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

by Marié Heese

  “And he’s completely ignoring Patriarch Menas,” said Theodora indignantly to Narses. “He’s been here for months and he still hasn’t rescinded the excommunication.”

  “Some pressure is required,” suggested Narses. “Vigilius is peculiarly susceptible to pressure.”

  “He and the Patriarch must meet, face to face. I shall insist upon it.”

  The power of Theodora’s royal command brought the Pope of Rome and the anathematised Patriarch of Constantinople together in the Triclineum. The two prelates stood on the left and right of the throne chair where Theodora sat, richly attired, jewelled diadem in place, at her most iconic.

  “Holy Fathers,” said the Empress, “this situation cannot continue. It is insupportable. It is unchristian.” She coughed.

  Both men looked insulted. Menas, tall and ascetic, squared his shoulders. Vigilius, short and pugnacious, drew himself up. Neither was given a chance to speak.

  “How ironic it is,” went on the Empress in a husky voice, “to reflect that Pope Agapetus, when he was in Constantinople, anathematised Father Anthimus for his Monophysite beliefs, and replaced him with our current patriarch, Father Menas, because he is of the Dyophysite persuasion. Menas, in fact, convened the synod that deposed Father Anthimus. That is correct, is it not, Father Menas?”

  “Yes, Despoina.”

  “Now you, Vigilius, have anathematised the self-same Patriarch Menas on suspicion of Monophysite leanings. Do you not see the contradiction?”

  Under her stern black gaze the Pope dropped his eyes. He opened his mouth but could dredge up no convincing response.

  “We cannot continue with such a divide between the two most senior churchmen in Christendom. Father Vigilius, what is to be done?”

  “Well, I … Despoina, I …”

  Menas spoke up in his resonant voice. “Despoina, let me say this: I am willing to declare that I do not hold Monophysite views. I did indeed express support for the Emperor’s Edict of the Three Chapters. But that edict refers, as I understand it, specifically to three documents that the Emperor has identified as heretical, in terms of the Nestorian heresy. That criticism I agree with. But I am not and I never have been a Monophysite.”

  “Vigilius?” The Empress’s eyebrows were raised. She looked at him expectantly.

  “Despoina … if the Patriarch can indeed roundly declare … can unequivocally state … that he does not hold Monophysite views, it would be possible to …”

  “Yes?”

  “I could …”

  “You could?”

  “Rescind the excommunication,” groaned the Pope.

  “Formally,” said the Empress. “Officially.”

  “Yes, Despoina.”

  “And publicly.”

  “Yes, Despoina.”

  “You have been most co-operative, Holiness,” said Theodora graciously. “We are extremely pleased, and grateful for this outcome.”

  “Thank you, Despoina.”

  Meekly, the two churchmen bowed.

  Theodora did not however succeed in everything she tried to bend to her will. A letter arrived from Antonina. She wrote:

  My dearest Theodora – Salutations to the Empress!

  In response to your suggestion per letter received last week, I must humbly request that the wedding of our daughter Joannina to Anastasius should await our return to the capital. She is my husband’s only child, and we shall not have another. I am sure that you will sympathise with our desire to be present at her nuptials. They are both yet young, and it will do them no harm to wait a while longer.

  It will surprise you to know that once more I find myself writing to you from Rome. You will wonder how this is possible, since the Goths took it not so long ago. But Belisarius prevented the complete destruction of the eternal city, as you will know, by writing the Goth king a letter that prompted him to stop the vandalism that his men were bent on perpetrating.

  Then Totila decided to leave Rome uninhabited, took his army and marched north, probably intending to head for Ravenna. Meanwhile, we had remained at Portus, at the mouth of the Tiber. So when the Goths left, Belisarius took his army and moved in. At first it seemed as if the walls of Rome had been destroyed. But on examination it became clear that what the Goths had done was merely to knock off the uppermost rows of bricks and the tops of some towers, and remove the gates. Belisarius set his artisans to work at repairing the walls while his carpenters at once began to make new, sturdy gates. Within four weeks, the walls had been restored – in a rough and ready manner, to be sure, yet strong enough.

  It was now possible to establish a thriving market, since there were no obstacles to importing food from Sicily, and this drew people from the surrounding district, who came and settled in the deserted houses. It was extraordinary, Theodora, to observe the desolate streets coming to life, with a new community establishing itself almost magically.

  Totila returned posthaste to Rome, expecting to recapture it with ease. But the Goths were repeatedly repulsed by the Imperial defenders, and spent themselves fruitlessly in furious attacks. At length Totila’s standard-bearer fell, mortally wounded, and the Goth army fled in wild disorder, pursued far afield. But our army had to return eventually, since Belisarius does not have enough men to ride out and engage Totila’s hordes.

  So here we are in Rome once again, my dear friend. Tonight we are to have a feast in the Pincian Palace and be entertained by musicians. Just as buyers and sellers of commodities always emerge after chaos, one can usually find someone to sing.

  Ever your loving friend

  Antonina

  Within two months of receiving Antonina’s letter from Rome, a messenger from Belisarius brought to the Emperor in Constantinople the keys of that ancient city, for the second time. Once again it was protected by extensive walls, strong towers and sturdy gates with heavy locks. And it was not in the hands of the Goths.

  The Pope, although he had reconciled with the Patriarch, remained essentially intransigent.

  “I have received a letter from Vigilius,” said Justinian.

  “A letter? How odd,” said Theodora. “He lives right here in Constantinople, he could simply ask for an audience.”

  “It is a secret letter,” said Justinian. “Arrived covered in sealing wax. He didn’t want anybody to hear what he had to say. And I strongly suspect that he didn’t have the courage to tell me face to face.”

  “Hard to believe that a man of God can be so craven. How fortunate for him, that he never had to suffer persecution or endure torture.”

  “He’d probably have abandoned his Christianity and embraced Judaism if pressed,” agreed Justinian.

  “One gathers the letter contains nothing to gladden our hearts?”

  “It’s typical Vigilius. He does say that he supports my Edict of the Three Chapters personally.”

  “Does he, indeed?”

  “So he says. But he cannot support it publicly.”

  “Ah. That would be too much to expect. What excuses does he offer?”

  Justinian flattened the rustling letter and peered at it. “It would not be in the interests of the Church in Rome, he writes. The senior churchmen do not accept it. He discussed the matter with theologians in Sicily, and they remain opposed. They see it as an attack, if indirectly, on the Chalcedonian Council, since all three theologians who produced the documents died in the bosom of the Orthodox Church.”

  “What use is secret support to our cause?” demanded Theodora.

  “He promises, however, that he will produce an independent declaration, in good time. It will be not a papal bull, but a …” He frowned at the writing. “A judicatum. Well, that would be public. And official. If he can ever force himself to do it.”

  “He is a disgrace to the cloth, not to mention the throne of St Peter!”

  “What he does not say,” added Justinian, “but what he certainly thinks, as do other churchmen, is that his position on that throne is superior to my position on the throne of Byzan
tium. He does not accept the authority of the Emperor in matters of faith.”

  “But he’ll never have the courage to come out and say that. He’ll just keep wriggling.”

  “A sorry sight,” said Justinian.

  “But when all is said and done, you are God’s Vice-regent here on earth. Vigilius will have to bend to your will, eventually.”

  “To our will,” said Justinian.

  “Yes, my love, to our will,” said Theodora huskily. She coughed.

  At this time, Theodora began to fear that the constant irritation in her throat and the huskiness of her voice were not, as she had kept assuring herself, merely temporary problems that would pass. She sent for Aetios. When he arrived, she made all the ladies-in-waiting and eunuchs and silentiaries leave the room in the Daphne Palace where she lay resting on her bed.

  “How are you, Despoina? It has been some time since I saw you last.”

  He has a kind face, she thought, and searching eyes, eyes that notice things. “Not too well,” she said.

  “I have noted that Majesty has looked weary at times,” he said. “You do not eat enough, Despoina.”

  “It is hard to swallow,” she said.

  “How long has Majesty been troubled by this?”

  “It’s been … I’m not sure. Quite a long time,” she said, surprised.

  “Since the plague?”

  “No, not as long as that. Maybe … I think I felt some irritation about … maybe two years afterwards?”

  “Ah. And what, exactly, has been the nature of this irritation?”

  “It felt as if I had swallowed a piece of food that got stuck. About here,” and she put her hand on the front of her throat.

  “This caused you to cough?”

  “Yes. And then I began to feel … choked, I suppose would be the word. It’s been harder and harder to eat properly. And I do love eating, Aetios, I’ve never been ascetic, as the Emperor is.”

  “I know, Despoina. Do you have pain?”

  “Sometimes my ears hurt a bit.”

  “And your voice, one can hear, has become husky.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I examine?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He turned her face to the light from the window with gentle but firm hands. He peered into her throat, taking a narrow piece of wood from his bag to depress her tongue. He probed her neck, behind her ears, under her chin. Several times his fingers found tender spots.

  “Well? What is it?”

  “Despoina, it is hard to say. One possibility is an inflammation that sometimes attacks the vocal chords. That can affect the voice, in fact one can lose the ability to speak. But it is usually temporary, and this has gone on for long. On the other hand, Majesty has been through an extremely exhausting period, from the time the plague struck, and ever since, not so?”

  “Yes,” said Theodora.

  “Therefore, an inflammation could be persistent, especially if Majesty has not been eating well. Nor sleeping well, I suspect?”

  “No,” said Theodora. “It is sometimes … one feels … it becomes hard to breathe.”

  “Frightening,” he said.

  “Yes,” she admitted, fighting the tears that threatened to well up at his sympathetic tone. “What am I to do?”

  He ran a hand over his head, by this time bald as an egg. “One cannot be sure of the cause of this,” he told her. “Sometimes … it happens that …”

  “Yes?”

  “If someone has said something, at some time, that … that, ah, weighs upon them …”

  “Yes? Then what?”

  “It has been known,” he said reluctantly, “for such a person to lose the power of speech. But I don’t suppose, for one moment, that Majesty …”

  “It can’t be that,” said Theodora. “No, it certainly can’t be that.”

  “No, I never thought for a moment … Well, Despoina, perhaps it is an inflammation that persists because Majesty is very run down and weary. I shall prescribe a regime of regular rest periods, several times a day. Specially cooked soft foods, boiled eggs, mashed vegetables and fruit. Majesty’s strength must be built up.”

  “Very well.”

  “Infusions of powdered willow bark with rosemary and ginger to be drunk every few hours. Well watered wine.”

  “I will do so.”

  “A little poppy juice, if required, to promote a good night’s rest. And please, Majesty, avoid tiring public processions, and do not undertake any long journeys. Calm, relaxation, rest are imperative.”

  “I hear you, Aetios. It is true, I think, that I have had a very taxing period. It will do me good to take things more quietly.”

  “I hope that we shall soon see improvement,” he said. “And Majesty should ask the Patriarch to pray for better health.”

  “I don’t want to do that,” she said. “I mean, I need the prayers of holy men. But I don’t want it to be official, you understand, I don’t want it to be known that I am seriously ill. It may not be serious, after all.”

  He nodded.

  “And we don’t want to bother the Emperor with this,” she added. “He has enough to concern himself about.”

  “I understand completely,” he assured her. “Not a word. I shall be discreet.”

  “Thank you, Aetios. I shall request the special prayers of all my refugees. Their petitions may reach the ears of God.”

  “I sincerely hope so, Despoina.”

  Theodora obeyed the instructions of the Chief Physician implicitly. She did feel somewhat better with more rest and regular small meals. Yet her former energy had diminished and it did not seem to be returning. So, when word came from Ravenna that the mosaics in the basilica of San Vitale commissioned by Justinian had been completed, she did not contemplate travelling there to see them.

  “Narses, I want you to go to Ravenna for me, to view the mosaics and report back,” she said. “I would have wished to go myself, but I’m so tired these days, and the Emperor has no desire to travel.”

  “Please don’t send me away right now, Despoina.”

  Theodora looked surprised. “There is nothing of great urgency to keep you here, is there?”

  “Perhaps not, ah, exactly urgent, but there are many administrative tasks, and –”

  “Delegate them,” said Theodora. “I want you to go. Nobody else will bring me such an accurate report as I know you will. Nobody else will view the mosaics, as it were, with my eyes.”

  He turned aside. “If your Majesty insists,” he said.

  “I don’t insist. I just beg that you will do it … for me?”

  “Anything, Despoina.”

  Narses the eunuch: his journal, AD 547

  I did not want to go

  August, AD 547

  I did not wish to go away. Yet I could not tell the Empress why. The truth is, I was afraid that she would die while I was gone. She does not admit to being ill; she still rises – late, but that she always did – and has her ladies bathe and dress her, and she tries to behave normally, except for extra periods of rest. But she is hardly able to eat, and she is very thin under her sumptuous robes. She is beginning to look translucent. It was very hard for me to go away from her. But I cannot refuse her anything. So I commandeered a fast dromon and set sail for Italy. I went incognito, by myself.

  The journey was uneventful, and fortunately nothing happened to delay me. I travelled to Ravenna on horseback, hiring fresh mounts as required, and arrived on a sunny afternoon. The church itself I discovered to be an octagonal building rather than a true basilica, built mainly of brick and crowned with a dome. Not enormous, but it has dignity. The church is fronted by pillars supporting a pediment.

  I stood still for a moment, looking around me. It was on this plain outside the basilica, I thought, that the Goth king had surrendered to Belisarius, when they thought he was going to become Emperor in the west. I wondered about that, as I had before: Was he not sorely tempted to accept? He could have had a kingdom. Instead
, he is faced with an unwinnable war – not because he lacks the courage or ability, but because Justinian cannot or will not (I suspect both) provide sufficient men and funds to carry out the task. I have noted in the past that Belisarius has certain shortcomings as a commander, mainly that he focuses too much on specific battles and does not see the whole. But one cannot fault his loyalty, nor his courage, nor his perseverance. That I must admit. I wonder whether I could have refused a crown. For the sake of Theodora, I thought, yes, I could. Immaterial, though. Beardless one that I am, no one will offer me a crown.

  I walked into the building and through the arch leading to the chancel. Before I left, I would take careful note of every detail so that I could describe it to the Empress, but my first aim was to view the two large mosaics featuring each of the royal persons with an entourage. There they stood, facing each other on the walls of the apse close to the altar. The mosaicist, perched on a ladder, was setting the last few tesserae.

  “Good day,” I said. “I am come from Constantinople on behalf of the Empress, to view the mosaics. Her Majesty regrets that she is unable to make the journey herself.”

  “Welcome, friend,” he said. He was a small, neat man, much like myself although doubtless not neutered, with small, precise hands. He moved his head with quick, birdlike movements, looking over his work with narrowed eyes. The rich colours, the gold and the coloured glass, shimmered in the bright light.

  I won’t tell him I am the Grand Chamberlain, I thought. He’ll take me for an ordinary eunuch secretary, and then he may be relaxed and frank. “They are very striking,” I said. “Good likenesses, too.”

  “I had good drawings to work from,” he said. “And good materials. The sponsor did not stint.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Julianus Argentarius, the silver banker. And Belisarius has made a personal contribution.”

  “Ah. I see he’s on the Emperor’s right hand. And on the left, with the cross? A churchman, no doubt?”

  “The Bishop of Ravenna, Maximianus.”

  I turned to look at the mosaic depicting Theodora. My throat closed. There she stood, robed in her royal regalia, her dark eyes enormous. Somehow, between the Syrian slave who had made the sketches and the mosaicist, they had recorded the forlorn look, the hint of … call it otherworldliness … that she bears these days.