The Colour of power: A story of Theodora, Empress of Byzantium
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He turned and went on his unremarked way through the corridors of power. There would be feasting. He had work to do.
Part 4: A long way home AD 518-520
Chapter 13: Pictures
Time passed. After a while Denderis came to report. “The Governor has recovered consciousness,” he announced. “His mind seems clear, he remembers everything. No confusion. No permanent harm.”
Theodora exhaled a long, quivering breath.
“There now!” said Marcellina. “As I expected. Is it safe outside, Denderis?”
“I’ll send an escort, Kyria. But the word is that the rioters have been jailed and the fires are dying down. Order has been restored. Things are under control.”
“Well, in that case I’ll be going home. I’ll have a tired husband tonight.”
The major-domo saw Marcellina off. He did his best to avoid his mistress, but Theodora cornered him. “Denderis,” she said, “What did that man mean, one of the living dead? What was he talking about?”
The eunuch avoided her eyes.
“You must tell me.”
“It’s just … a manner of speaking. No such thing, really, of course, I mean …”
“Denderis!” A sharp tone of command.
He sighed. “Kyria, it’s a reference to the top ranks of soldiers. The ones that receive the best pay. When they die, their deaths are not reported to Constantinople. So the opportunities for promotion are limited. And the lower ranks are resentful.”
“And the dead soldiers’ pay is pocketed? Is that right?”
“Yes, Kyria.”
“It goes to the same officials who share the excess taxes demanded locally?”
“Yes, Kyria.”
“The Governor knows this?”
Silence.
“Denderis, speak to me. He knows this?”
His face soured and his mouth worked. “The Governor not only knows, the Governor benefits,” he said, spitting out the words. “Benefits greatly. As does the audit officer. And those who sell what passes for justice in the local courts. Furthermore, anyone who seeks a civil post must buy it. At a stiff price. This palace, this life of luxury, is founded on graft and corruption and it stinks.” He stopped, suddenly aghast at his own words. “Kyria, forgive me, please forgive me, I …” He pressed a trembling hand against his lips, as if to hold back a regurgitation of bitter fluid, as if struggling to master revulsion and replace it with the stoic acceptance of servility.
Theodora stared at him, horrified. Spite, she thought. He said those things out of spite. She had noticed that eunuchs were often spiteful. She had no option but to pretend that she did not credit the damning indictment. She was not a slave as he was, but she was equally powerless. Both of them were dependent for survival on the man he had condemned. Both of them knew this, as they stood grimly face to face. She drew a deep breath and gathered her dignity as she might have drawn a cloak around her against a chill breeze. “You are excused,” she said. “This conversation never happened.”
“Yes, Kyria. Thank you, Kyria.” He scuttled away.
Now her eyes and ears were open and she saw and heard details that had passed her by before. Like the tesserae that made up a mosaic, a picture grew before her watchful eyes. A picture that she could not admire. Yet she tried hard to find excuses. Perhaps, she thought, she did not know everything. She told herself that one needed to know more before one could judge.
Juliana learned to sit up and then to crawl. Then she began to walk unsteadily while holding on to pieces of furniture. This she did with frowning determination. Whenever her fat little legs gave out and made her sit down abruptly, she doggedly struggled up again. Everybody adored her, especially Denderis. She called him Den, and would not sleep at night until he had sung to her, mournful lullabies from his native country, Armenia. His voice was a clear, true baritone. Juliana would suck her thumb and her black-lashed eyes, golden-brown like river water, would soon droop. Denderis noted Theodora’s look of surprise the first time she heard him sing.
“No, Kyria,” he answered her unspoken question. “Not all eunuchs have high voices. Only those unmanned before puberty.”
“Were you taken in battle, then?” asked Theodora. She knew that military conquests were the source of many a slave, some of whom later became freedmen.
“No, Kyria. I am one of those sold by their parents to become officials, especially at the royal court. We do not have the familial bonds that normal men have – no wives, no children. Therefore fewer distractions and no divided loyalties. And …”
Juliana opened her eyes wide and removed her thumb. “Sing!” she ordered. “Sing!”
“Yes, poppet. And … and …” He swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Yes, I know. No reason for jealousy.”
“So, since we are a third sex, as it were, we can be allowed to work closely with women. It is assumed that normal passions and desires … and … and … dreams … have been … excised … along with our testicles.”
“Sing!” came the imperious little voice.
He leaned over the small cot and sang the mournful Armenian song that so enchanted her.
Theodora took stock. Here she was, well positioned, high in local society. Yet her perch was precarious. She would have to work hard to enchant Hecebolus once again, she thought. Perhaps he had found willing partners elsewhere while she was heavy with child. But she would make him look at her, make him see how desirable she still was, how indispensable, how delightful. She would make him see that she was the perfect governor’s lady.
She knew that her physical appearance was her most potent charm. First of all, she thought, it was essential that she should regain her compact little figure. It should be as shapely, elegant, toned and burnished as that of the most expensive of race-horses. All her considerable determination was focused on this aim. She ate little and rubbed her body assiduously with oil and unguents to restore the skin recently stretched by pregnancy. She found a room where she could practise the acrobatic bends and tumbles that had once come so easily. At first this made her stiff and sore, and she suffered some painful falls, but she persevered. She intended to be even more lithe and lissome, more poised and graceful than she had been before.
She massaged raw eggs into her scalp and then washed her hair, still long and jet black, with scented rainwater. Her handmaiden was ordered to brush her tresses tirelessly, a hundred strokes morning and night, until they shone like the skin of an otter sliding through a dark river.
Still Hecebolus treated her like a housekeeper. “Theodora, tonight we entertain some very important grain merchants. Large contracts are at stake. Take extra trouble.”
“Yes, Hecebolus.” And tonight, she thought, you’ll notice me again. You’ll see me. You’ll desire me. I’ll make sure of that. Love has died between us, but lust may be potent still.
Her exclusive little dinners were always models of superb hospitality, but that day she conferred with Denderis to find and prepare especially exotic dishes. The palace chefs laboured over the menu: saffron-flavoured seafood soup with plump mussels and baby octopi, crunchy dormice, lamb’s tongues stewed with apples, chestnuts and rosemary, a smoked haunch of wild boar studded with dates, roast peacocks marinated in sweet wine, stuffed with forcemeat, onions and garlic, served with a savoury fish sauce. Jewel-like jellies quivering amid fresh fruits. Figs simmered in honey. Fresh cream. Fat golden cheeses. The very best wine, a sparkling distillation of prize grapes.
Theodora had done everything she could to recreate the exquisite small person who had won the Governor’s regard. She had had a special dress made of peacock blue and gold brocade, to remind Hecebolus of the first night he had spent with her. With it she would wear the heavy gold chain that had been his gift. The gleaming black coil of hair atop her poised head was skewered with a couple of long, jewelled pins.
“Kyria does not require powder,” said the slave set to pounding chalk. “Kyria is so beautifully pale already.”
She judged it to have been one of her most successful dinners. And indeed, Hecebolus did not wish her goodnight and depart to his own suite of rooms as he had lately done; he followed her to hers just as she had planned. She sent her women away. The room was warm and fragrant. Moonlight spilled through the windows and formed pools of bluish light.
Hecebolus stood behind her, holding her arms. She quivered as she leaned back against his chest. “So,” he muttered into her hair. “The Governor’s lady had a most enjoyable evening.”
“I thought … everyone enjoyed it,” she said. “The food was very good. Wasn’t it?”
“And the hostess was most gracious.” His grip on her upper arms intensified.
“I … I did my best. You told me to take extra trouble.”
“Extra trouble. Yes, you were utterly charming. Especially to that posturing Alexios.”
“I thought … he seems … a major player in the grain business,” she faltered. “You said there were important contracts at stake.”
“That doesn’t mean that you have to sleep with him,” said Hecebolus. “You haven’t agreed to that, have you? Have you?” His tensed fingers dug into her arms so hard that she almost yelped with pain.
“Of course not … I wouldn’t … I would never …”
“Ah, but you have,” he said. “You have been for sale. Is he a higher bidder? I saw the two of you, heads together. Is he a higher bidder? Is he?”
“No!” shouted Theodora. “I’m your … I’m your … I’m going to be your wife! I’ve been completely faithful, I’ve … borne your child! Hecebolus, you’re hurting me!”
“You’ll open your legs for him, if he just pays enough. I know you. You are a prostitute, up for the best price.” He spun her around to face him. “What did he offer?”
“I’ll never be bought again,” said Theodora, as furious tears spilled over her cheeks. “Never. I have sworn it. No man will ever, ever buy me again. Unlike you. You take bribes, and kick-backs … you sell contracts, positions, legal judgements … I’ve watched you operate. I’ve seen where your riches come from. You’re a fine one to call anybody a prostitute!”
He slapped her face. Twice. The backhand swipe with a signet ring drew blood. She staggered, tasting salt.
“Apologise,” ordered Hecebolus. He loomed over her. Grabbed an arm, bent it back and upwards. Pain tore at her shoulder. She screamed.
“Apologise,” said Hecebolus.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m … sorrreeee!” Agony snatched her breath away.
“Say, ‘I don’t know what I’m talking about.’ Say it.”
“Oww. Oh, oh, owwww!”
“Say it.”
“I don’t. Know. What I’m talking about,” she gasped.
“I don’t understand government.”
“I don’t. Understa … and. Owwwww.”
He flung her down on the bed. She lay sprawled, almost faint with pain. Hecebolus sat down beside her and reached out to remove the pins from her hair. She flinched away from him. “You wouldn’t put the horns on me?” he demanded. “Would you?”
“No, no, never.”
“You had other men. Other lovers.”
“Only … only Darius Pollo,” she said. “Only him. You know that.”
“I’m the Governor,” he said. “I must be respected.”
“I respect you,” she whispered, rubbing her aching shoulder. “Everyone … everyone respects you. Truly.”
He had undone her hair. It was a silken black coverlet that slid over her powdered shoulders. He gathered up a handful and sniffed it. “Mmm. Well, you were a picture tonight. So little, so pale, so delicate …” He ran his fingers down her spine, outlining the little, brittle knobs of bone. “I could break you, you know. Easily. Here,” he said, and pressed hard in the small of her back. “Just here. I could crack you in half. Very easily.”
“Hecebolus. Please.”
“One … crack.” In his voice there was enjoyment, as he lingered over the violent words.
“Hecebolus.” Her body, like a recently whipped horse, wanted only to shy away from him. But she mastered the cringing, aware that it would only tempt him to further violence. Mastered herself almost entirely. All except a slight tremble, that she hoped would signal sexual excitement rather than fear as she leaned into him and kissed his slightly prickly chin with her bruised and swollen lips, pressed her soft breasts against his chest, reminded him that there were other delights than destruction.
Yes. He was responding. She clung to him, ignoring the hot pain of her torn skin against his cheek, the agony of her abused shoulder. She abased herself as she had so often done in front of thirty thousand avid men, opened her legs as she had been used to do to beaks that pecked at her lasciviously. Bereft, now, of even a thin shield of cloth. Open and without resistance to the hard, harsh penetration that all those men had always imagined they might achieve. She gathered her energy to mimic ecstasy, as she had learned to do so well. It seemed to her that she could hear a roar, feet drumming, loud whistles, and the hoarse cackles of geese.
The next day Hecebolus explained that it was customary for officials, especially in the provinces, to augment their income with a little commission here and there. Everyone did it; it was part of the price of doing business. One could not expect a woman to understand.
Theodora nodded and said nothing.
They had both dealt vicious blows. They both nursed wounds, over which the skin remained tender. But life went on. He spent more time away from home, sometimes for days. She entertained with greater frequency, with something frenetic in her insistence on perfection in the preparation and presentation of the food, the table settings, the fresh cut flowers. She hired musicians, magicians, acrobats and dancing girls. She was careful to maintain her dignity and a cool, poised distance from every male guest. Only with the priest did she feel able to relax and converse naturally. He spoke of matters of more significance than her daily domestic round. He instructed, explained, challenged, debated; he expanded her knowledge and sharpened her insight. Their conversations nurtured her, and the palace church to her was like a cave that sheltered a wanderer from the rough elements.
So she was desolate to hear that he planned to leave the palace church to go to Alexandria. “To the Catechetical School there,” he said. “It’s world-renowned. I’m to have a teaching post.”
“Will you go for good?” asked Theodora.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll miss our talks, Kyria. But it is a great opportunity for me, and one may be a Monophysite in Alexandria without fear of persecution. You know that under Justin it has intensified. Soon now, one will no longer be safe as a Monophysite in Apollonia.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. Of course, you must go. But I’ll be very sorry to lose you.”
“Thank you, Kyria.”
Theodora came to believe that she had achieved her aim: to show Hecebolus that like Antonina she could be the best of wives. She had done everything she could. And when Juliana was only ten months old, Theodora discovered that she had conceived again. This had in fact been a part of her plan, for surely Hecebolus would want a son. Now he would marry her, she thought. Now it would happen. At last.
Then, suddenly, everything changed. Her invitations were no longer sought after; instead they met with evasiveness, excuses, or outright refusals. There was a total absence of invitations from people who had previously been generous hosts in their turn. And there were no visitors, not even the ones who were seeking some kind of favour and believed that the Governor’s lady might have some influe
nce. Not even Marcellina came.
This Theodora found the most puzzling of all, for normally hardly a day passed without the sound of that booming voice, without a present of honey or a rare spice or fruit for Theodora, some small surprise for Juliana – “She’s partly my child, didn’t I more or less deliver her?” claimed Marcellina – and a long chat full of gossip. But not the spiteful kind. Marcellina was essentially a kind woman, who ordered people around purely for their own good. Theodora believed that it must be some family crisis that kept Marcellina away. A child might be seriously ill, she thought. After some days she went to ask if there was something she might do to help.
The sedan chair halted in front of the sprawling mansion that was Marcellina’s home. Theodora stepped out, motioned the slave bearing a basket of fruit forward, and walked up to the heavy front door with its brass hinges and heavy bolts. A portly major-domo answered the peremptory ringing tones of the bell. No, he said, the Kyria was not at home. He had no idea where she had gone. No, nor when she might be back. No, nor when she might be at home to receive the, um, Governor’s, um, lady.
Although his words were perfectly polite, there was something condescending in his manner that Theodora did not like at all.
“Please tell your mistress that I called,” said Theodora. “She will let me know if there is something I can do, I hope? Is there illness in the family? Some other … problem?”
“No problem at all,” said the major-domo regally. “No problem at all.”
He did not call her “Kyria”.
Theodora looked up at the draped windows, and she thought she saw a glimpse of her friend’s broad, equine face. But no, she thought, she must have been mistaken. She climbed back into the sedan chair.