by Marié Heese
“A great blessing, indeed.”
Yet the suffering city was like a convalescent who tottered along, far from strong and hale. A convalescent who had lost his former conviction of immortality. Whenever a northwesterly wind blew over the Walls of Theodosius and across the city, it carried the foul odour of decay.
Chapter 15: You think I have become weak
Finally, the plague left the city and moved on like a conquering army, leaving devastation in its wake. In rural areas some small towns and villages had been wiped out. Lands that had been tilled lay untended, were usurped by bush and briar, and could provide no food. So an empire that had been one of the wealthiest in the world now suffered a lack of the most basic necessities: bread, salt, olive oil and wine were hard to come by. The great landowners used their private armies to seize what they needed, and to enforce their own laws. Peasant farmers refused to pay taxes on unproductive lands. The Imperium had become impoverished.
“I miss Cappadocian John’s dy … dyna … mic tax collecting,” complained Justinian. “We are almost reduced to beg … gary! Barsymes is not half the man John was.”
“A man who wanted to usurp the throne,” said Theodora, “who would have assassinated you and locked me up.”
“Pity,” sighed Justinian. “We’ll have to cut government ex … expen … diture to the bone.”
“What about the plan Barsymes suggested? Reducing the gold content of the solidus?”
“No,” said Justinian. “I’ll not allow it.”
“But if we reduced the content by half, we’ll have doubled our treasury,” argued Theodora.
“Never!” roared Justinian, who since his recovery from the plague had been extremely irritable and short-tempered, often growing red-faced with frustration and fury. “It’s the road to per … dition. It would mean cheating the people, because the value of everything would be dim … dim … in … ished! No!”
One sixth of the gold content was eventually shaved off the solidus. Devastated districts, ordered Justinian, would have a year’s exemption from taxes. But other than that, there could be no tax relief. He could not govern without money.
“Re … covery will be slow,” he warned Theodora. “We must wait for crops to grow, where there are farmers left. And we must wait for trade to pick up. Very few im … ports are coming in. We must be patient.”
“Grain imports from Alexandria might pick up soon,” said Narses. “They’ve had longer to recover.”
“We need a dependable person to g … go and oversee that.”
“Send Zeno,” said Theodora. “He’s a capable man, and you can surely depend on your son-in-law.”
“Good idea. Send him.”
As time went by, the situation in the city gradually returned to a degree of normality. Those people who had fled to other properties, and some who had been holed up in huts, tents or caves, began to return in dribs and drabs to their former homes. Artisans who had escaped the disease took up their tools again. Shopkeepers removed boards and gathered stock. Farmers’ carts trundled in to markets, herds of bleating goats and sheep spread droppings along the recovering streets. Ships again sailed into harbour and the docks came back to life. Pedestrians reappeared along the Mesê, groups of people gathered hesitantly in the large squares and the faithful once more went to church, although it was noted that the unbelievers who had suffered a sudden conversion during the plague went back to their former godless ways when they found themselves alive. The Blues and the Greens again took up their opposing positions, but for the time being, no chariot races were run. The convalescent city needed time to recover and regain its strength.
Theodora and Narses still bore the brunt of the administration and had to tackle many hard choices in matters of government, but with Justinian’s recovery had come a considerable loss of authority for the odd duo that, while he was in a coma, had effectively reigned in his stead. No longer could they take decisions on their own. Consultations necessarily involved the Emperor, but were difficult to conduct. He crouched in his rooms like a wounded bear in his lair and roared furiously when crossed or contradicted.
“I can’t talk to him,” said Theodora, in tears. “He won’t listen to a single word.”
“Give him time, Despoina.”
Justinian’s great vision of a resurgent Rome had been dealt a staggering blow, and he struggled to come to terms with the new reality. Gradually his peasant strength reasserted itself and he regained his self-control, but he had been rendered slow and incurably suspicious.
“What do we hear from our ex … exten … ded frontiers?” he enquired.
“Our enemies were also attacked by the plague,” said Narses. “Just as well. There was some respite. But now bad news is arriving from every frontier. Along the Danube, Germanus and his sons are struggling. It’s a long front to hold with skeleton armies. Some forts and castles were left undefended when their garrisons died and Barbarians have moved into them.”
“We have dispatched some of Belisarius’s former comitatus to aid Germanus,” said Theodora, “but there are just too many empty places to fill.”
“What are the P … Persians up to?”
“As soon as the plague began to tail off, we sent two ambassadors to discuss a renewal of the peace accord with Khosrau, some months ago. You were still too weak to consult at the time, Despotes, but we judged you would have supported this move.”
Justinian grunted. “And what did Khosrau reply?
“No word has come as yet, Despotes.”
“Italy?”
Narses said: “It’s very unfortunate that our army failed to use their opportunity while Eraric was King of the Goths,” he said. “Totila is moving with speed and aggression. Since he became their king, the Goths have taken Verona and moved on down the boot to the south of Italy.”
“We must overcome the G … Goths,” said Justinian. “Then we’ll have men to cover our other frontiers. G … Goths first.”
“But Despotes, it is not so easy to overcome the Goths. The war in Italy is not going well. The generals we have there tend to chase off in different directions, ineffectually.”
“Why don’t you send Belisarius?” asked Theodora. “He can meld them into one army again. The rest of the generals don’t seem to have his kind of success. Or his luck.”
Justinian’s face was as wary as that of a hunter seeking game in lion country, crouching behind a bush, testing the wind, fearful that some predator lurked just behind him. “We’ll keep him here for a while,” he said. “Better under our eyes. For the t … time being.”
“Despoina, unhappy news,” said Narses.
“What is it now? More bad news from the front?”
“No, Despoina, closer to home. Theodosius has died.”
“What? Who? What are you talking about?”
“Theodosius, Despoina. The lady Antonina’s, ah, adopted godson.”
“How can he have died? He survived the plague! He has fought in no battle!”
“No, Despoina. He has died of the dysentery.”
“Oh, no! I don’t believe it! When?”
“Last night, one is told. At their villa.”
“Have my carriage brought around.”
Theodora went at once. She found the villa with its blinds drawn down. A solemn major-domo ushered her into a small room at the back where Antonina sat, bolt upright, her hands folded in her lap. Her face had hardened into lines of suffering such as neither siege nor famine had been able to achieve.
“Antonina!” said Theodora, wanting to walk over and take her friend in her arms, but repelled by the cold selfdiscipline she saw before her. “I heard, I’m so, so sorry!”
“Sorry won’t do. Not even close. This is … past grief.”
“I … oh, my dear!”
“Nothing worse than this,” said Antonina. “There isn’t anything on earth that could be worse than this.”
“I don’t understand … how it … how it happened.”
“
Just by accident. As things do. Bad meat, he must have eaten bad meat. You know that supplies are limited, quality is not … assured.”
“I know. But …”
“It did not take long,” said Antonina, in a tone of surprise. “One day, all was well, he was fine, he was joking with me. Next day he was taken ill. I never thought … I expected him to recover, he was young and strong, after all. But it just got worse and worse. Soon he was passing blood, and then he – just like that – he was gone. One would have thought … one would have wished …” Her breathing had got out of hand. She struggled to master it. “And I must not be seen to mourn. You understand that. Because of … what people think. For my husband’s sake. I embarrassed him by wearing mourning, when Photius kidnapped Theodosius that other time. I must seem to be unconcerned.”
“I understand.”
“I must control myself. Must. Since nobody knows what I have lost.”
“I know,” said Theodora. “I know you have lost a son. But you had a son, Antonina. You had one son whom you loved, and who loved you.”
“I suppose I must be thankful,” said Antonia, “for that, and for many other blessings in my life. But you must forgive me, Theodora, if I am not thankful. Not right now. I am … I am …” Her face began to quiver, to break up, to crumple, like that of a child who had been sharply slapped by an angry elder, and then she burst into tears of desperate woe.
Theodora walked over, sat down and took her hands in a firm grip.
“Just … be here, just be here …” wept Antonina. “I will stop crying soon, I promise. I will … stop … soon … Just let me cry … today.” Her words tailed off as she was overwhelmed by grief.
Although the Emperor grew steadily stronger day by day, and began to hold audiences again, many people still brought their problems to Theodora, especially where someone of her household was concerned.
“You’re going to get a complaint,” said Indaro, “from an old codger who lent me money during the plague. He was an admirer, way back when I was on the stage, so I knew where to find him, he lives just nearby. I needed money to help a friend.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?” Theodora wanted to know. “I always look after you.”
“I know. But it was when Justinian was so very ill. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I haven’t paid it back, and I don’t see why I should. He’s a patrician, rich as Croesus, and he’s painfully stingy. My other admirers gave me gifts and bunches of flowers. He used to bring just one rose.”
Theodora, for once, was tired of being rational and responsible, judicious and dignified. Tired of hardship and worry and grief. Her long dormant sense of fun revived. “Let’s give him a hard time,” she said.
“We’ll give him a performance that he’ll never forget,” said Indaro. “I’ll tell Chrysomallo to, er, gird her loins. So to speak.”
“I’ll warn the eunuchs. Dare say they’d like to join in.”
The elderly patrician was escorted to the Daphne Palace and ushered into a large triclinium, which was swathed and upholstered in crimson and gold according to the taste of the late Euphemia, risen from slavery to royalty and consequently regal in the extreme. The petitioner was received by the Empress Theodora seated on a throne chair, with Chrysomallo on her right and Indaro on her left, the three women surrounded by a group of eunuchs. A silentiary announced the entrance of Quintus Julius Libo, giving each syllable due stress. Quintus Julius was prodded into making a full prostration at the Empress’s small, scarlet-clad feet by guards jabbing him in the kidneys.
Skinny, round-shouldered and bald, he was of an age when arriving flat on his face on the floor was relatively easy. Getting back on his feet, though, was almost beyond him. He made it to his knees, but the next stage had him flummoxed. He looked around for a helping hand. The guards were imperturbable, their sturdy, hairy legs planted like posts behind him. He peered up piteously at the Empress and her companions.
“You may rise,” said Theodora graciously.
He tried, but raising his butt was as far as he could get.
“You may rise,” said Theodora, with a hint of impatience. “We are moved by your submissive humility, Quintus Julius, but we prefer supplicants to be standing up when we address them.”
“If I could just … oh, dear.” The mosaics on the floor were being cruel to his aged knees. He uttered a groan, crawled forward, and hoisted himself to his feet by gripping the edge of the platform on which the throne chair stood. Standing at last, with a thankful sigh, he now had a better view of the three women who confronted him. This caused him to narrow his myopic eyes in disbelief. It appeared that the one on the left was wearing nothing but a short skirt, with tassels hanging from her tits. This could not be, so he blinked and turned his attention to the one from whom he was desirous of recuperating his loan. She seemed to be upside-down. He shook his bald head and shuffled backwards in a futile attempt to see a scene that made sense.
“Well, Quintus Julius, what have you to say for yourself?” The Imperial voice was stern.
“Basilissa, see, the problem …”
“Despoina,” said the voice.
“Despoina, yes, the problem is about money.”
“We have no money to lend.”
The group of eunuchs behind the throne broke into a musical chant: “No money, no money to lend.”
“No, no, I don’t want to borrow anything.”
“Then why bother us?”
“I’m the one who …”
His attention was caught by the woman on the left, who had begun to swing the tassels on her tits. In opposite directions, as God was his witness. He went cross-eyed trying to follow the extraordinary gyrations.
“The one who what?” demanded the Empress.
“Eh? What? What what?” His mind was engaged with the tassels, leaving no redundant capacity for handling awkward questions.
“Quintus Julius Libo,” said Theodora, “what is your problem?”
With a superhuman effort he switched his attention to his Empress. “Problem, yes, my problem. Ah. The whole story is …”
The eunuch choir chanted: “He has a problem with his hole!”
“That one,” he essayed, pointing at Indaro, who was coolly maintaining her balance on her head. “That upside-down one, she …”
“Who’s upside down?” enquired Theodora. “Is anyone here up-side down?”
“Nooooo,” said Chrysomallo, rotating her tassels.
“Nooo,” intoned the choir.
“No,” said Indaro innocently.
“Are you insulting my ladies?”
“No, no, Basilissa …”
“Despoina,” said Theodora. “If you can’t even remember my title, what can you remember?”
“I remember that that one owes me money!”
“Which one?”
“The … the …”
“He has a problem with his hole! The whole problem is his hole!” The eunuch choir was increasing its volume.
In vain did the petitioner attempt to explain his business. At last he gave it up as a bad job, scuttled furiously out of the room, left the Imperial premises as fast as his skinny legs could carry him, and reported to all who would listen that the Empress was a crazy witch with powers derived from dark magic, a good match for an Emperor who was a daemon, as everyone in the Empire knew.
“How else did he escape the plague?” demanded Quintus Julius. “A decent Christian body would have died!”
There were many in the taverns of Constantinople who thought the same.
Theodora now decided that the time had come to continue with the work on the Church of the Holy Apostles, her great project that, for various reasons, had been set aside for some years.
“Even though Anthemius has died,” she said to Justinian, “we have extensive drawings and building plans. And Isidorus will see to the engineering principles. It will be a superb church.”
“
As I recall, there was supposed to be a mau … soleum, for the two of us to be interred,” said Justinian.
“Yes. And it was almost required, but thank God that didn’t happen. Now we must continue with the building. I intend to sell some of my jewels to finance it. Maybe some of my property also. May I do that?”
“Whatever I gave to you, you own. D … Do with it what you please,” said Justinian.
She set the project in motion once more, going often to the site to watch the walls going up and the four grand cupolas being constructed. The fifth and largest, the central dome, would be last. It lifted her spirit to see the grand design taking shape.
“It is my hosanna in brick and stone,” she said. “My prayer of gratitude to God. We have much to be grateful for.”
“Indeed,” agreed Justinian “Indeed we do. And Theodora …”
“My love?”
“We should resume our old routine. M … Meeting three times a week, as we always did.”
“Yes, we should,” agreed Theodora. She gave orders that their special suite in the Sigma section of the Imperial Palace should be thoroughly turned out, swept and polished; it should welcome the restored Emperor with roses and candles, incense and myrhh, with the best wine and every fine delicacy the still struggling kitchens could manage to find. She herself would be bathed and massaged and scented, dressed in simple white silk as she had been on that first day they had met, with her shining black hair pinned up and skewered with a solid gold pin.
Justinian arrived in uncharacteristically formal garb: a silk tunic embroidered with blossoms and gems, and a purple cloak.
She thought: He needs to establish himself as the undisputed Despotes. Even in my eyes. Or perhaps especially in my eyes. She said: “You look impressive. The weight loss suits you.”
“You look b … beautiful. As ever.”
And as ever, they were not at a loss to find topics to talk about. Deft and silent servants came and went, bringing and removing several courses. Neither of them ate much.
Finally, the excubitors, as they had been trained to do, ushered out the last of the slaves. The door to the royal bedroom stood ajar. Theodora rose to lead the way.