by Stella Duffy
Narses was at the door before Theodora had the chance to reply.
‘Narses—’
‘Yes?’ he answered without turning back to her.
‘You do know I didn’t kill her?’
Narses spoke quietly, his hand on the door, his face turned away. ‘I know for a fact that you didn’t kill her.’
Theodora sat alone then, looking out of the high window across the gardens and the wall to Justinian’s grand new building works on the waterfront, the scaffolding and stonemasonry that was building the City out, further into the water, into the east. She looked across the Bosphorus to where the old city of Chalcedon shimmered in the distance, wondering how well Menander had known his lover. Wondering how much Justinian really knew about Narses. Wishing now that she didn’t know him quite so well herself.
Thirty-Two
The period of mourning for Euphemia came to an end. The Emperor continued to privately grieve his wife, and took up his public duties again. Among the first of his tasks was to pass the law Euphemia had so opposed. He had never agreed with her, but nor had he wanted to anger her – there had not been many issues in their life that Euphemia had taken a stance on; the propriety of women had been one of the very few. She had always felt her own background too keenly, no matter that Justin had been clear where his concerns lay. Now she was gone, he was free to do what he felt was right. In their new world it made sense that, with a priest’s blessing, an actress might prove that she had renounced her past and could be redeemed, the law On Marriage would make that possible: what better sign could there be of the strength of true faith? This law suited the possibilities both for the new Empire and the new Church, it would do well. However, Justin wasn’t prepared to accept any old priest’s recommendation, and he wasn’t prepared to accept Timothy’s recommendation either, Patriarch of Alexandria or not. He sent his own priest to question Theodora; he was ready to accede to his nephew’s new law, as aware as Justinian that Theodora could be a valuable ally in his nephew’s future – but only when his priest had proved her repentant, only when Theodora had set the precedent for actress repentance.
Theodora sighed, pulled on another plain shift, and prepared to act the sorry sinner one more time. One last time.
Thomas had seen a lot of theatre in the past, he couldn’t tell his own leaders in faith, but he’d seen Theodora often when he was younger and he knew she was a good actress, a great one when she chose, when she wasn’t giving the scene away for the sake of a laugh. So he was prepared for a show when he came to her rooms in the Palace, and he set out his terms very clearly. Yes, she could certainly be forgiven – but not without true penitence. As he said at their first meeting, and then again at their second, third, fourth and was now saying, yet again, at their fifth. Theodora was doing her best to remain patient, but it wasn’t easy. Partly because his tone was more condescending than she had expected from a priest barely three years older than herself, partly because this priest barely three years older than herself was even better looking than the lovely Belisarius.
‘I have suffered, I am repentant, believe me.’
Theodora kept her eyes downcast, waited for him to speak before she spoke again.
‘So you say, and while I don’t doubt you believe you’re sorry – for your sins, for the pain that your soul has been through for them and, understandably, fearful of death and being cast out – I have to wonder if you are actually penitent. Penitence and remorse are not at all the same things.’
‘How stupid do you think I am? Do you think I haven’t listened to a word you’ve said?’ The anger was out of Theodora’s mouth before she could stop it and she kicked herself. She’d been working this priest for days now, sure he was almost about to make the leap, grant his permission, and here he was, causing her to shout like a child. She closed her eyes, and forced herself to kneel at his side in apology. ‘I should not have shouted.’
‘No.’
‘And I know you understand the intricacies of penitence better than I.’
‘I do.’
There was silence. Thomas was waiting. Theodora hated this. The show of shame, forcing herself to fit the image of the penitent. From Menander to Hecebolus, Severus and even Timothy, all these men, always wanting her to bow down. Justinian was the only one who ever seemed content to have her stand beside him. Thomas was right, she wasn’t sorry, not in the way the new law would have her be. She wasn’t penitent in the way he required either – open about her faults, ashamed of her past, of the things she had been through – but she was doing what she had to, because the Emperor asked it of her and because it would make all the difference. She was on her knees, going through the tedious motions, to finally have the priest agree she was good enough now, that her past was forgiven, that she could move on.
It should all have been easy, really, Theodora should have been able to summon up a flood of tears, a chaste and embarrassed smile, a look of sincere regret: she’d learned those skills well enough from Menander. The problem was, she’d never fancied Menander, or Timothy – not beyond his lovely voice anyway. While she could absolutely see herself as Justinian’s wife, and of course she knew everything she was now going through would be worth it in the end, there was the unfortunate matter of her attraction to this priest. And it was hard to expose herself, her true feelings, her real soul to a man she felt for. Harder still because he, quite obviously, was also attracted to Theodora.
Unlike many of his brothers in the clergy, Thomas not only publicly espoused celibacy but had also chosen to live the celibate life in truth. He knew exactly what he was dealing with in taking on this job, the temptation he was placing in his own path as well as hers. In some ways that was why he’d agreed to take her on: to test himself as much as her. So far, though, Thomas was winning. In Theodora he recognised a wilful spirit and a daring ambition. He recognised it because he had both himself and, while he admitted he had not yet fully tamed his own vaulting ambition, he was now in control of the spirit. Which was why he also saw that Theodora was not in control of her spirit. Why he understood her to be remorseful, not penitent. Sorry, but not yet ready to sacrifice. Why he didn’t believe her for a moment when she said the lusts of her past were not only entirely behind her, but also abhorrent to her. And why, having suffered the enormous privations he himself had undergone in order to renounce his own past life, and then again to enter the priesthood, he had absolutely no intention of letting her off easily.
The priest maintained his silence and eventually Theodora cracked, as he knew she would, as she knew she had to. Thomas after all, held all the power in this room.
She groaned, rubbed her face.
He said nothing.
‘Come on, Thomas, you know how hard this is.’
‘And I know how much it matters.’
‘Of course it matters, Justinian cares enormously …’
‘No, not for your potential marriage, if you get that far. For you, Theodora, for your soul.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘yes, my soul. As you keep saying. But please … can’t you just … I don’t know, trust me? I’ve told you enough of what happened in Antioch, in the desert – you know I have faith. And I’ll make a great Palace wife. I’ll be good. I’ll do everything they expect of me and more. You know I’ll be good at it.’
‘Pride again?’
She wanted to scream, spoke softly instead. ‘Would it be so wrong to be proud of being a good wife?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘It would be better to simply be a good wife and leave pride out of it entirely.’
Theodora started to get up and Thomas stopped her with a single gesture, one raised finger sending her back down on her knees. She complied. Her years of training meant that she felt the sharp sting of the stone floor digging into her kneecaps, but was perfectly capable of refusing to let him see it.
Kneeling, she tried again. ‘Look, it’s just show you want from me. Show of sorrow and show of penitence and show of remorse. I tell you the word
s, the truth, but that’s not enough. You want me on my knees, in tears, wailing.’
Thomas waited. He considered her words, this strong woman at his feet. He weighed his own feelings, questioned himself as to why he kept her there: was it truly for her own redemption or was there something else here, too much, that he enjoyed himself ? He waited until that sensation had passed, until he was more priest than man, and then he waited longer still, to make sure that when he spoke his words got through.
Fifty minutes later, when still she knelt beside him, with not even the slightest sign of giving in, Thomas began to speak, very softly, choosing his words with great deliberation. He needed to say this perfectly.
‘You complain that true penitence requires show, and yet you are not willing to show me the physical pain you must be in right now.’ She nodded, started to speak, he stopped her. ‘No. You speak too well. I think maybe you do it all too well for your own good. Theodora, we all have a sin to which we return time after time. Your sin is pride. It shines from you.’ He omitted to say that this particular shine was one of her loveliest attributes. Theodora’s pride in what she had come through, in her own strength, was perfectly understandable, yet it was still a sin, and it was his job to help her change. He went on, ‘Any other penitent would have been begging me to allow them off their knees by now, confessing countless sins, real and imagined, simply so I would allow them to stretch their aching muscles and ease the pain that must now be shooting through you, but you stay here and you bear it. You endure physical pain, as I imagine some of the martyrs must have done, taking it into themselves, absorbing it. But those martyrs were already penitent, they had already bowed down. You are too fond of your own strength, just as you have been too fond of your skills, your abilities on stage and off. I know your faith is strong, and who am I to discount the blessing given you in the desert? What is vital, though, is that you allow yourself to be less strong than your faith. You are the first sinner I have ever met not to cry, not really, and until you are prepared to show me the deepest part of your soul, then I cannot deem you worthy of Justinian. There is every chance he may rise higher still, I will not provide him with a less than perfect partner. There is no point in false penitence. God is not fooled.’
Theodora nodded. She understood exactly what he was asking for. She looked up at the priest, revealed. ‘You want me to show you my pain, Thomas?’
‘I want you to give in.’
Theodora gave in. She told him of Menander and Hecebolus and the dreams of her father’s death, of her regrets about her daughter, how she had still not created the relationship she had promised to try to achieve, she told him of her fear and her sorrow. She cried. When she was done, he was satisfied. He told the Emperor she was a good woman, and their test case with the new law was a true penitent. And Theodora told Narses that if and when Justinian ever became Emperor, he had better get that young priest out of the City before the purple was on her back, or Thomas would be the one in pain. A week later Thomas was on a ship to the Holy Land.
Theodora was preparing to marry Justinian, a man she felt no passion for though she was very fond of him, but still a good man who, through Timothy and Narses and his own connivance, was about to change her life beyond imagining. The priest Thomas knew her well now, but Theodora knew herself better. She didn’t want Thomas’s lovely face – or his knowledge of her past – getting in the way.
Thirty-Three
Permission was granted for Justinian to marry Theodora, the wedding date was set, the City was thrilled with the news, theatregoers were delighted, street traders praised the equality of hope in the City and therefore the Empire, Greens were disgruntled, Blues gloated, and in the newest wing of her mansion that was palatial in appearance if not in fact, Juliana Anicia seethed in well-bred rage. This particular news thrilled Theodora more than she had expected, not least because it was Justinian who shared the information with her, and their slightly shamed, largely gleeful complicity at Juliana’s chagrin was a new step forward for the couple. While Theodora was as aware as the next woman that marriage was a business transaction, she knew they would work better as a team if they were also friends. Sharing pleasure in Juliana Anicia’s pain was something they could easily do together: both felt slighted by the old woman, and – unlike the elaborate wedding plans Theodora was now creating with Narses, all designed to present a coupled and successful Justinian to the City – this joy was consciously present, not some time in the future. Better still, it was theirs, not part of a strategy drawn up by Narses or Timothy or the leader of the Blues, come to ask for another favour. With all too much of her life feeling as if it were part of someone else’s greater plan, Theodora was keen to enjoy the moments that existed solely in themselves. She and her betrothed giggled like nasty children at their own impressions of Juliana’s face when she heard their happy announcement, felt guilty, straightened their faces, and then giggled again.
Elsewhere in the City other friends were expressing their pleasure for the couple. Comito said she was delighted for her little sister. She said so in meetings at the theatre when Theodora’s name – and newly patrician status – came up, she said so in post-show parties when other singers and actors were happily getting drunk and Comito was holding back, ever careful of the voice. She said so when strangers in the street asked her when she was going to marry a senator herself, and she hurried off to rehearsals not bothering to answer, not answering because she simply didn’t know what to say. Comito now made a very good living from her voice, she had not had to trade in her own body for long, and mostly she preferred to behave as if that part of her youth had simply not existed. Theodora’s public renunciation of her theatrical past, becoming patrician – even this new law that was being passed in order to allow her to marry the Consul – it was wonderful for Theodora, but all it did for Comito was bring up her own past, while simultaneously denying the value of her present. The elder sister had worked hard to craft the respect she’d been granted – a singer not an actress, a lady if not by birth then by demeanour, welcome in many of the most respectable homes. Now Theodora had come home and, as so often in their childhood, had taken both the attention and the glory in one swift move, and what was especially galling was that she had also managed to gain respect. In private, Comito did not say she was happy for her little sister.
Sophia thought it was hilarious. The idea that her old friend, stage companion, and occasional lover – though perhaps she’d have to shut her mouth about that now – was headed for marriage with Justinian made her snort with laughter. Even more insanely funny that, according to the last senator she’d shagged, and also the general before him, Justinian was now certain to reach the highest office possible. Having seen him at a distance, Sophia thought Justinian seemed far too staid to please Theodora for long, even if he intended to try, and that definitely wasn’t the way of most rulers. But, as she said to anyone who’d listen, usually when she’d had an extra jug of wine, Theodora wasn’t blind to the possibilities of Justinian’s future, even if she was blind to the heavy jowls and portly frame of the Slav – purple was an astonishing colour, it could hide any number of physical failings.
Antonina was delighted. She had become still closer to Theodora recently, and now the word from the Senate was that all the right voices were speaking in praise of Justinian, in closed as well as open rooms. She knew a deeper friendship with Theodora would do her husband the world of good. Belisarius was too honourable for his own career, Antonina would take charge where she had to.
Three pretty voices, each singing a different song of pleasure at Theodora’s unheard-of advance, each crowing horror and laughter when Theodora told them she was preparing to marry a man she had not yet slept with.
‘Fair enough. He’s hardly in your usual league.’ Sophia helped herself to another glass of wine, pushing aside the hovering servant, preferring to serve herself, not through any altruistic concerns, more because the skinny girl was so sparing in her pouring.
‘It’s probably right, isn’t it? You’ve been recreated as a patrician, now they can recreate you as a virgin bride.’ Comito couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from her voice, but she almost managed to make it sound as if she thought it was amusing rather than really very irritating.
It was Antonina who made the most salient point. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s a way to go yet. I know everyone’s agreed and all the plans are under way, but really, anything could still happen. Wouldn’t it be safer to get pregnant between now and the wedding? It’s only six weeks away and whatever happens, you do want to be sure to keep his patronage.’
The other two women fell about laughing at this, though Sophia agreed Antonina had a point.
‘I might not become pregnant.’ Theodora did not elaborate. She shared a great deal with her friends, with her sister – though Comito was usually less interested than the others – but she did not want to share this. What she knew about her time in the desert was far too dangerous to reveal. Justinian might believe she was everything he needed in a wife, someone who would please the masses in a way he never could, who could help him create the semblance of, if not a real, union between warring Church factions, who truly understood his belief in the potential of a new, restored Empire, one Church, one state – but no one would allow him to marry a barren woman, and Theodora knew they would be right to take such a stand. Germanus made no secret of his hopes for the purple, no matter that everyone knew Justin himself preferred Justinian for the succession. It would be an entirely different matter if Justinian’s wife were unable to conceive. Theodora had no intention of letting this particular secret become even whispered knowledge. If it were true that she could no longer bear a child, then it would show itself plainly enough with time, there was no need to ruin everything with honesty now.
Antonina continued, ‘You might not become pregnant immediately, none of us are as young as we used to be—’