Theodora

by Stella Duffy

  ‘Only once we’ve finished the good stuff.’

  ‘Of course. The point is, they’d hate us whoever we were. If you were as chaste as the Virgin they’d hate you for speaking better formal Greek than they’ll ever possess …’

  ‘And Latin.’

  ‘Just.’

  ‘I could stumble through a court paper if I had to.’

  ‘I’m sure you could, though God knows why you’d want to.’

  ‘To help you?’

  He ruffled her hair, a gesture he didn’t care that she loathed. ‘You take care of the house, I’ll look after the court papers.’

  She smiled. Having heard Hecebolus’ own stilted court Latin she was sure she’d be able to use the language of state far better than he: perhaps not in the perfectly phrased and parsed terms necessary, but certainly with far more skill in oration. It wouldn’t do, though, to let him know she thought so.

  ‘The problem is, girl, they think we’re snobs, and we think they’re peasants.’

  ‘They are peasants.’

  ‘And we’re probably snobs too.’

  Theodora shook her head. ‘Not me. You might be, with your fancy degree.’

  ‘Bollocks, you actors are the worst snobs of all, you watch your audiences and judge them from your first day backstage.’

  She had to admit he was right. ‘Maybe, but I didn’t have years studying in Berytus …’

  ‘All the better to understand their small provincial minds.’

  ‘They call me your concubine.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘And your whore.’

  ‘Oh no, that would require payment, we’re far too civilised for that.’

  ‘Aren’t we just?’ She pressed her body harder against his.

  ‘I really should get to work …’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Her voice was more insistent as his body acceded, then she leaned back to smile at him. ‘I do have a price, of course.’

  He grinned. ‘Whore.’

  ‘Cock.’ She smiled back.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  She nodded, beginning to move her body very slowly in rhythm with his.

  ‘So, this price?’ He groaned as he spoke, the deputy forgotten, his papers ignored.

  ‘Fire the rudest of them.’

  ‘Which is that?’

  ‘The household clerk.’

  ‘He’s the most skilled of the lot.’

  ‘And the nastiest. I’ll find someone better.’

  ‘It’s a high price.’

  ‘I’m a good whore.’

  She could feel his mouth stretch into a smile as she stroked his face with her spare hand.

  ‘Ah fuck it,’ he laughed, ‘Done.’

  ‘Good.’

  Eleven

  The fiercer excesses of summer, and then the autumn equinox passed, the ferocious winds that screamed through the narrow streets faded to a low hum, a breeze that on a good day – very good day – might almost be called gentle. The Jews were preparing to celebrate their harvest festival, those who still spoke to the old gods in private honoured Cerelia as quietly as they could, and Theodora relaxed into the comfortable warmth of the dark North African evenings, aware that back in the City a sharp chill would already be invading from the north.

  Following just a little more verbal, and much more physical persuasion, the arrogant clerk was fired and Theodora persuaded Hecebolus to employ a young eunuch to run the household. With Chrysomallo, the three of them made a good team. Ambitious himself, Armeneus had no interest in Theodora’s reputation beyond the famous people she knew and might one day help him meet. Two years younger than his new mistress, but far less worldly, he saw her as a tutor and a step on a ladder. For her part, Theodora was probably the first woman Armeneus had met who didn’t mock him for his castrated status, who understood that somewhere between man and woman could be a place of value, of understanding. She didn’t care if he wanted to use her; if anything, she appreciated his honesty – it was nice to have someone around who understood the way of the world and wasn’t afraid to acknowledge it.

  *

  The three of them set to making the Governor’s dwelling less like a barracks and more like a home. Theodora taught the cook new recipes, both those that were simple but well loved from the City and others from her lover’s Levantine homeland, so similar to the recipes she remembered Hypatia’s grandmother making. She had not been interested in learning them as a child – Theodora realised very early on she wasn’t interested in housewifery – but now she racked her memory and, true to the teaching Menander had beaten into her, the recipes arrived at the forefront of her mind, like a clean scene from a just-learned script, added to performance in half an hour or less. Armeneus trawled the markets for new fabrics – not the delicious silks Theodora really wanted, the Governor’s purse did not stretch to that, but there was fine cotton from Egypt, vibrant dyes from Mauretania to the west and Libya to the south. Theodora and Chrysomallo combined their theatrical skills so that within a few months the house had at least a semblance of elegance. Like any set, the image lasted only as long as the light was soft, the cracks and joins all too obvious in bright light. Fortunately, partial illumination was all the local windows afforded.

  Theodora created the ideal setting for her new relationship and, for a time, both lovers played their parts well. In the end, that was their problem. The role of Governor and the role of his beloved – the woman who runs a fine home and takes care of her high-achieving man, the successful concubine who plays the part of wife so well she practically is his wife – this was the best Theodora could hope for. She had always known she could never marry Hecebolus, she could only ever act the part. Eventually even the star of the Kynegion and Hippodrome became bored with just the one role. Eventually even Hecebolus from the Levant became bored with just the one woman.

  This did not happen immediately.

  What happened first was that Hecebolus was called on to entertain a bishop. As far as he was concerned, it was utterly inappropriate to have any woman at table with a bishop, let alone his mistress.

  Theodora did not see it that way. ‘Hecebolus, I’m good with clergy.’

  Chrysomallo, darning Hecebolus’ only good cloak, smiled to herself where she sat in the one well-lit corner of the sitting room, passing her needle through fine linen, joining broken threads.

  ‘No,’ Hecebolus said. ‘You’re good with shagging clergy and making them think it’s fine because in some way they’re redeeming you, so they don’t have to feel utterly damned the morning after.’

  ‘Oh, I told you that?’ Theodora asked, hearing the coda of one of her own stories repeated back to her.

  Chrysomallo raised an eyebrow. Theodora had always had a big mouth.

  ‘You did. With actions. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  The lovers nodded to each other, each with the pleasant memory as a brief distraction, then Hecebolus went on, ‘But even if you hadn’t, I’d know it to be true, hypocrites the lot of them, wasting all this time and money deciding the true nature of the Christ when it’s beyond them to know anyway, sinful as they are.’

  ‘Sinful as we all are, we can still discuss divinity, surely?’ Theodora answered back. ‘Wasn’t that one of the main points in the break from the Jews? The break from their priests?’

  Hecebolus looked at her, shaking his head. ‘For a tart, you really are very naive sometimes.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Back there in the City, you all see the faith as such a simple thing, this or that, heresy or truth, one nature or two, belief or not.’

  ‘I never said I was a believer.’

  ‘No, and I’ve seen you light candles and offer incense to any number of midnight deities that I suspect have very little to do with the Mother of God …’

  ‘Oh that’s all superstition, ideas from my mother, my grandmother, it doesn’t mean anything, every actor does it.’

  ‘I’m not asking, I don’t care.
I’ve never had any real faith myself, not beyond the daily, weekly observance. I’m a clerk turned soldier turned petty Governor, and the only reason I ever did any of that was because my father insisted on giving the business solely to my brother and he didn’t want to share it with me.’ Hecebolus smiled. ‘Do you have any idea how long it takes for the Imperial Purple to rinse from the fingers of a child who has no business near the dye vats?’ She shook her head. ‘My father tanned my hide that day, but I lay in bed for the next fortnight examining my purple hands as if they might have the spark of Empire in them …’ He shook his head. ‘I had hoped this posting might be a stepping-stone, but already it’s clear they’re just using me, as they always have – our leaders, our betters. I’m never going to rise as high as I once wanted, it’s obvious here. These past months have been a hard lesson, but I’ve taken it in. You’re just going to have to accept it too.’

  ‘Accept what? That all this wind is wearing down your ambition? Or is it just the fucking that’s making you too tired to bother? Because it would be easy to sort that.’

  Hecebolus was hurt then, that she didn’t seem to understand how much it cost him to admit he wouldn’t go much further. ‘I know my truths. You’re the one who needs to learn. You are who you are, Theodora. That won’t change.’

  ‘I’ve made this home, I’ve taught your cook, employed the right staff …’

  She began to protest and he shook his head. ‘Those things are pleasant, that’s all. I don’t care about any of that. Well no, I do, I like that the walls have better hangings on them, I’m delighted the food is palatable now, I think whoever the artist is that you got to cover over those horrible old mosaics with the new fresco is a genius. But those are trappings, what matters is you and me. And I don’t have any problem admitting the truth of who we are, who you are. You are the smartest woman I know, will ever know. But Theodora, you know as well as I do, it doesn’t matter how bright you are: unless you are my wife, you cannot sit at table with the Bishop.’

  She knew she was speaking the impossible and said it anyway. ‘So make me your wife.’

  ‘I would if I could change the law.’

  ‘Really?’

  He shrugged in reply, his second-best cloak falling in great folds about his shoulders and Theodora noticed for the first time how tired he looked, how his hair seemed to have greyed since their arrival. They both knew that neither meant exactly what they said. Theodora still hoped to do better than Hecebolus, Hecebolus was still sure he could do better than her, there was still a bishop coming for dinner, and Chrysomallo sat sewing silently in the corner.

  The meal progressed smoothly at first. The fish was fresh, the bread baked to a City rather than local recipe, the meats perfectly tender, the wine watered just enough to hide its immature acidity but not so much that the guests did not relax. Relaxation led to chat, chat led to discussion, and discussion – invariably, inevitably – led to the nature of the Christ.

  The chief of the First Regiment started it, nodding across the table at the Bishop and asking, ‘Tell me, Bishop, now I’ve eaten everything on my plate, would you say the meal and I were still two, or are we now one?’

  Several of the men around the table grinned: like most soldiers they enjoyed a little clergy-baiting. Hecebolus was less pleased. While he was as interested as the next noncommittal Christian in the subject of the Christ’s divinity, he knew the Bishop to be staunchly anti-Chalcedonian, as were most of the North African faithful, believing the Christ was purely divine. He also knew that these Macedonian and Thracian soldiers were more likely to support the Council of Chalcedon belief espoused by the new Emperor Justin – equally certain that the Christ was of two natures, divine and human. He had no wish to offend the Bishop, but nor did he want to antagonise the military with whom he had to work every day.

  ‘I really don’t think we need to discuss divinity yet—’

  He was interrupted by the Bishop, who knew a challenge when he heard one and was more than happy to take it. ‘Given, sir,’ he replied, addressing himself to the thread-veined Thracian captain opposite but making sure he had everyone’s clear attention, ‘how little you have eaten and how very much more drunk, I’d say the question is rather whether or not you have, indeed, committed some sin yourself, in drowning the food before it even had a chance to become one with your own nature?’

  While there was laughter at the captain’s expense, there was an even louder retort from a grain exporter at the other end of the table that the Bishop’s reply was no more than a classic case of clergy dodging the real subject and concentrating on minor matters, ‘As your lot always will when there’s any chance of a confrontation.’

  At which point the Bishop slammed his cup down on the table, spilling barely watered wine on his own plate and soaking half a loaf of uneaten bread.

  ‘Oi! Bishop!’ shouted a second military man, waiting for everyone else to quieten so his words would be better heard. ‘There’s no need to go wasting good wine, or good bread for that matter, first time I’ve had real bread in months.’

  ‘I didn’t … I’m not …’ The Bishop tried to mop up the mess in front of him, ashamed to be accused of wastefulness in anger.

  The soldier continued, ‘We’re all grown men, we’re perfectly capable of remembering Him with our own bread and wine, however many natures we believe in, you don’t have to go mixing good bread and better wine to a soggy paste to prove your point.’

  The Bishop spluttered, the military applauded each other, the exporter began arguing with the merchant trader about which made more sense, the Greek translations of the latest one-nature texts, or the Syriac originals, and Hecebolus watched the first dinner he had hosted as Governor of the Pentapolis begin its descent from an elegant soirée to the North African equivalent of a drunken brawl, the kind he could see any Saturday night in the City’s own harbours.

  Armeneus came into the room. Leaning close to his master’s ear so the warring guests would not hear, he whispered, ‘The Mistress would like a word, sir.’

  ‘Not now, bitch, can’t you see there’s more to concern me here?’

  While Hecebolus was keen to ape the Imperial Palace in as many areas as possible, his provincial upbringing showed in his distaste for the eunuch, whom he privately considered an abomination. Usually he was able to keep his dislike in check, but the passion in the room was too close to boiling point for him to be careful of Armeneus’ feelings. The Bishop was ready to storm out, the army captains appeared to have turned on each other now they’d had their fill of attacking the prelate, and far from using the meal to broker better deals, the merchant captain and the exporter were halfway through a long-winded argument about the best of the hidden passages on the silk route.

  Armeneus looked at the men ranged before him and sighed in disgust; clearly their intact balls didn’t ensure any greater ability to behave well in company. ‘Sir, the Mistress understands the difficulty.’ It was already in his mouth to add that the whole street understood the problem, they’d been listening to it at full pitch for the past hour, but he remembered his own elegance and swallowed the jibe, whispering in a low and careful voice, ‘She and Chrysomallo have a suggestion.’

  Theodora would entertain the men. In the corridor outside the dining room she hissed to Hecebolus that anything was better than what was developing on the other side of the door. He had to agree. Chrysomallo would sing, Armeneus had a small harp and could add a tune or two, Theodora would dance. She’d make it up as she went along. If the guests would shut up and pay attention she might even give them one of her more famous scenes. At that, Hecebolus glared at her and Armeneus paid still closer attention. Theodora told them both to run away, she’d done with the geese. She meant one of the big speeches, Helen or Cassandra or Clytemnestra.

  ‘Though the way that lot are carrying on, if you don’t let me get in there and calm things down soon, I might as well give them Agave and set them to tearing each other apart.’

  Hece
bolus knew she was right. At the very least her appearance would be a distraction, and Chrysomallo had a perfectly adequate voice to go with her pretty face and beautiful hair. He agreed. Then Theodora added that she did have a price.

  ‘Of course you do, once a whore always a whore.’

  Armeneus sucked in his breath, Chrysomallo gasped and Theodora stepped back in shock. Hecebolus shook his head. ‘Oh, don’t be so fucking delicate. I’m not saying it in front of that lot in there, but we know where we come from, let’s not be coy about it.’

  Theodora said nothing, simply gathered up her cloak and turned away from her lover.

  ‘Theo! Come back. Look, I’m sorry. All right? Sorry.’

  She stopped, but did not turn around.

  Hecebolus sighed. ‘Theotokos spare me! All right. What is it? What’s your price?’

  Theodora turned slowly, raised her head to look at him square in the eyes, staring down the man well over a foot taller than her. She spoke quietly so he had to come closer and stoop to hear. She wanted Hecebolus to introduce her to the Bishop before he left the house.

  ‘He won’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘I know he probably won’t, but you didn’t expect him to get into a fight with the captain either, did you? Maybe he has other surprises as well. Maybe he likes to talk divinity with actresses. Bishops often do, in my experience. I am not asking that you force him to speak with me, merely that you request he consider the matter. I’ll distract your vile guests whatever his answer, just give him the chance to say no. To say yes.’

  The sound of a copper platter clattering to the ground in the next room made up his mind. Hecebolus shook his head and gave in.

  Chrysomallo began singing with no introduction. From a dark corner of the room, quietly at first, came the opening chant that called the audience to attention, bringing latecomers to their seats, silencing – a little – the vendors selling cold drinks and spiced foods. It was a tune many men at the table had heard in the theatres of the City, and for those who didn’t know what they were hearing, it was clear from the repetitive notes on a rising scale that something was about to happen.