The best rumour of all is talk that the city speed limit will at last be raised. Soon, Lilian may be able to drive with perfect legality at sixteen miles an hour!
“Due Care and Attention” by Sylvia Kelso
THEODORA
Barbara Robson
The great Empire of Rome is in thrall to a demon Emperor, his wife a demon whore. She is called Empress and allowed to rule as though worthy of that rank, though all know her base beginnings. None speak against her: all declare themselves, joyously or in fear, to be her humble slaves. No senator, no clergyman, no military man dares oppose this “Empress”, this demon, Theodora.
— Procopius
~May 510~
The two girls moved nimbly through the crowded market. Slaves haggled over apples, birds fussed and fluttered in their cages, and merchants called out their wares. Comito, fourteen and clad in a provocatively sheer tunic that advertised her profession, led the way between the carts and temporary stalls with a confident stride. Her sister, Theodora, trotted after her, carrying a three-legged stool. While Comito did not acknowledge the appraising glances that came their way or the well-dressed ladies who swerved to avoid them, Theodora looked about, wide-eyed.
“See how they look at you, Comito! You are famous!”
Comito came to a stop under a broad olive tree near one edge of the market, then turned to face her sister, cocked her head, and raised her painted eyebrows. “The word is ‘infamous’, grape-child.” She looked around. “This will do. Let’s take a break in the shade. Did you bring the pears?”
The younger girl set down the stool that would keep Comito’s fine clothes clear of the dirt, then sat on the dusty ground and fished two ripe pears from the bag that had been slung over her shoulder. She juggled the fruit from hand to hand as she waited for her sister to take her seat and arrange her skirt. The pears looked very good.
“Are you sure you want one?” asked Theodora, coyly. “You’ll muss your face.”
Her sister smiled. “Rogue. You can’t have both. Give it here.”
Sighing, Theodora tossed Comito one pear, then bit into the other, releasing a burst of sweetness into the dry afternoon air. She hurried to suck an escaping trickle of juice from her hand before it dripped onto the ground. It was good.
One of the men who had been looking at them from a distance made up his mind to approach. “You’re that girl from the theatre!”
Comito held his gaze. “Yes?”
“You dance well enough. Are you going to be on again tonight?”
“Of course.”
“And after? Where can I find you after your show?”
Comito’s eyes flicked to her little sister, then back to the man. “I’ll be mingling,” she said. “You won’t have any trouble finding me.”
“I’ll bring you a present,” said the man. “Do you have many admirers, yet?”
“I’ve been on the stage for nearly a year. What do you think?”
Instead of answering, the man turned and sauntered off.
There was a brief silence. Theodora broke it. “I’m going to be famous one day, too,” she declared. “I’ll be the greatest actress the world ever saw and everyone will admire me and then I’ll marry a senator and have cinnamon and dates whenever I want.”
Comito pulled a face. “Don’t be in such a hurry. It’s not much fun, being an actress. And you won’t marry a senator. It’s against the law.”
“Why is it against the law?”
“Actresses aren’t allowed to marry.”
“Why?”
Comito indicated the crowded marketplace. “See the way the citizens leer at me?”
Theodora nodded.
“See the way their wives glare?”
Biting her lip, Theodora shrugged.
“We’d be too much competition!”
Theodora huffed in consternation. Comito laughed.
“Cheer up, little sister. Maybe you’ll meet a nice soldier and he’ll keep you as his mistress. That’s the only way to escape the stage.”
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The Empress’ nature is plain for all to see, but if you need proof, merely ask her lovers from those days in the theatre. Ask, and you’ll hear how they were visited by demons in the night as they lay with her in her rooms. With these demons, the witch Theodora made her pact to gain power.
— Procopius
~January 512~
Theodora woke in the dark. She had gone to bed exhausted but happy after the sixth consecutive night of her debut performance and had dreamed of clicking fingers and applause. Why had she woken?
A shadow in front of the moonlit window…an unfamiliar, rancid smell. She sat up, confused…then saw him. An ugly, drunken soldier. A man in her room! She screamed.
The soldier recoiled, unsteady on the heels of his feet, but he quickly recovered his footing and grinned at her. His teeth were yellow in the moonlight. I have the power here, said that grin. Theodora screamed again.
“Eeeeeee-aaaah!” Another scream joined hers, and now there was strength in the sound; louder, more ferocious. Now the room was filled with ululating sound and billowing red muslin; filled with fury. Her friend Macedonia was there, kicking and beating the soldier with bare feet and fists! Theodora, still yelling, swept a ceramic cup from the table by the bed, and flung it at the soldier. It shattered against his chest. Frightened, he turned and fled through the open window. Macedonia screamed obscenities after him, her words as red as her chemise.
Theodora shivered, her skin clammy. Before long, she would have to be ready for men like that soldier. But not yet. Not now. Not until menarche made her a woman.
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Our demon Emperor and Empress drive society to decay, delighting in overturning all solid principles of the past. Actresses are allowed to marry, and when they stray, their husbands dare not discipline them, nor even accuse them, for fear of Theodora’s wrath. Widows are allowed to keep fortunes, and even to become the guardians of their children, leaving the next generation with no strong hand or guidance. Rome slides into ruin. How did this come to pass, while good men stood by and watched it happen?
— Procopius
~February 516~
Macedonia unravelled her friend’s hair from the curling clips, guiding the fresh ringlets prettily down the side of Theodora’s face so the dark curls offset her pale complexion. They had both scrubbed themselves head to toe in the baths this afternoon, then rubbed down with cinnamon-scented oil. Macedonia’s skin still felt luxuriously clean and soft. Theodora’s glowed with excitement.
“There now,” said Macedonia, releasing the last ringlet with just a hint of regret. “You’re beautiful.”
Theodora blushed, smiling. “You too. Are you sure you don’t mind filling in for me tonight?”
“Actually, I thought I might not after all. I’m tired of dancing. You’ve been out so many nights with Hecebolus lately, I think it’s my turn.”
“Oh! But… Oh!”
Macedonia leaned languorously back on the couch, saying nothing.
“You’re right; I’ve been selfish. It is your turn. It’s just…” Theodora thought she might cry, her chance with Hecebolus slipping away.
Macedonia relented, laughing. “Nimwit! Of course I don’t mind! Your senator’s a Governor now! Of course you must go!”
Theodora’s grin returned quickly. “Appointed to Pentapolis! Oh, I wonder what Pentapolis is like! Do you think he’ll take me?”
“You know he will, or you wouldn’t be smiling.” Macedonia took her friend’s hands in her own and kissed her cheek fondly, hiding her own tears. “I’m going to miss you.”
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Theodora is cruel. She has never been known to be reconciled to anyone who offended her, neither during his life, nor after his death.
— Procopius
~April 520~
Theodora concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other
, making steady progress along the long, hot Egyptian road.
The sun burned and the sky burned and the road burned. Except where it glistened as though wet.
Her blisters had long since hardened into callouses inside her shoes, but her feet still hurt.
One foot, then the other.
Hecebolus was supposed to have been her escape. Not a charming man, not a gentle man, but a rich man. A senator. He had said he loved her.
One foot, then the other.
From a child begging before the Hippodrome to the darling of the Byzantine stage to the mistress of the newly appointed governor of Pentapolis! That was how it was supposed to go, and how it had gone. Not more than she’d deserved.
One foot; the other foot.
In less than three years, Hecebolus had tired of her. Abandoned her. Evicted her. She was humiliated, with only her clothes and the meagre few coins in her purse.
One foot.
Theodora rolled her aching shoulders, stretched her arms behind her back, and looked back down the long, empty road. In the distance, it rippled in the heat. Why, when it had been dry all day? Perhaps, like a rainbow, the mirage was a promise from God. There would be another caravan before too long.
She turned to continue her journey. There would be another caravan, another caravan-master, and he would take her on, just like the last one had, for a while. She still had her looks. She had something to trade for passage.
Damn Hecebolus.
One foot. The other foot. Damn Hecebolus and damn all lying men. Two and a half thousand miles of good Roman roads would lead her home.
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He is no descendant of divinity, this Emperor, but a farmer’s son. A farmer’s son, but adopted by his uncle, the Emperor Justin, at a tender age, and given a good education among honest citizens. So how can it be explained but as delight in degradation that he chose a whore for his wife? He, who could have chosen the most decorous, virginal, pious young maiden in all the Empire—a girl with a dowry as healthy as her breast—instead chose a stage wretch, discarded trollop of a provincial governor and veteran of more abortions than this Emperor has seen days in battle. There is no other explanation than that Justinian is as much a demon as his wife.
— Procopius
~December 520~
Being back in Constantinople was not so bad. Theodora had arrived, shivering and fevered, at the height of summer, her period later than it had ever been before. The tonic Antonina procured to bring on the bleeding had hit her body so hard that it had seemed she might die. But Chrysomallo had taken her in, and her friends took good care of her; Antonina, Macedonia, Chrysomallo and Indaro taking turns by her bedside until she was out of danger.
By mid-autumn, Theodora was back on the stage. Her performances grew more daring, the audiences more bawdy, her tongue sharper, both on- and off-stage. Her manager shot her worried looks as she satirised Pope Hormisdas as a clown and secret puppet of the Green faction, but she got away with it: her audience loved her.
Soldiers and magistrates still waited for her after shows, bearing silver for her, or incense, perfumes or silks. She sent most of them away with barbed witticisms. Still, they hoped. She was an actress. By definition, she was available.
It was only as a favour to Macedonia that she accompanied her friend on a rendezvous one cool winter night. The rain had stopped, but an early mist gathered about the evening as they walked together, hand in hand, dressed as beautifully as if Hecebolus and the long, cruel summer had never happened. Theodora was feeling optimistic for the first time in far too long. Macedonia was being frustratingly mysterious.
“So who is he, this prospect of yours?”
“A soldier.”
“Seriously? Just a soldier?”
“He’s very well connected.”
“A well-connected soldier?”
“Very.”
“What’s his name then, this well-connected soldier?”
“John.”
“And John’s connections?”
“You’ll see.”
Theodora was silent for a moment, walking faster to warm herself up. She hoped the taverna had a good fire. But her curiosity was frustrated. “I’ll see? What does that mean?”
Macedonia smiled knowingly and kept walking.
“You’ve set me up with one of this John’s ‘very good’ connections? Is that what you’re saying?”
If Macedonia had intended to reply, it was too late. They had reached the bar (it did have a good fire) and the men were waiting for them.
Theodora’s heart sank. It was evident that both men were soldiers. The biceps were the giveaway, combined with the swagger. And the swords. She supposed the one on the left was Macedonia’s John. A handsome man: Macedonia had an eye for that. The man on the right was not bad looking. For Macedonia’s sake, she could be nice to him for an evening.
The soldier on the left spoke first. “Macedonia! Good to see you again, after all our letters. Theodora! Delighted to meet you at last.” His voice was deep, but smooth, not gravelly, like some of the military men she had known. He had the accent of an educated man, but without the haughtiness of a senator. Where had Macedonia found him? Theodora was used to needing no introduction, but these men intrigued her. She put on her best party face and winked to the other man before turning coquettish eyes to the one with the nice voice.
“Massie didn’t tell me I had such a treat in store! I can tell we’re all going to get on like Leda and her swan.”
The handsome man smiled. “Not shy, I see. Macedonia said that about you.”
“I guess she’s told you everything about me. And none of it good!”
“All of it good! Or all of it interesting, I should say. And I saw your impressive show last night.”
The second man now had Macedonia in an embrace and was guiding them towards a table. So that must be John, which meant the soldier she was talking to was here for her. Theodora appraised him: he had a wide, friendly face, blond hair, blue eyes, strong chin, and broad shoulders. She could certainly do worse for company. He was an admirer, too! That helped. She smiled more sincerely as they took their seats.
“What part did you like best? The Swan?” Her most risqué performance.
He chuckled, but wouldn’t admit it. “That part, too. It was all wonderful. Though I think you’re wrong about the Pope.”
A moment passed, while Theodora tried to bite her tongue. She’d never had that knack. The mood changed. Macedonia winced as Theodora drew an indignant breath. “Wrong,” she repeated, quietly. “I’m wrong about the Pope? My goodness.” She paused, then almost spat her next words. “The Pope’s a shit-eating Chalcedonian. What else do you need to know?”
Macedonia looked alarmed. “Theo-dor-a! I’m sure Justinian doesn’t want to talk about that!”
“On the contrary!” said the soldier (Justinian?), unfazed. “I’d like to hear this.”
(Justinian? That was a very familiar name, and Macedonia had said John was well-connected. Was she getting herself into trouble? Well, what if she was? This was important.)
“If we have a disagreement,” Theodora said, “then we do need to talk about it. What could be more important than talking about God?”
“How about what we’ll have for dinner?” offered Macedonia, brightly. “Is the food here good? It smells good!”
“You’re a Monophysite?” asked Justinian quietly, ignoring Macedonia. “I’m curious as to why.”
“You’re Chalcedonian? But you have only to think about it for a moment to see how wrong that is!”
“A Chalcedonian, yes!” said Justinian. “But tell me again how I’m wrong. I don’t often hear that, except from my aunt.”
“Mmm, that stew smells good,” said Macedonia. “I think I’ll order the stew. How about you, John? Theodora? Justinian?”
“Maybe later,” said Theodora, without looking up. “To first principles, Justinian. God is divine. That is the central tenant of our f
aith!”
“Divine, but also human.” He opened his strong hands, palms to the ceiling, and raised his eyes skyward as though calling on God to explain it for him. “God gave us his only son as a man.”
She waited until he brought his eyes back to earth—or at least, her cleavage—before she replied. “Human, but only as an aspect of the Divine. Humans are imperfect. God’s nature can never less than perfection.”
“Jesus is human, and also Divine. Two natures, united in sacrifice.” He spoke with his hands as much as with his voice and she replied in kind.
“One nature…” she brought her palms together with a clap, “…in two aspects!”
It wasn’t enough. “If you deny Jesus’ fundamental humanity,” argued Justinian, “You deny His suffering. You deny His sacrifice, and God’s love.”
“I don’t deny His humanity. The Divine is all things! But if you deny His divinity, you deny God.”
Theodora caught the look on Macedonia’s face. Okay. So this was that Justinian. She was arguing with the nephew of the Emperor. She knew she should stop, but her opponent was worthy: she was having fun. And was that a sparkle in Justinian’s eye?
Justinian took a sip of wine and smiled at her, happily. “Let’s get this straight. It isn’t that Chalcedonians deny His divinity…”
It was a long night, and the first of many.
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Cranky Ladies of History Page 19