The Colour of power: A story of Theodora, Empress of Byzantium

by Marié Heese

  Now she should go and look for her daughter, she thought. She stepped out of the door, one of many that led onto a long, covered walkway, open to a square courtyard. In contrast to the poky room, the quadrangle was spacious, beautifully framed by stone arches that supported the cloister roof, the ground partly paved and partly grassed, dotted with brilliantly coloured flowering shrubs and a few shady trees. A central fountain sent up a spray of droplets that glittered in the sunlight. Around the fountain there was a bed of blooms, and there she saw Juliana kneeling next to the small nun, who was also on her knees, rooting out weeds.

  Theodora was about to go to them when a voice said: “Good morning,” in the firm tones of habitual authority.

  She turned and responded: “Good morning.”

  She found that she had to look up at a tall nun, with dark hair tucked under a white silk scarf. Bony face. Eyes that regarded her observantly, the exact grey of the stone arches that surrounded them.

  “I am Sister Sophia, the Reverend Mother of this convent,” announced the tall nun. “You may call me Mother.”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Theodora. A spasm of heartache gripped her at the word “mother”, a spasm of longing. She swallowed. “I am most grateful,” she said, “to be so kindly welcomed here. I … I don’t know …”

  “We know Father Rufus well. You need make no explanations. Nor excuses. You will stay till you are healed.”

  “Thank you. We … wouldn’t want to be too much trouble.”

  “This city,” said the Reverend Mother, “is full of refugees. From all over. One more with a little girl will not strain our resources.”

  “Refugees? Fleeing from what?”

  “Religious persecution. The new emperor in Constantinople, Justin, unlike the previous one, is pro-Dyophysite. A Chalcedonian. Adherents of the Monophysite faith are being persecuted. The Patriarch of Antioch, Severus, a staunch Monophysite, has been deposed and shelters here. The issue is the true nature of Christ.”

  “Ah. Two natures, human and divine, or only one nature, the divine?”

  “An over-simplification, but yes, that is the crux. Someone has instructed you. Father Rufus, no doubt.”

  “Yes. But Mother … Alexandria is also a part of the Empire. Why does the persecution not reach here? How can this be a refuge?”

  “Grain,” said the Reverend Mother. “All the grain that feeds the Empire comes from, or through, Alexandria. Therefore we are exempt. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “I see. But Mother, we would like to pay our way. We do have some …”

  “Work,” said Mother Sophia. “You may do something practical. Like weeding.”

  Theodora looked at the small nun, on her knees beside the fountain. “Isn’t Sister Margaret too old to kneel on the ground?” she asked.

  The Reverend Mother raised an eyebrow. “Sister Margaret is a nun,” she said. “She has spent the greater part of her life on her knees. They have, in fact, developed pads of hard skin.”

  Theodora felt reproved. “What else might I do?”

  A lay sister in a grey habit walked by with two stinking buckets.

  “Well, for a start, you could carry out your own slops.” The Reverend Mother must have caught a flash of distaste. She added: “We live simply, by the Rule of St Basil. Submission and humility. You’ll learn. And report to the sick bay, over in that corner – you have some unhealed sores.”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Theodora. Mother Sophia, she thought, did not look either submissive or humble. But then, she was in charge.

  Chapter 15: Alexandria

  Although she had been battered and bruised, in body and spirit, Theodora survived. The nuns gave her mundane tasks, such as peeling potatoes and scraping carrots – huge tin basins piled high with them – which she did, doggedly, to demonstrate her gratitude. But as she stood on the cold stone flags, repeatedly immersing her stained hands in sandy water, a core of resistance began to form inside her. She had been rejected, injured, thrown out and demeaned. She had been brought low. But she would not yield.

  After some weeks, when she had recovered her sense of self, she sat in her small cell and took stock. What did she have? Not enough to get her back to Constantinople and to support herself and Juliana once they got there. She had sold the gold chain to a jeweller in the centre of town, so she did have some funds, but when they ran out there would be no more. She ought to husband them.

  The theatre, she thought. There was an old Roman theatre still in use not far away. She would go to the theatre. Perhaps she could join up with the performers. After all, she had been successful on the stage.

  Out she went to stride at a smart pace along the broad streets of the bustling seaport. Suddenly she felt lighter and younger than she had for a long time. In Apollonia she had never walked the streets like a common person; the Governor’s lady had been transported in state, borne above the throng in sedan chairs, accompanied always by a retinue of guards and servants. But now, as she nimbly avoided heavily laden porters, local slaves and the jostling throngs of people from all corners of the Byzantine Empire, as she refused the attempts of merchants to cajole her into viewing their carpets, Coptic crosses crafted from sandalwood, finely wrought silver, jewellery, silks, and perfumes, she felt again like the child who had made her way through the streets of Constantinople, who had known that dangers lay in wait, but confidently eluded them, arriving safely where she wanted to go.

  Slightly out of breath she reached the theatre with its imposing, pillared red brick façade. Since she knew her way about the typical theatre layout, she walked around behind the stage. A performance was due to begin soon and there was the familiar sense of purpose, tension and excitement as the auditorium filled and the expectant rumble from the spectators reached the performers, who were completing last-minute adjustments to costumes and make-up. The air reverberated with magical possibilities.

  As a tall girl with a thick brown plait over her shoulder brushed against Theodora, she recognised a dancer she had known well in Constantinople.

  “Macedonia!”

  “Theodora! Imagine meeting you here!”

  They embraced. The girl drew her aside and they sat on some bales of straw that would be needed later for the pantomime. Theodora held on tightly to the dancer’s hand; she felt it was a link with home, with a place and a time when she had been where she belonged.

  “How did you land up in Alexandria? You’re not with the dancing girls. Do tell me! I’m only on towards the end,” said Macedonia.

  Theodora explained. “The monastery shelters me and my child, but we can’t live there for ever,” she wound up her tale.

  “No vocation for the religious life?” asked Macedonia.

  “No,” said Theodora. “I don’t think so … No, I have no calling.”

  “A lay sister, then?”

  Theodora gave her a level, wordless stare.

  “No, all right, I don’t see you scrubbing and gardening all your life. Let’s think … what have you got? Well, you’re still beautiful, you know. Not exactly voluptuous, but in your own way … so small, so delicate, big black beguiling eyes, and that hair is delicious, but you know that … porcelain skin …”

  “Only just recovered from festering sores,” said Theodora bitterly.

  “No matter, it’s perfect now. So, how about a protector?” suggested Macedonia practically. “The theatre is a good place to find one.”

  “Never again,” said Theodora with passionate emphasis.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. No … I need … some kind of opening,” pleaded Theodora. “A chance.”

  “There aren’t many options,” said Macedonia, stating a harsh truth that Theodora could not deny.

  “I’ve been an entertainer,” said Theodora, with urgent hopefulness. “You should remember. I could be again. If I had my own show, I could earn …”

  “Oh, I remember. But you’re not going to get your own act. Not here, not just like that.�
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  The brusque statement was like a slap. Even the coarse debasement of the burlesque with the geese was, it seemed, beyond her reach.

  Macedonia reflected. “No more dancers required. There’s a troupe of acrobats,” she said, doubtfully. “You used to do that kind of thing, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Right, well, I’ll talk to their leader. But I can’t promise anything. Listen, the pantomime’s about to begin. It’s Pasiphae. You want to come and watch? I’ll smuggle you in free.”

  The next morning, Theodora sat on a wooden bench in the cloistered quadrangle of the convent with Juliana on her lap, a sleepy, warm weight smelling of milk. Sister Margaret sat beside her in a rare moment of relaxation. She was so short that her small feet did not reach the ground. A small bird strutted on the grass and pecked for worms. An evergreen tree burbling with doves sheltered them in a tent of cool shade; the ordered grace of the stone arches around the sun-dappled quadrangle offered sanctuary. Theodora thought it might be hard to leave.

  “I went to the theatre yesterday,” Theodora told the little nun. “There was a pantomime. My mother used to act in the same one, in Constantinople. Pasiphae.”

  Sister Margaret nodded. Although she herself said so little, she was a good listener.

  “She wasn’t – she isn’t – a bad woman,” said Theodora. “Although she is an actress. Well, so was I. She isn’t … not all actresses are …” She found herself unable to say the word “whores” to the limpid innocence of the blue eyes nested in wrinkles.

  Sister Margaret put a small brown paw on Theodora’s knee and patted it. Theodora wanted to continue telling her about the performance, about the acrobats who had tumbled and somersaulted and hurled themselves into a precarious human pyramid, about the comic antics of the men representing the bull that grunted and rutted and stormed the cow that had been a queen. But suddenly she couldn’t say another word. Her throat contracted and it felt as if a burst of sadness had filled her entire chest, so that she could hardly breathe. Tears slid unbidden from her eyes. She sobbed.

  “I’m … s-sorry,” said Theodora, sniffing. “I’m s-sorry.”

  Sister Margaret shook her head. “You lost someone, perhaps?” she said, her voice soft and husky. “You are grieving?”

  Grieving, thought Theodora. Yes, indeed, that is probably the right word. I am grieving. I have lost the man I thought I loved and who, I thought, loved me. I have lost a dear good friend. I have lost a life I thought I had achieved. Had earned.

  Her abdomen contracted in a sudden spasm. She gripped Juliana more tightly, causing the child to squirm. She drew a wavering breath. “I was … I was pregnant,” she said. “But I … lost it.”

  Sister Margaret nodded. She reached out and stroked the sleeping Juliana’s head. “But this one,” she said, “is a blessing.”

  “Yes,” said Theodora. She leaned her cheek against her daughter’s warm, silky head. For a while the two women sat wordlessly, side by side in the cloistered sanctuary. Theodora closed her eyes. The silence eased her. There was so much pain and anger roiling in her heart that could not be spoken. Could never be spoken. Could only be endured.

  Yet she felt a need to connect with somebody. “How old were you when you came here, Sister?” she asked.

  “Came here? Eleven,” said the small nun. “Been here nearly all my life. I was an orphan. Started as a lay sister, you know, worked in the garden. Mother … another one, before …”

  “A previous Mother Superior?”

  “Yes. Said, I spent so much time on my knees, might as well pray.” A husky chuckle that turned into a cough. “So, now I’m a nun. Still garden, though.”

  “You’re a good gardener.”

  “The good Lord is the gardener,” said Sister Margaret. “But He does need some help. Weeding, and such.”

  “And the Reverend Mother? The one we have now, when did she come?”

  Sister Margaret reflected. “Four … five years? She’s a clever one.” She touched a gnarled brown finger to her forehead. “Very clever. Studies. And writes,” said Sister Margaret, in a tone of awe. Perhaps, thought Theodora, Sister Margaret could neither read nor write.

  For a moment a life devoted to prayer and study seemed desirable, its order and predictability safe and comforting. But on the other hand, thought Theodora, the cloistered life was a life of limitation and confinement, and the prospect frightened her. Besides, she had a child. And she longed with great intensity to go home.

  Once again Theodora made up her mind to restore her physical strength, her suppleness and her acrobatic skills. She needed a place to practise unseen. The cell where she and Juliana slept was tiny, as were all the rest. For a wild moment she imagined herself doing cartwheels down the aisles of the church. Then she thought of the refectory, where meals were served. It was a long room with two narrow tables, and the space between them would serve. She would practise there.

  She didn’t have an acrobat’s usual stage costume, which consisted of a cinch belt studded with fake gems and a very brief silk kilt, nothing more. But the simple linen tunics she wore daily would hamper her movement too much. She borrowed a needle and thread from Sister Margaret, and stitched together a girdle and kilt from the remnants of silk retrieved from the bottom of her satchel, all that was left of the expensive tunic she had worn on the night Hecebolus had beaten her. It would do.

  Clad in this outfit under a cloak, she began slipping into the refectory after everything had been cleared up, the dishes washed, the pots and pans scoured, plates and mugs tidily stacked, surfaces wiped, floor mopped, dishcloths washed and rinsed and pegged out to dry. The Reverend Mother was as bent on erasing spots of grease as she was intent upon excising sin. Finally, it would all be done, and the long, narrow room would be empty but for the lingering ghost of vegetable soup. Theodora would drop the cloak and limber up at the kitchen end, bending and stretching, running on the spot, feeling the blood course through her limbs. Then she would begin an acrobatic routine. At first her balance was not too good, and she had to keep it simple. But gradually her strength and suppleness returned, and so too her confidence. She found that she could once again sink into a total split, bend over backwards to touch the ground, and fly through the air in rolling saltos.

  One night some months after their arrival, she began at the far end and launched into a tumbling run towards the kitchen door. A twist and a backward salto this time, she thought. She could do it. She had the strength. Run, leap, bounce, twist, salto. Around, up and over. Perfect landing on both feet, no stumble, no wavering. Flat and steady, knees bent, arms outstretched. Control. Oh, yes!

  “Theodora,” said an imperious voice behind her. She turned. Framed in the kitchen doorway stood the Reverend Mother, looking astounded. Suddenly she felt more naked than she ever had in the Kynêgion; one horrified nun was harder to face than thirty thousand avid males.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Exercising,” said Theodora, only slightly out of breath.

  “My dear child! But this … but this … You are clearly practising. To be an entertainer, no doubt? Back to the stage?”

  “I must earn something,” said Theodora.

  “But not virtually naked! In public! I have never … I am completely … This is utterly … No, no, no.” Mother Sophia was pink with agitation, and for once almost at a loss for words.

  “It’s what I am able to do,” said Theodora.

  “I cannot condone it. Under no circumstances.”

  “But, Mother …”

  “Besides, it will be no life for a mother with a child to bring up.”

  “But …”

  “But me no buts,” said the Reverend Mother in a tone of implacable authority. “No, no, certainly not the theatre. We must find an acceptable alternative.”

  The two women stood looking at each other.

  Then the nun said: “Ah! I have it! Spinning!”

  “Spinning?”

 
“You shall learn to spin wool,” said the Reverend Mother. “It is a suitable occupation. It will earn you enough to live on. You shall be respectable. Sister Agnes will teach you, beginning tomorrow.”

  “Very well, Mother.” She looked at her feet, shining dark head bent. She felt the weight of the nun’s disapproval.

  “You have extraordinary qualities, my child,” said the tall nun. “Tenacity. Courage. Self-belief. It must take all of these to learn to do such … such stunts. You must channel these qualities in a better direction. Toward a better life.”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Theodora.

  “So, spinning. Also, you shall become a catechumen.”

  “Mother?”

  “You will study the catechism, in preparation for Christian confirmation. The Catechetical School here in Alexandria is the oldest such school in the world. It dates back to the year of Our Lord 190, when it was set up by the great Christian scholar Pantanaeus. It will be a great privilege to become a pupil – it is today the most important institution of religious learning in all Christendom.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  The grey eyes narrowed. “You were baptised, I hope?”

  “Of course I was baptised,” said Theodora indignantly. “My father … my late father was a Syrian priest.”

  Arched eyebrows. “I had heard he was a bearkeeper. Father Rufus …”

  “That was before,” said Theodora. “Before we went to Constantinople.”

  The Reverend Mother nodded thoughtfully. “Father Rufus has high praise for your intellect,” she said. “He tells me you are well read.”

  “He was most kind to me in Apollonia,” said Theodora. “He instructed me. We had … there was … a magnificent library.”

  “You like learning?”

  “Oh, yes, Mother.”

  “Very well, then. Spinning lessons begin tomorrow. Report to Sister Agnes after breakfast. I’ll take you to the School myself on Monday.”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Theodora.

  Now began a time of learning, of discipline and diligence, as she struggled simultaneously for mastery of a manual skill and spiritual insight. Sister Agnes was her instructor in the fine art of spinning wool. In her workroom, warm with the glow from a small brazier, the air thick with smells emanating from piles of untreated fleeces and damp woven skeins looped over rails to dry, the plump nun presided with an air of serenity.