The Emperor is as agreeable as Theodora is disagreeable. He is a man of average size, his face pleasant, his manner disarming. He the worst kind of fool, besotted with his wife and easily led by the nose. But he is cunning: he lies as easily as he breathes, pretending always that his motives are pure.
— Procopius
~February 527~
Theodora pondered. It was time to say something. Her husband was a good man, but he was never going to act on his own. She chose her time carefully; after dinner, when they were alone in their office and had time to talk it through. Instead of taking her seat at her own desk, she sat on the edge of his.
“Justinian. Your uncle is falling into senility.”
He frowned, not looking up from his paperwork. “You think I haven’t noticed?” The tension of the week’s events was clear in his voice.
“I know you have noticed. You’ve been doing his job for months now. Isn’t it time you were recognised as Emperor?”
“My uncle is Emperor.”
Theodora stood and stepped behind him to stroke the soft curls at the back of his head. “I know he is, love,” she said, softly. “But for how much longer?”
Now he looked up, bristling with the beginnings of anger. “Until he dies, if I have anything to do with it!”
She stole a kiss, smelling his tension. “Of course. But that can’t be far off. And what then?”
He held her gaze for a moment, then shrugged as the momentary anger left. “Well, then I think I am well positioned…”
She pursed her lips. He met her eyes again, questioning. “…No?”
Theodora chose her words carefully. “We are not badly positioned, but there is no certainty. You are not without enemies. There are other contenders. Whereas, if you were named co-Emperor now…”
“…Certainly not without precedent…”
“…Then your succession would be assured…”
“…And you, of course, would be Empress beside me.” Justinian leaned back in his chair, thinking hard. “You may be right that it is best to move now.” He frowned, considering the obstacles. “It will have to be managed carefully.”
“Then let us begin.”
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
The arrogance of the Empress is without precedent.
— Procopius
~April 527~
Emperor Justin died naturally only a few weeks later; Theodora was grateful that her husband had seen sense. The succession, nonetheless, was having teething trouble. She was not the senate’s favourite person.
“I demand to see Emperor Justinian!”
Vestiarios Calopodius, guarding the door, was not having a good day. This must be the twentieth angry man his position had forced him to face down, and he hadn’t yet had a meal. He remained polite, but spoke firmly.
“That won’t be possible, sir. The Emperor is not receiving visitors. The Empress, however…”
In a room above the palace courtyard, two women vied for position at the window.
“This one has gone red in the face,” reported Chysomallo, her voice delighted. “I think he might be having trouble breathing!”
“Ooh, let me see!” said Indaro. The scene below had been repeated many times that day, but each new arrival brought fresh amusement.
Tired of yelling, the patrician hissed his next words. “If you think I’m going to be fobbed off with the Emperor’s whore…”
“Sir!” said the guard. “I wouldn’t let anyone hear you talk like that if I were you. The Empress has the full authority of her position!”
“Now you listen here…!” began the red-faced man, one hand going to the hilt of the sword at his side, the other balled in a fist near the guard’s face. Calopodius didn’t even need to signal to his men. Basil and Peter each took hold of one of the patrician’s arms then marched him to the palace gate and threw him into the street.
The ladies at the window cheered.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
Rich men are separated from their fortunes on trumped-up charges of corruption. Others are forced, unwilling, to free their slaves. Pimps are made to free prostitutes, reimbursed only the price they paid, with nothing accounted for their costs of upkeep. The brothels are closed, with no further compensation to the owners for loss of livelihood—instead, it is the corrupt women who are given alms. The army is paid scant wages, its soldiers lean, its generals forbidden from taking the profits of their conquests. Money from the palace coffers—money stolen from generals and senators, soldiers and magistrates—goes instead to unreasonable munificence to barbarian nations and ill-conceived building works that the Empire cannot afford. A seaside convent to house former prostitutes, and buttresses to hold back the sea. Grand temples are being erected for both the Monophysite heresy and the true Chalcedonian faith, mocking the church with false piety. The fortunes of an Empire are squandered on gilt mosaics, our people made destitute.
— Procopius
~May 527~
Calopodius’ job was beginning to get easier. The red-face patrician was here yet again. Procopius was slow, but he was learning.
“I. Would like. To see the Empress,” he said, biting off each word. “If it isn’t too much trouble. The matter is important.”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Calopodius. “If you’d care to wait over here?” With the sweep of his arm, he indicated the crowded room beyond.
The patrician eyed the throng uncertainly. A man of his stature should not expect to wait…but then, several of his peers were already there, in the crowd, so perhaps he would not lose face. He weighed his pride against the urgency of his business. His creditors were beginning to press and if he left it any longer, the matter might become public.
“Will the wait be long?”
“Well, the Empress is rather busy…”
“And the Emperor?”
“Not seeing anyone today.”
Procopius bit his tongue and took a place in the crowd.
Indaro turned away from the window, pouting. “There hasn’t been a good tantrum in ages. Are you going to see any of them today?”
Theodora looked up from her bath. “Do you think they are learning? Maybe this afternoon, then.”
Chrysomallo demurred. “I think you should make them wait another week. Teach them some respect.”
“Oh,” said Theodora, “They’ll learn respect.” She smiled in anticipation. “I’ll have them kiss my feet before they are allowed to speak.” Raising one foot from the bath-water, she inspected her toes. “Do you think I should paint my nails?”
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
The Basilica called Sophia is, it cannot be denied, a spectacle of indescribable beauty, overwhelming to all who see it, but altogether incredible to those who only hear it praised. Exceedingly long and unusually broad, it soars to reach the sky, towering above the city and yet glorifying it, because it is a part of it.
— Procopius
~August 531~
“I hear the building work goes well,” said Theodora, joining Justinian on their favourite balcony after an invigorating day of debate in the senate. “The Brazen tower and the church.”
Justinian, turning away from the view of the city, grinned. “Wait until you see the mosaics! They are going to be spectacular!”
“And well they should be, celebrating so many victories abroad. Did they take a good likeness?”
Justinian reached out to tap her nose affectionately with one finger. “Of you, of me, or of Strategos Belisarius’ troops in Persia?”
“Of the troops, of course! To capture a likeness of you, they need only take the Greek gods as their models. As for me, well…”
“The Platonic Ideal of beauty.”
“Aha! I’ve educated you well!”
“I count on it.”
“That Strategos, though… He may be getting too big for his boots. You should call him to heel.”
“What, back to Constantinople?”
“Else risk a mutiny. He is not quick to take direction.”
Justinian frowned. “But an excellent commander.” He raised one eyebrow. “Are you sure Antonina didn’t put you up to this?”
“Antonina would love to see her husband safe at home, but she has diversions enough while he is away. It’s Belisarius I’m worried about.”
“In that case,” said Justinian, “It shall be done. Now, which stonemason should we employ for the Eastern arch?”
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
Such is our misgovernment that the whole populace is now in disarray. In the aftermath of the plague called down by God to punish Romans for their demonic rule, bands of youths prowl the streets of Constantinople, dressed in what they called the Hunnic style and terrorising the citizens. They cut their hair short at the sides, leave it long at the back and shave the fronts of their scalps, but let their beards and moustaches grow long. They dress in richly embroidered robes, showing off their colours—the Blues are the worst of them—their sleeves tightly gathered at the wrist, but voluminous at the shoulders, as though pretending to impossibly large biceps. At night, they go about openly armed, knocking down unarmed citizens and stealing their purses. And yet, the Empress will not suffer the admonition of her favourites, blaming the Greens for every trouble.
Facing no punishment, the miscreants grow so bold that they even go openly in the day-time, decapitating innocent men with their swords to prove their manhood; outraging women. Sons overturn their fathers. Yet we are not without hope. Those who have suffered indignities and slander at the hands of the Emperor and Theodora saw the opportunity in this kindling of terror. The people, rioting, have turned their wrath at last upon the palace.
— Procopius
~January 532~
Here in the palace, it seemed strangely quiet. In this moment, the sounds of riot were oddly distant. The air caught in Justinian’s throat, acrid. His head felt full of smoke, empty of blood. He should find somewhere to sit. He should find Theodora. He sat, then realised she was already there beside him.
The sky glowed red on the horizon, transformed by the burning city, but hung almost green overhead. The Praetorium burned. The Brazen House burned. The senate house burned. The Hippodrome had been set ablaze, and the Baths of Zeuxippos with their beautiful statuary, burned. Even the Hagia Sophia, his soldiers informed him, had been gutted and burned.
What did they want from him?
His advisors had told him he must take a firm hand against the gangs, and so he had. Seven felons, Blues and Greens alike, had been arrested, convicted and sentenced to death. Five had hanged quickly, but two had survived when the scaffolding broke. The Greens and the Blues had united in calling for their freedom and he had wanted to relent, but these were murderers. He had held firm.
They had chanted in the Hippodrome all day, the Blues and the Greens both, but he had held firm. Belisarius had pushed him to free the prisoners: the mob was dangerous. Mundus had urged him to send in his soldiers to slaughter the trouble-makers, all thirty thousand of them, while they trapped themselves in the Hippodrome. Perhaps he should have. But Justinian had steered a middle path, certain that they would see reason if only he continued to hold firm, for the good of the city.
All hell had broken loose. They turned against him.
They had long since freed the prisoners. What did they want from him now?
“Conquest!” he heard the shout faintly, then louder, as the blood returned to his head. In many voices: “Victory!” In a rush, the world returned, and he was breathing again. Not distant; the mob was at his gate.
“What do they want?” he asked aloud.
“They have sent another bill of demands,” said Calopodius. “The prefect Eudamon to be dismissed, John the Cappadocian to be dismissed, the quaestor Tribonian to be dismissed, and all his new laws overturned.”
John’s name in the list was no surprise: a good man, but tax collectors were never popular. Also Eudamon: the prefect had overseen the hangings. But in calling for Tribonian’s dismissal, they showed their hand. This was not the demand of youthful trouble-makers, but of his enemies in the senate. Tribonian was the author of the legal code that had cemented Theodora’s plans for social reform.
Justinian saw no alternative. “Give them what they want.”
“That’s pointless,” said Theodora, sharply. “It won’t stop them.”
Justinian looked at his wife, beautiful in her anger. As always, her passion balanced his mildness. “I know it won’t,” he said, quietly, “but it may hold them long enough for our soldiers to arrive from Thrace.”
He thought, but did not say: it may hold them long enough for a fast ship to be prepared for our escape.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
Word came that the mob had dragged Hypatius, nephew of the Emperor Anastasius, from his home, and taken him to the burnt-out Hippodrome to crown him their Emperor. More concessions would not sway them. “Load the ship,” said Justinian to Calopodius. “I will break the news to Theodora.”
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
Once, a little girl had trembled in her bed, powerless and humble in the face of an intruder. From her friends, she had learnt the power of fury.
Once, a young woman had been flattered and showered with jewels, then thrown out into the street with nothing.
She would not be thrown out again.
Theodora was magnificent in her rage.
In front of his loyal senators, in front of his Thracian soldiers, in front of the God they had argued over so many times, she talked her husband down.
Though Indara begged her to stop, though Chrysomallo begged her to flee, Theodora held the floor, dressed in her most royal attire. She spoke. People listened.
“As to the belief that a woman ought not to be daring among men, nor bold when men hold back from fear, I say that the present crisis does not permit us such niceties. When all that we hold dear is in the gravest peril, there is nothing left to be done but to make the best plan that we can to deal with the immediate danger.”
She spoke loudly enough for all to hear, but held Justinian’s eyes.
“For my part, I say that this is not the time to flee, not even if it costs our lives to stay. No one who has been born can escape death, but for an Emperor to become a fugitive is unendurable! May I never be separated from this purple, and may I never see the day on which those to whom I speak do not address me as Empress!”
She knew what people called her when they did not call her Empress, but she had not had to hear it for a very long time. She had thought her husband understood. She paused, willing him to understand. He met her eyes, face unreadable. She spoke more softly, her voice still clear. “If you want to save yourself, oh Emperor, then there is no difficulty. We have plenty of money, there is the sea, and here are the boats. But ask yourself whether it may not come about, after you are safely away, that you would gladly exchange that safety for death. As for myself, I will not come. Purple makes a fine burial-shroud.”
And so Justinian stayed.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
It was the Blues who betrayed the revolution, listening too well to the promises of Justinian’s spies. Thirty-five thousand died in the riots, but all in vain. Theodora and Justinian hold their power more strongly now than before. One of these days, Justinian, if he is a man, will depart this life: if he is Lord of Demons, he will set his life aside. Then all who chance to be still living will know the truth.
— Procopius
“Theodora” by Barbara Robson
FOR SO GREAT A MISDEED
Lisa L. Hannett
Gunnarr’s mother won’t stop crying.
She isn’t sobbing or wailing; Rannveig isn’t the type of person to make a spectacle of herself. She grieves quietly, the front of her kirtle splotched and spattered, the under-dress’s long sleeves streaked brown-red up to the elbows. Her son’s halberd—its enchanted blade famous throughout all of Iceland
—is clutched like Óðinn’s staff in her left hand.
The weapon’s long shaft, Hallgerðr thinks, holds her stout mother-in-law upright. That and the hot steel in her gaze. Rannveig glares as Hallgerðr strides to and fro across the hall at Hlíðarendi, sorting through her husband’s possessions, packing her own favourite things. Hallgerðr feigns indifference—let the hag stare!—but her traitor feet speed up as she passes the hearth. The older woman has not shifted from that red-stained spot these past two days, her fine leather boots now ruined with Gunnarr’s lifeblood. Face bleached from lack of sleep, grey plaits frizzed, Rannveig waits for the blade in her grip to sing. For it to resonate with bloodlust, as it has so many times before battle. For it to shout, in its metallic voice, that Gunnarr’s death will be avenged.
Rannveig scowls whenever Hallgerðr draws near. Weeping has done nothing to soften her hatred.
Hallgerðr climbs the short ladder to the loft where she, Gunnarr, and Rannveig sleep. Slept, she corrects. Grief catches in her throat, but Hallgerðr refuses to let it loose. She soft-steps across the platform, avoiding the short beds, the wooden boxes filled with wool blankets, the furs. Smelling the spice of pine clapboards running up to what’s left of the turf roof. The clods of dirt fallen from the low ceiling, peppering mattresses and blankets. Gunnarr’s scent, once so strong, is barely present in the shirt Hallgerðr collects and presses her to face. Inhaling deeply, she breathes his absence.
Cranky Ladies of History Page 20