A Triple-headed Serpent: A Story of Theodora, Empress of Byzantium

by Marié Heese

  “Come with me, dearest,” said Justinian, “It’s been a while since you saw the building. I think you will be surprised.”

  His face glowed with anticipation. Theodora, although she had backache, could not refuse. When the carriage rattled up the hill, she was astounded by the progress that had been made.

  The four arms of the cross-shaped basilica had been built up on the solid, extended new foundations. Spanning the arms of the cross, the massive vaults and semi-domes that would buttress the enormous central dome had been constructed, creating from the outside an impression of hulking power. Justinian jumped out of the carriage and spread his arms in a gesture that seemed to take ownership of the entire huge edifice, then swung toward his wife with a bow as if laying it at her small feet.

  “Oh!” she said. “Oh, my word! It’s almost complete! I didn’t realise!”

  “Not inside,” he said, handing her down. “There’s still all the finishing to be done, but the shell, you see, the shell is there, excepting only the main dome.” He tucked her arm through his and escorted her carefully through the pallets of bricks and piles of sand, the stacks of wood and stone and marble, the buckets, the ladders, the brushes and brooms. Their escort followed, not happy at the damage that would undoubtedly be suffered by polished boots. “No prostrations,” Justinian called with a wave to the many men busily engaged in the building activities. “Don’t mind us. Where’s Isidorus?”

  “Inside, Despotes,” said one man, leaning on a shovel. “He’s in a state, he is.”

  “Oh, he’s often in a state,” said Justinian to Theodora. “Of course there are bound to be problems when one builds. He always manages to sort things out.”

  When they entered the cool interior, it smelled of wood shavings and dust and damp mortar and sweating labourers. They reached the edge of the huge square nave, still open to the sky, where they found Isidorus staring upwards, his entire stocky body expressing gloom. When he heard their steps approaching, he barely turned his head.

  “Isidorus? What is it this time?” asked Justinian.

  “Cracks,” said Isidorus. “All we need. Bloody cracks! Oh, excusing your presence, Despoina.”

  “Cracks? Where?”

  “See, there and there,” he pointed with a long stick. “In the piers.” There were, indeed, some cracks wriggling like snakes down the sturdy piers that would have to bear the weight of the colossal dome. “We’ve built the arches, as you see. And the pendentives are in place. But now …”

  “Pendentives?” Theodora wasn’t following.

  “There, those triangular pieces of vaulting between the arches. Next, we should construct the ribs of the dome that will run between the windows. But, we have cracks!”

  Justinian looked aghast. “Are you thinking these cracks will get worse? They’re not just on the surface?”

  “Don’t know how deep they are. Might just be the perversity of materials. All these different strengths and textures and qualities … things do crack and chip and come undone. But we can’t have the entire bloody dome – excuse me, the whole cathedral – collapsing in a cloud of dust.”

  “That would be absolutely dreadful,” said Theodora.

  “Have you checked the mathematics?” asked Justinian.

  “Over and over and over, Despotes.”

  “Are you sure your calculations are correct?”

  “I’m sure, Despotes.”

  “It should stand?”

  “It should stand, Despotes.”

  “Stake your life on that?”

  He looked up at his emperor. Squared his shoulders. “Yes, Despotes.”

  “Then build the dome.”

  Isidorus gave a deep sigh. “Yes, Despotes.”

  As the weeks went by, the war continued and dispatches from the Italian front kept coming:

  Belisarius is marching to Rome along the Latin Way running through Capua … Many towns have opened their gates to us, wishing to avoid the fate of the Neapolitans …

  … Our spies report that Witigis, the new King of the Goths, finding himself between a hammer and an anvil with Belisarius advancing upon Rome from the south while in the north the Franks are mustering to invade Italy, weighed the odds and decided that the smaller army under Belisarius was the lesser danger. He demanded that the people of Rome, the Senate and Pope Silverius give their solemn oaths of loyalty to him. This they all did, swearing on their honour. Thereafter he garrisoned Rome and departed for Ravenna to make peace with the Franks …

  “It may well be,” said Justinian, “that Witigis has made a very serious mistake.”

  Soon these words proved prophetic.

  Pope Silverius has violated his solemn oath to Witigis, reported the next dispatch, saying it was made under duress and to a heretic Arian to boot. He has sent a letter to Belisarius stating that he would be welcomed in Rome …

  The Byzantine army has actually entered Rome, marching in by the Asinarian Gate at a measured pace, preceded by trumpets and standards, while the Goths marched out northwards by the Flaminian Gate in double-quick time. Only their commander refused to leave his post.

  This officer, taken alive by Belisarius, arrived in Constantinople bearing the keys to Rome to be ceremonially handed to the Emperor with the greetings of the noble Belisarius. Justinian was in transports of delight.

  “It is as I told you,” he said to his advisers, “we have recovered the ancient capital of the Roman Empire! Rome shall be great again! For certain, God is on our side!”

  “We are fortunate in having a general such as Belisarius,” said Theodora. “He is a courageous and resourceful man.”

  “An excellent tactician,” said Narses. “But not a great strategist. The Emperor out-thinks him on the greater stage.”

  Justinian looked gratified. “Well, much remains to be achieved,” he said, conquering his emotions to regain his usual dignity. “But we have secured the primary jewel in the Imperial crown. Without carnage and destruction, furthermore. I am most pleased.”

  Finally Theodora felt able to tell her husband the secret that she had been cherishing. It was a fruitful time, she thought. The Church of the Holy Wisdom was making swift progress. Tribonian had brought Justinian the Corpus Juris Civilus. Belisarius had given him the keys of Rome. She would present him with a prince for Byzantium.

  “I do believe, my love, that God has indeed blessed us,” she said. “Blessed us with his boundless grace.”

  Justinian looked at her, a little puzzled. She stood before him proudly, her hands cupping her swollen abdomen, leaning slightly backward to balance the additional weight in the age-old stance of child-bearing women.

  “What do you mean? Theodora? What are you saying?”

  “I am carrying your child,” she told him. “I have waited to tell you, until I could be sure. I am sure now.”

  “My love,” he said, amazed. “My little love. Are you all right? Are you strong enough?”

  “Of course I am,” she said. “I have given birth, remember.”

  “But you are older now.” He put his arms around her carefully.

  She was sure that she felt the child move. He knows his father’s touch, she thought. “I am still strong,” she said.

  Chapter 8: A staggering blow

  In Constantinople, building activities were continuing; Theodora’s pet project, the restoration of the Church of the Holy Apostles, moved forward, although more slowly than she would have liked. She went to the site at least once a week, conferring with her steward. On a chilly day in October, she caught her scarlet boot in the hem of her cloak and tumbled headlong down the sweep of stairs leading to the main entrance. She screamed with shock and protest, trying to protect her swollen belly from the hard-edged marble, coming to rest at last with painfully battered arms.

  Her chief bodyguard, a tall excubitor, insisted that she should be taken straight to the new hospital, recently completed and close by, where she would be given immediate good care. Groaning in agony, she was borne
swiftly along the street and into the shining white building, divested of her cloak and boots and gently installed in a bed. The chief physician waved all her anxious escorts out of the room, except for one lady-in-waiting.

  She lay there shaking from head to foot, weeping with fright.

  “Despoina. I am Aetios,” said the tall, thin man, bending over her with concerned brown eyes. He touched her forehead gently. “Did you strike your head?”

  “No … no, I don’t think so.” Her words came punctuated by sobs.

  “Your arms are badly bruised. This one, I think, may be broken.” He took her left arm and manipulated it.

  She shrieked.

  “I beg your pardon.” He seemed to be listening. “Crepitation, yes. It must be set.”

  Her right hand clutched at him, desperately demanding his attention for something else. “The baby,” she said. “The baby. Will it …”

  “The Despoina is pregnant?”

  She nodded.

  “How far along?”

  “I think … seven months.”

  “Is it permitted … to examine?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  He gestured to her lady, who stepped forward to help Theodora bare her abdomen. She tried hard to stifle her sobs. Her back was aching. Cramps would be next, she thought. Oh God, oh God, let there not be cramps.

  “The Despoina has borne one child?” His hands, long-fingered and knuckly, were palpating her abdomen.

  “Yes.”

  Probing, probing. A puzzled frown creased his forehead. He was balding from the front, in two inlets, with a fuzz of brown hair in the middle. “Miscarriages? At least one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Despoina, I beg your pardon, but I must be thorough.” His eyes met those of her lady, who nodded anxiously. He bent down low, placing an ear directly on her skin. Reaching across her abdomen, he pressed it closer to his ear. He smelled of soap. He remained motionless, apparently listening again. Theodora was not accustomed to physicians who listened with attention, not even to words.

  “The baby,” she insisted. “The baby. Is it …”

  “A moment.” He put up a hand, indicating silence. He moved around and repeated the procedure, placing his ear on a new spot. Then a third. Listening, listening, intently. She groaned at the pressure. Finally he straightened, with a deep sigh. “Despoina. I regret this. But I must inform you truthfully.”

  “What? What is it? Has the baby been injured?”

  He shook his head. “Despoina, there is no baby.”

  “What? What? I don’t understand!”

  “Despoina. Listen to me. There is no baby. There never was.”

  Theodora howled. Her lady, aghast, reached forward to take her hands in a tight grip.

  The physician stood dumbly by, with lowered head.

  Theodora drew a shaky breath. “How can it … how can it … just have … so suddenly …”

  “It was not the fall,” he said.

  “How can you be so sure … the palace physicians …”

  “Have you consulted them, Despoina?”

  “N … no. But I have been so well! And I know how it feels, to be pregnant! But I am sure they …”

  “You may consult any physician in Christendom,” he told her, “or a heretic, for that matter. There is still no baby. Despoina, let me be clear. You are not carrying a child, nor were you before you fell.”

  “But I have not bled … I was nauseous, my … my breasts were tender, I gained weight …”

  “Pseudocyesis,” he said. “Phantom pregnancy. You wanted so much to be pregnant that you convinced your body.”

  “Impossible!”

  “It has been known since the time of Hippocrates,” he told her. “He recorded examples. As did Aristotle.”

  “You are wrong,” she wept. “You must be wrong!”

  “Despoina, I can feel nothing in your abdomen. One should be able to identify a head, a foot, some shape of the child’s body. I feel only a dough-like texture, nothing defined. It is merely … somewhat distended.”

  She sobbed.

  “And I cannot hear the foetal heartbeat. It should be there. Tell me, have you felt the baby move?”

  “Yes, yes, I felt it move! I’m sure I felt the baby move!”

  “You felt what you wanted, what you expected to feel. There is no baby, so there could have been no movement.”

  “I don’t believe you. It is not possible!” She glared at him in angry denial, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. She wanted to beat him into submission, to make him say what she wanted to hear, by sheer force of will.

  “Despoina, you can consult any physician you can find. You can continue with this … this delusion … for two more months. You might even go through a phantom birth. But at the end of all that pain, which could be considerable, there will still be no child. Nothing you or anyone can do will change that fact.”

  There was a long silence. Sounds of life from outside came through the window: a herd of goats stamped by, bleating; a pie-seller shouted his wares; voices chattered, somebody laughed.

  At last she spoke. “So what … what may I … expect?”

  “The Despoina is not yet of an age for change of life. Sooner or later, menses will again commence. Then, Despoina, you will clearly see that there was no baby, since a miscarriage, even much earlier, would produce …”

  “I know, I know, don’t tell me!” shouted Theodora.

  “A herbal draught,” he said, “to calm the nerves. And we must set the arm. And anoint the bruises. I am so sorry, Despoina.”

  Her pillow was soaked through with tears.

  Not long after the keys of Rome reached Constantinople, a courier arrived with a letter for the Empress from her friend.

  My dearest Theodora – Salutations to the Empress!

  Thank you, my dear, thank you a thousand times for your support in the matter of Theodosius, and your good offices in finding a place for Photius in a different theatre of war. It is as if a noxious poison has been removed from the very air we breathe. Theodosius looks well, if somewhat thinner, and has been of great help during this campaign in a number of ways.

  Well, one good deed deserves another, so I am pleased to inform you that Silverius is Pope no more, and your man Vigilius sits on the Throne of St Peter. It was no easy task to convince Belisarius that Silverius needed to be removed from his high office. After all, it was he who opened the gates of Rome to the Byzantine army. So Belisarius, being the noble man that he is, understandably felt that he owed Silverius a debt of honour.

  However, he had already lost respect for a man who broke a solemn oath, and when he was shown a letter from the Pope, countersigned, moreover, by six leading Senators, offering to betray us to the Goths, he was convinced of Silverius’s treachery, and that to Belisarius is totally unforgivable. So then he was willing to act.

  Let me tell you how it happened. Belisarius sent a messenger to Silverius, commanding him to attend on us at the Pincian Palace where we are currently quartered. Picture the scene, as dramatic as any we put on at the Kynêgion.

  Setting: lavishly decorated private audience room. Self reclining on couch piled high with silken cushions, wearing spectacular gown formerly owned by Goth princess. Yellow. (The gown, not the princess.) The great General Belisarius seated on the floor, leaning against the couch. Enter Silverius, Vicar of Christ, stage left.

  Antonina: Well, Sir Pope, why have you been communicating with our enemies?’

  Silverius: But I have done no such thing!

  Belisarius (sternly): We have proof positive. In your own hand.

  Silverius: That cannot be! I assure you –

  Antonina: We will listen to no assurances from a proven liar and a traitor to the crown of Byzantium.

  Belisarius: Such a man cannot be the leader of the faithful. It pains me to inform you that you will be deposed.

  Silverius: But you … but I … but who …

  Belisarius: But me no but
s. (Raises his voice.) Guards!

  Enter two guards, stage right.

  Belisarius: Take this man to the side room and remove his pallium. Dress him as a simple monk. Then see to it that he takes ship to Patara, we have banished him.

  Guards: Yes, General. (They drag Silverius from the room. He is heard to mutter: I knew it, I knew what would be the cause of my death!)

  The very next day Vigilius was elected, consecrated, and installed as Pope. There he sits, on the Throne of St Peter: Vicar of Christ, by the grace of … two former actresses.

  I trust that you are satisfied.

  A word of warning in your ear, to pass on to Justinian: You will have heard that Witigis left Rome to make peace with the Franks. We have been informed that he has married the daughter of Amalasuintha. Name of Mathasuintha, reputedly as pretty a wench as her late unlamented mother was, but an unwilling bride for Witigis. Not that it bothered him. Haven’t set eyes on him yet, but he sounds like the kind of man who fucks with his boots on. I would keep a very wary eye on that couple if I were you.

  Ever your loving friend

  Antonina

  So they had won, thought Theodora. She and Antonina had won. Yet she could not find it in her heart to be glad. Her friend’s caustic observations had no power to make her smile. Since the fall and the revelation that she had been entirely mistaken and had not been pregnant after all, nothing had been able to make her smile. On the contrary, she was deeply despondent.

  It was fortunate that she had not publicly announced her expectation of bearing an heir, otherwise she would have been publicly shamed. It had been hard enough to inform Justinian. In fact, she hadn’t been able to do that herself; she had depended on Aetios to convey the news, and to explain what had happened to the bemused Emperor.

  Aetios had been entirely correct. Within a week of her fall, her normal monthly flow had reappeared. And that was all it was: just blood. No sign that there had ever been a conception, an embryo, a tiny person beginning the long, fraught journey into life. No, he had been right: there never was a baby.