Justinian

by Ross Laidlaw

  As Cleopatra opened the basket containing the asp (actually a harmless tree-snake) preparatory to holding it to her bosom, the creature escaped. In the ensuing hiatus, while stage menials rushed around the orchestra in a futile search for the offending reptile, Theodora let her mind drift back fifteen years to when she was a child of five, the daughter of Akakios, a bear-keeper in Constantinople’s Hippodrome. .

  The world of the Hippodrome into which she was born was unbelievably tough, where survival depended on courage, adaptability, quick wits, and shrewd judgement. Yet, though hard, it was an exciting and colourful world, populated by barkers, hawkers, dancers, strolling players, acrobats, sneak-thieves, clowns, pimps, and prostitutes — all operating under licence from the minions of the two circus factions, the Blues and the Greens, who managed the day-to-day business of the place. At least her father’s job as animal-trainer gave his family security, until, in Theodora’s sixth year, Akakios’ sudden death plunged them into destitution. Rapidly re-marrying (or at least securing a live-in partner to provide a bread-winner for her family), the mother pleaded with Asterius, the manager of the Greens, to give her late husband’s job to her (unfortunately unemployed) new partner. But she was too late; Asterius, on payment of a bribe, had already given the job to another.

  With an initiative born of desperation, the mother, in a direct appeal to the ordinary members of the Greens for help in their extremity, appeared on a race day before a packed crowd in the Hippodrome, driving her three small daughters before her, their little heads crowned with chaplets of flowers, their hands held up in supplication. Never would Theodora forget her feelings of desperation and bewilderment when the Greens reacted to their appeal by bursting into roars of derisive laughter. Then, as in a state of utter humiliation and distress, mother and daughters were hurrying towards the exit, the Blues called for them to stop. The Blues’ manager then assured them he would find a job for the girls’ stepfather. No doubt the gesture was made as much from a desire to score points against their rivals, the Greens, as from compassion. But Theodora never forgot that act of spontaneous generosity, and thereafter was the Blues’ most ardent supporter, and the Greens’ bitterest enemy.

  The family’s security once more established, Theodora’s elder sister, Comito, began from the age of fifteen to make a contribution to its income, by appearing as an actress on the stage, accompanied by the twelve-year-old Theodora as her dresser. In no time, Theodora’s impish humour and gift for mimicry was convulsing audiences, and providing serious competition for the older sister. Soon, Theodora was given minor parts of her own; by sixteen, she had left Comito behind and was fast becoming the star of the theatre in her own right.

  The downside of success on the stage was that actresses were equated with prostitutes, thereby consigned to the lowest rung of the social ladder and legally forbidden to marry anyone of high rank. Indeed, at times when acting parts were hard to come by, Theodora was forced to sell her body — never a problem, as she had developed into a ravishingly beautiful, petite young woman, with huge dark eyes in an oval face, and possessed of a vivacious charm. She regarded such liaisons as purely business transactions, undertaken from necessity and performed without emotion.

  One day, a celebrated troupe of female dancers from Antioch arrived in the capital. Booked for one night only at the same theatre where Theodora was playing, their sensuous, exotic performance received tumultuous applause. As the troupe was exiting, one of the girls — a handsome brunette a few years older than Theodora — noticing the latter waiting in the wings prior to her act, signalled Theodora to join her on the stage. Puzzled yet intrigued, Theodora complied, whereupon the other, taking her by the hand, began to lead her in a dance. Theodora, who, apart from that one occasion when her mother had pleaded with the Greens in the Hippodrome, had never been embarrassed in her life, reacted with unwonted shyness. No dancer, she responded stiffly at first to the other’s guiding steps. Then, some quality of warmth or empathy — and something else she was unable to define — communicated itself. Suddenly she seemed to lose her inhibitions, and found herself moving with her partner in perfect synchrony. Faster and more abandoned grew the evolutions of the dance; Theodora began to experience a strange sense of arousal, something she had never felt before, accompanied by a warmth spreading through her loins. As the dance reached its climax, her eyes met the other girl’s. Mutual desire flashed suddenly between them, and Theodora found herself reciprocating as her partner’s eager face bent forward to approach her own. Next moment, their mouths were locking in a passionate kiss. Shaken to the core, her heart pounding madly, Theodora fled the stage, her mind in turmoil, while the theatre erupted in wild applause, mingled with ribald cheers and laughter. .

  The memory of that strange happening was slow to fade, causing Theodora at times to feel restless and filled with vague longings. Reluctantly, she put the incident to the back of her mind. It was the male sex who ran the world, she told herself; only through relationships with men could she hope to make her way in that world. A bleakly cynical philosophy? Perhaps, but one that seemed to have paid off handsomely when, one night after her turn in the theatre, she received a message in her dressing-room. If she could spare the time, a gentleman would like to meet her.

  This turned out to be one Gaius Sempronius Hecebolus, newly appointed governor of the Pentapolis. Bombastic, middle-aged, and paunchy, Hecebolus professed to be greatly impressed by Theodora’s talents. He would be honoured if she were prepared to accompany him to Cyrene, to act as hostess for the social events over which he would be expected to preside. Cyrene, home of Eratosthenes, the great mathematician who had measured the earth’s circumference, had a theatre, one of the oldest and finest in the Empire. If she wished, an opening for her to display her gifts, could be found on its stage.

  Theodora had no illusions as to the bargain being proposed. In return for a life of ease and status as a ‘governor’s lady’, she would become a courtesan. As for a role in the theatre, that was never going to happen; the social code would not permit a high-ranking official to be openly associated with an actress.

  Thus far however, Theodora had, she allowed, little cause for complaint. She had fine clothes, jewels, slaves to attend her, a beautiful home, delicious food and plenty of it (and she did love her food). All that was expected of her was to entertain guests (for which she discovered she had a natural talent), and endure the occasional sexual encounter with the governor — mostly a drunken fumble ending, as often as not, with him falling asleep before achieving penetration. So it was perhaps perverse of her, Theodora admitted to herself, that she found she missed Constantinople with all its colour, excitement, and vulgarity, despite the insecurity and privation that a life on the stage entailed. Compared to the capital, Cyrene was inexpressibly dreary — respectable, provincial, uneventful. As for Hecebolus, he was pompous and dull beyond words; having to pretend to be interested while he rambled on about tax returns or the cost of repairing the city drains, was, to her, sheer torture.

  Interminably, it seemed, the play dragged on throughout the long, hot afternoon, with the audience growing increasingly bored and restless. At last the curtain descended* for the final scene, with Antony, ridiculous in buskins and enormous helmet-plume, confronting (with scant regard for history) the freshly expired form of Cleopatra. Hand upon heart, and casting his eyes imploringly around the audience, he exclaimed, ‘Alas, what shall I do?’

  Theodora just couldn’t help herself. Displaying to the full the gift of bawdy repartee for which she had been famous in the capital, she called back, ‘Have her, while she’s warm!’

  Uttered in the tones of someone offering helpful advice, the obscenity floated into the auditorium, creating a charged and spreading silence, like concentric ripples from a stone dropped in a pool.

  Then, like a pricked bubble, all the pent-up boredom of the audience released itself in an explosive gale of laughter. Even the principales — Cyrene’s leading citizens, struggling to maintain
expressions of shocked disapproval, cracked at last. Tears streaming down their cheeks, they held their sides and howled with helpless mirth.

  Hecebolus alone, it seemed, was not amused. With a look of outraged fury, he grabbed Theodora by the wrist and hustled her from the theatre.

  ‘You foul-mouthed little guttersnipe!’ he roared, sending her reeling with a hefty slap across the face. ‘I should have known better than to take you on. Not only have you ruined the first performance of a potential literary masterpiece, you’ve made me — the governor — look a fool.’

  ‘Oh please, Gaius, don’t be angry,’ pleaded Theodora, her face stinging from the blow. The enormity of her gaffe began to register. ‘I’m sorry, truly sorry; it was thoughtless of me — unforgiveable. I swear I’ll never let you down again.’

  ‘You needn’t think you’ll get the chance! Go — I never want to see your face again!’

  ‘But you can’t just send me away, Gaius,’ protested Theodora, appalled by the prospect of sudden destitution. Where will I go?’

  ‘Not my concern. Perhaps you should have thought of that.’

  ‘My clothes, my jewels — ’

  ‘I bought them — same as I paid for everything you’ve had since you became my mistress. You’ve no claim on me. Now get out of my sight, whore, before I call the magistrates.’

  Alone, without friends, a thousand miles from the only place she knew as home, with employment on the local stage barred to her (Hecebolus would see to that), Theodora, in the only other way she knew, earned enough to keep body and soul together, plus the fare for a voyage to Alexandria. In that great metropolis she would surely find employment for her theatrical talents, and be able to save enough to return to Constantinople. Meanwhile, she swore that never again would she depend upon a man for her livelihood. In fact, from this time on, the less she had to do with men, the better.

  * In the Greek and Roman theatre the curtain rose from below, instead of falling from above, as in modern times.

  FIVE

  Though separate by nature, fire and iron come together in the one entity that

  is a red-hot ingot

  Leontius of Jerusalem, Against the Monophysites, 532

  ‘To insist that Christ has two natures — human and divine, is to deny that the Virgin Mary was the Theotokos, the Bearer of God, as Cyril, Patriarch of Alexandria, made clear at the Council of Ephesus ninety years ago.’ Irene, abbess of a remote religious community in Egypt, smiled at Theodora and sighed apologetically. ‘Forgive me, my dear; why should I assume that a lay person such as yourself should share my concerns about the true nature of Christ?’ The two women were standing at the rail of Argo — a small merchant vessel two days out from Apollonia, the port of Cyrene, and bound for Alexandria. Like other passengers, they had had to bring their own food and bedding, sleeping at night in a deck-house. This was divided down the middle by a thick canvas sheet, separating the men from the women.

  ‘But I find it all fascinating,’ insisted Theodora, who had found, rather to her surprise considering her lack of formal education, that conversations with the abbess concerning religious topics had proved intellectually stimulating. She wondered briefly if this perhaps owed something to her Hellenic heritage (both her parents were of pure Greek stock from Cyprus), which had given the world some of its greatest thinkers and mathematicians. Although the victim of a sudden and traumatic reversal of fortune, Theodora felt strangely calm, almost happy in fact, as she contemplated an uncertain future. Her decision that, following her dismissal by Hecebolus she would henceforth lead an independent life, had left her feeling somehow stronger and with her self-belief enhanced. Simultaneously, her intention to recoup her fortunes by exploiting her talents as an actress seemed to have lost much of its original appeal.

  ‘If, as you say,’ Theodora continued, ‘Mary gave birth to God, then Christ, her son, must surely be divine? Which is what I’m told the Monophysites of Syria and Egypt believe. Yet our new emperor, Justin, backed by the Patriarch of Constantinople, tells us that this view’s now heretical. It seems we must now accept the decree of the Council of Chalcedon — that Christ has two natures: a human as well as a divine one.’ Theodora gave a wry smile. ‘Confusing, to say the least.’

  ‘It’s all totally unsatisfactory,’ declared Irene, shaking her head. ‘By reviving Chalcedon — held seventy years ago under Emperor Marcian — Justin has split the Empire: north and west for Chalcedon, south and east Monophysite. Fortunately, Justin seems to have had the good sense not to push things too far. Monophysite Egypt, which, significantly, supplies the Empire with its corn, has not been targeted for persecution; and anti-Chalcedon so-called heretics have been permitted to seek refuge there.’

  ‘What an incredibly bright star,’ observed Theodora, indicating a brilliant, steady point of light on the southern horizon.

  ‘That’s no star,’ laughed Irene, standing beside the other on the Argo. ‘It’s the Pharos — the lighthouse of Alexandria; they say it has the brightest flame ever produced, on top of the tallest tower ever built.’

  The flame’s light quickly faded in the brief sub-tropical dawn, then the sun rose on a stupendous vista of turreted walls, beyond which rose a glittering frieze of domes and columns, obelisks, temples, and palaces; and in the foreground, towering impossibly high above the city’s Great Harbour, rose the fluted column of the ancient lighthouse.

  During the week-long voyage, Theodora had become firm friends with Irene, to whom she had confided her predicament. Sympathetic and nonjudgemental, and also impressed by Theodora’s keen if untutored intellect, the abbess before parting furnished the girl with a letter of introduction to Timothy, the Patriarch of Alexandria — a Monophysite sympathiser, and a wise and great-hearted man, she affirmed. The archbishop, she assured Theodora, would help her in her quest for a new direction in her life.

  After disembarking from the Eunostos Harbour, separated from the Great Harbour by the Heptastadion — an immense mole nearly two miles long, the two women exchanged fond farewells and went their separate ways: Irene to the principal post station* for the next stage of her journey, Theodora to the palace of the Patriarch.

  Theodora was thrilled and fascinated by the great metropolis, founded eight and a half centuries before, by the young Macedonian conqueror. In contrast to Constantinople, with its hills and jumble of narrow lanes, Alexandria was flat, laid out on a grid system with wide avenues and grand squares, and bisected by the Canopic Way — a magnificent hundred-foot wide promenade, reputedly the longest street in the world. This was crossed by the equally broad Argeus running north and south, the intersection of the two forming the hub of the municipal and administrative district. Everywhere among the crowds were clerics — monks, nuns, priests, ragged anchorites — many of them, Theodora suspected (remembering the words of Irene), Monophysite refugees fleeing persecution. From one, she obtained directions to the dwelling of the Patriarch, a modest villa adjoining the cathedral of St Mark.

  After waiting for an hour with others in an outer chamber, Theodora’s turn came to be admitted to the bishop’s presence. She entered a sparsely furnished tablinum or study, its lack of chairs and tables compensated for by open cupboards crammed with scrolls and codices. Timothy, a full-bearded giant exuding energy and confidence, waved her to a chair, the room’s only seat barring that occupied by the bishop himself. To Theodora’s surprise, he wore a simple priest’s robe instead of the richly embroidered vestments proper to the office of a Patriarch.

  ‘Well, it would seem my good friend Abbess Irene, our sister in Christ, has formed a high opinion of you,’ boomed Timothy, after perusing the abbess’ letter of introduction. ‘She hints that you have had a chequered past not without its share of troubles, but that now you wish to follow a fresh path in life. She maintains that despite lacking any advantages of wealth or education, you possess in your favour youth, courage, a generous heart, and an excellent mind.’ Looking up from the missive, Timothy barked, ‘None of which,
of course, will be the slightest use to you, unless you also have that most essential of ingredients — luck.’

  ‘Was it not luck, Your Holiness, that directed I should meet Irene, and thus yourself?’

  The bishop stared at Theodora, then shook his head and chuckled. ‘You may have a point. At least you’ve got a ready tongue, which counts for something, I suppose. I’m wondering how I can be of service to you.’ Shooting her a keen glance, he went on, ‘I could always recommend you to a nunnery as a postulant. Perhaps not,’ he continued hurriedly, as Theodora gave a slight shake of her head. ‘Well then — how about working as an almoner until you find your bearings? Free bed and board, plus allowance — only a tiny one, I fear.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ replied Theodora, immediately attracted by the idea of working with deprived people, helping lives less fortunate than hers.

  And so began the happiest period Theodora had thus far known in her short life — a strange, fulfilling interlude in which she discovered, through her work with the poor, a natural empathy and ability to communicate with others. Her peregrinations sometimes took her past the theatre, situated near the waterfront; somewhat to her surprise, she felt not the slightest twinge of regret or nostalgia on these occasions. From her base in the Convent of St Catherine situated in Rhakotis, a poor quarter in the west of the city, she made periodic reports to Timothy, who seemed to take a personal interest in her welfare as well as in the progress of her work. Noticing the curiosity she displayed towards his impressive collection of volumes, he gave her the freedom of his library, a privilege which afforded Theodora enormous satisfaction. She simply could not get enough of books; her keen and active mind, so long starved of knowledge, hungrily absorbed their contents as fast as she was able to unroll papyrus scrolls or turn the pages of parchment codices. Plato, Aristotle, Isocrates, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Polybius, Caesar, Tacitus, Dio Cassius, Ammianus: all were greedily devoured (Latin authors in Greek translations, for although Constantinople was a bilingual city, Theodora had but a smattering of the tongue of Cicero and Virgil). The subtle metaphysics of Christian theologians such as Athanasius or Augustine proved a tough challenge, but also a source of gratification when she found she could (mostly) unravel their complexities.