commandeered the royal barge, while on land she travelled in her silver-trimmed carriage drawn by four white mules, shaded from the sun by a canopy of purple silk.
Her carriage moved at a stately pace, with outriders keeping the gaping populace at a safe distance. Then, suddenly, there was a disturbance ahead and her driver brought the horses to a halt. She sent a guard to find out what had happened.
He came back at a smart trot. “Just a woman, Despoina,” he said. “A farmer’s wife. It seems she tried to steal an ass.”
“Bring her to me,” said Theodora.
“Despoina, there is no need, she will be …”
“Bring her,” insisted Theodora. “At once.”
The entire long procession had stopped in a valley on the slopes of which olive trees grew, their greyish-green leaves looking dusty. In the distance high mountains reared their craggy heads. The road, well built by the ancient Romans for their legions to march on, ran straight along the flattest land. Two excubitors dragged a woman up to the carriage.
“Here, you, make a prostration,” ordered the one guard. “That’s the Empress in that there carriage. Show respect.”
“No,” said Theodora. “She doesn’t have to make a prostration. She’s pregnant, can’t you see?”
The woman, a sturdy peasant with big bones and unkempt brown hair, stood her ground and stared boldly up at Theodora. She looked as if there had once been softness between her bony frame and her sundried skin, but now all was hard, except for the rounded swell of the baby she carried. “She nearly made off with an ass, Despoina,” reported the guard. “One of those going ahead with supplies.”
“Bloody royalty won’t miss one miserable ass,” said the woman, in colloquial Greek. “I nearly got away with it, too.” She folded her arms and grinned, showing several gaps where teeth were missing.
“What made you steal from bloody royalty?” asked Theodora, in equally colloquial Greek.
“Need some transport, don’t I. Husband’s sick. Children are hungry.”
“Pass me the largesse bag,” said Theodora to her lady-in-waiting. She reached in and took out a handful of gold solidi, which she handed down.
“I’d rather have an ass,” said the woman, keeping her arms folded.
“You crazy?” demanded the guard.
She threw back her head defiantly. “I need an ass.”
“So buy one, fool! Buy a whole lot!”
“I only need one. But there ain’t any left for many a Roman mile. Not to be had, between here and Constantinople. All been took, to cart stuff.”
“What would you use it for?” enquired Theodora.
“First off, get my olive oil to market. Then, bring back supplies. Then, work on the farm. Gold would run out, but with an ass, you can keep working.”
“That makes sense,” said Theodora. “Guard, go and tell the Master of the Horse he must give this lady an ass.”
“This one’s no lady,” muttered the guard.
“How do you know?” asked Theodora.
He looked sheepish, and dug his dusty boot into the ground. The Empress continued to stare at him coldly.
“Ladies have teeth,” he vouchsafed at last.
The lady grinned and aimed an arrow of spit through her gapped teeth close to his foot.
At the Asclepion, more hands than ever before tended the Empress’s small body. She was daubed with mud, soaked in sulphur springs, massaged with unguents, and fed with fertility-promoting food containing liquorice and dill. Crushed snails mixed with saffron were applied to her genital area, in order to promote conception.
“Despoina, at the time of the conjugal act, do not think on the desired child,” advised the chief physician.
Easy to say, impossible to do, she thought.
“Think on your husband. On his best parts and qualities. On what you best like in him, as a man, not as the Emperor.”
“The man is the Emperor, the Emperor the man,” said Theodora, surprising herself with this insight. “He lives for the kingdom. I love that in him: his grand dream, and how it drives him. He is passionate about that.”
“Passion engenders passion. I think, Despoina, you are well matched. Have patience, wait on the gods.”
Ah, a pagan, she thought. But he could be anything, if only he could help her.
“Despoina, we have done all we could. You should go home now. Be calm. Do not be anxious. You are ready to conceive.”
Yet still it did not happen. Her last hope was to be blessed by a holy man, such as the aged monk named Sabas who came to the palace from Palestine to plead for Jerusalem, having travelled from the wilderness around the river Jordan. At ninety years of age, he was a wizened husk of a man, but strong in spirit and bold in his demeanour. The Emperor and Empress received him with the ceremony and honour due to his status as a living saint.
The desiccated anchorite stood erect and spoke out in firm tones. “Despotes, the holy city suffers from neglect. Imagine this – in Jerusalem the sick lie in the gutters. And the church of the Mother of God is falling into ruins.”
Justinian sighed. “What is it that you want?” he asked.
“Our needs are these.” He held up a clawlike hand, and counted off on the gnarled fingers. “One: a year’s relief from taxation for the needy. Two: the hostels for pilgrims to be renovated. Three: a decent hospital for the sick. Four: a fine new church to honour the Mother of God. Five: a strong fort to protect Jerusalem from the rapacious Saracens.”
“Those are expensive demands,” said Justinian. “The treasury is already straining due to the expense of our war with Persia. And we are building … and we have other plans.”
“Despotes, whatever other plans you have,” Sabas insisted, “the holy city must take precedence.” Such was his fierce intensity that it seemed as if power radiated from him rather than from the Emperor on his throne.
“Halleluja!” exclaimed Saint Sabas. “Halleluja! Praise the Lord!”
Much to the surprise of the assembled crowd of officials, courtiers and hangers-on, Theodora now arose and stepped down from her chair to kneel at the monk’s feet with bowed head.
“Dear Father,” she said, “I beseech you: please pray for me. Pray that the Lord may bless me with a child. Pray that I may conceive. Please, Holy Father.”
There was a general shuffle as the onlookers tried to get a better view of the Empress debasing herself. But then they grew silent as they waited, as she waited, submissive, humble, needy. The silence continued. It seemed to acquire weight, pushing her down to the marble floor. “Please, Holy Father?” repeated Theodora.
At last he responded. “God, the ruler and Lord of all things, shall watch over your empire.”
“But a child, Holy Father? Will you not pray that I may be shown that grace?”
Again the silence lengthened. “The Lord shall watch your empire in glory and in victory,” he said.
It was not the answer she had petitioned for. Hot tears slid from her anguished eyes onto her clasped hands. The marble hurt her knees as the heavy silence stretched on and on. Her head inclined towards his knobbly, unrelenting feet.
At last, Saint Sabas spoke again. “I cannot pray on behalf of a Monophysite,” he said. “I hold the Dyophysite faith to be the only true faith, and I cannot pray for a heretical woman. For she would bear a heretical child.”
He knows, thought Theodora. He must know of the religious refugees, fleeing from the persecution of the Monophysites, whom she had given sanctuary in the Hormisdas Palace. He stood in front of her, a hard-boned man, brown skin stretched over a loose-jointed skeleton, ropy matted hair and beard covering more of his body than the filthy loincloth knotted around his hollow hips, and stared at her in obstinate judgement.
Branded and rejected, Theodora rose to her feet.
It had become clear that there would be no sons from her womb. That much seemed definite; not her own heartfelt prayers nor the ministrations of the doctors at the Asclepion nor the pleas of the priests in the palace churches nor the blessings of her refugees had been able to conjure a miracle. And Comito had borne a daughter, christened Sophia. A plump, pink, greedy baby with black hair like Sittas. At least, thought Theodora, it had not been a son.
The succession had to be assured, since the absence of a legitimate heir could lead to unrest, if not outright war. Only in one way could this be done, thought Theodora. Juliana would have to be married. Soon.
“Me?” said Juliana. “But … but Mother … I … I …”
“You have not met anyone of the right rank. I’ve seen how you look at that young scholarian guard. He is not for you. You must marry to ensure the succession. And your husband must have royal blood. I have considered carefully. The eldest son of Probus would do.”
Juliana was aghast. “Mother! Marry Zeno? You can’t be serious! He’s a … he’s a clod! Without a spark!”
“He has royal blood,” said Theodora, unmoved. “You are the child of an empress. You can’t simply follow your heart. And I believe he will be kind to you.”
“Kind!” Juliana’s golden-brown eyes filled with tears. “Kind! That’s not all one wants in a husband!”
“You should try a husband who is otherwise,” said Theodora.
“You followed your heart,” cried Juliana. “You dearly love Justinian. It’s clear for all to see.”
“You’re wrong,” said Theodora. “I didn’t follow my heart. My heart followed me. That may happen for you also … when you get to know him better.”
“It won’t! I don’t even like him! Oh, Mother!”
She was allowed no choice. Shortly after her thirteenth birthday she was married to Zeno in a spectacular ceremony which Constantinople celebrated with free beer in addition to the bread that all its citizens normally received. The focal point of all the flags, bunting, rose petals, cheering, off-colour jokes, and martial music with trumpets and cymbals was the pale but beautiful bride. Daughter of a sometime prostitute. Daughter of an actress. Daughter of the Empress of Byzantium. Dark head held high, she went veiled and virginal as to a sacrifice.
Chapter 23: War and peace
Belisarius now mounted a siege of a different kind from the usual.
“He’s a force of nature,” said Antonina. “I’m pretending not to be entirely convinced that he’s the man for me. But he’s persistent. One would swear I was a moated castle that he was determined to conquer and possess.”
“Approaching you with a battering ram at full stretch? In a manner of speaking?” enquired Theodora.
Antonina threw back her head and laughed. “You could say so. And he’s extremely hard to resist.”
“And have you resisted him, up to now?”
“Yes, I have. Because … because … I don’t want to be just a … a conquest, that he’ll leave behind in smoking ruins when he goes off to war again. And I don’t want to become a camp follower, tramping along in his dust with my tent on a wagon, hoping he’ll occasionally remember I’m there.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to be his wife,” said Antonina. “I want to be acknowledged. I want to be valued.”
“Do you love him?’
Antonina looked at her friend directly. For the moment she had dropped her shield of cynicism and mockery. “Painfully,” she said. “Now that I’ve come to know him. People do. All his men would die for him. Every one.” Her eyes pleaded for understanding. “Do you think I’m out of my mind? I’m eight years older than he is, you know.”
“You’re still beautiful, my dear,” said Theodora. Antonina was, in truth, still a lush and limber woman, although fine lines around her eyes and mouth betrayed the incipient desiccation of age.
Antonina looked down at her hands, clasped tightly on her lap. “There’s something else,” she said. “That he doesn’t know. That nobody knows. And it scares me.”
“Can you tell me? I can be discreet.”
“You won’t repeat this to a soul? Swear it?”
“Yes. I swear. What is it?”
“I have another son. Between the protector I told you about, and my husband the Syrian, I had a love affair with a Goth mercenary.”
“And bore him a son?” A stab of envy made Theodora catch her breath.
“Yes. But my lover died in action. I had to give my second son up for adoption. He’s grown up in Thrace.”
“Why is his existence a problem, though? Need you say anything about him at all, if you’ve had no contact all these years?”
“Belisarius comes from Thrace,” said Antonina. “He knew my … my son’s adoptive parents very well. They both died in a fire last year. He likes the boy so much, he’s thinking of adopting him. But I can’t tell Belisarius who this boy is.”
“Why must that be such a secret?”
“Because Photius doesn’t know,” said Antonina. “My first son. You remember, I told you my aunt brought him up.”
“I still don’t see …”
“Photius will kill him,” said Antonina. “If he ever finds out. He’s like his father, he’s vicious. Used to torment animals, as a child. Once he tied two cats’ tails together and they tore each other apart and he stood by laughing. And he’ll be frightfully jealous, because I’ve never loved him and he knows it.”
“And where is Photius?”
“He’s a soldier, I told you. He rides with Belisarius.”
“Well … that could become complicated. But as long as you tell nobody, surely there need be no problems. Just keep quiet. Marry Belisarius. Then you’ll be the boy’s adoptive mother.”
“That would be … that would be …” Her lips trembled, and she bit the lower one.
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“Have you seen the boy since?” To have borne two sons, she thought, and still had none to love!
“No,” said Antonina. “Not once. But over the years, I’ve often looked at other boys and thought: he must be about that age, maybe he’s as tall as that, maybe he’s doing the same things … He’ll be eighteen now. He’s going to clerk for Belisarius. Oh, God, it would be so wonderful to see him, to be near him …”
“What’s his name?”
“Theodosius. D’you honestly think I should marry Belisarius?”
“Yes, I do. He clearly adores you. I’m sure he’ll ask, and I think you should marry him. If you really want to.”
“I really do. I want to be like you are with Justinian. A helpmeet. Doing something worthwhile.”
“Well, then, Justinian should make you a patrician,” said Theodora. “I’ll suggest it to him. But just how can you be a helpmeet to a soldier? He’ll be away most of the time.”
“I’ll go with him on campaign,” said Antonina. “It would be a great adventure. Besides, how else will I be near Theodosius?”
“You couldn’t manage that! He’ll never take you!”
Antonina tilted her head with its lustrous coils of dark red hair and smiled. Her polished shield was back in place. “Oh, he’ll take me. Want to wager on it?”
Had she done so, Theodora would have lost. Belisarius married Antonina, newly raised to patrician status, when next he was home on leave, and from then onwards he would not be parted from his enchanting wife.
Antonina was with him when he suffered a close defeat at the Battle of Callinicum on the Euphrates. Justinian’s military advisers immediately suggested that the youthful general be demoted and recalled to Constantinople.
“He is in over his head,” they said. “He is not experienced, he has been lucky before and now he has been bested.”
“Merely a setback,” objected Justinian. “And he saved his army. He had them wade out to islands in the Euphrates. Most ingenious, he thinks in original ways.”
“Despotes, he has been vanquished!”