by Marié Heese
Then the final blessing: “Ecce sic benedicetur omnis homo …”
Behold, thus shall every man be blessed who fears the Lord: May the Lord bless you out of Zion, that you may see the good things of Jerusalem all the days of your life, and have life everlasting.
“Amen,” said Theodora. Her bruised spirit took wing with the words.
“Te deum laudamus,” sang the monks. We praise thee, O Lord … The singing voices soared. O Lord, in thee have I trusted; let me never be put to shame.
At last she, who had in truth been nothing more than a serial prostitute, had become a daughter of the Church.
Yet after the exhilaration of the final ceremony, Theodora experienced a let-down, a kind of hollowness, a sense of gloom. She had expected that somehow her life would be transformed; yet in her innermost heart she still felt homeless. Her life, she thought, was like a roving, carded but not spun: a fistful of loose fibres waiting to be transformed into a strong and useful skein.
“I’m leaving Alexandria,” announced Eric. “Going to Antioch for a while. And then on to Constantinople.”
“Soon?”
“Yes, soon as possible.”
“Why now?” she asked.
“Vitalian needs me.”
“To do what, exactly?”
“An essential task,” he answered blandly. “Come with me. You can’t stay with the nuns for ever. I’ll pay your passage. Come with me. Bring the child.”
“I … no, Eric. No. I can’t do that.”
“Think about it.” This is a deal, his bold blue stare seemed to say. Take it or leave it. But the value of what you have to offer will not last indefinitely; you should know that.
Theodora told Macedonia: “Eric wants me to go away with him.”
“Go where?”
“To Antioch, and then Constantinople.”
“Constantinople! You should grab the chance! You want to go home, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes!” said Theodora. Indeed, her heart yearned for home. She wanted to feel a clear difference between the seasons, to walk streets that smelled of sun-baked powdered dung in summer, and were covered in foot-nipping slippery snow in winter. She wanted to be where the year announced its turning in the colour of leaves. Where she did not need to depend on the support of strangers in an hour of need. She wanted to be where people knew her name. But she could not afford to buy her passage, and Juliana’s.
Macedonia said: “So you should go with him.” She put a foot high up against the wall and stretched her long, lean dancer’s legs.
“But I haven’t … it would mean …”
“Justinian is very pleased with some of the information you have sent him,” Macedonia told her. “It has apparently been very useful. I heard that he said: this person has excellent political insight and a sound judgement of what might be important.”
“Did he really say that?” She was gratified. “But I have sworn – never another protector. Never again.”
“It would be in the service of your country, and your beliefs,” said Macedonia. “You know the son of that Monophysite cleric who was murdered last week?”
“Yes, I heard of it.”
“Eric killed him, to silence the father, who rants against Dyophysites. You should not doubt this man’s power, nor his ruthlessness.”
“How do you know he did it?”
“Victim’s best friend is a fan of mine. Brings me flowers and information. He’s fled, now, himself. Told me, it had Vitalian’s signature – he garrottes his victims. Vitalian is planning some treachery. You should find out what it is. Go with Eric.” She stood flatfooted on her left foot, took hold of her right heel and straightened her right leg. Maintained a precarious balance.
“But I have been confirmed,” cried Theodora. “This would be completely …”
“More than one way to be a soldier for Christ,” said Macedonia.
“No! Definitely not! I can’t do this. No.”
Though no longer a catechumen, Theodora continued to attend classes with Father Severus. Discussion turned to who might replace Justin as Emperor in Constantinople, were he to die.
“They say the Emperor is ailing,” reported a student. “One hears he has an old war wound that flares up.”
“In the absence of an heir, one of the two consuls would be in line,” said Father Severus. “Vitalian or Justinian.”
“Is Justinian a consul now?” asked Theodora.
“Just been promoted. His celebrations should be impressive.”
“Better Justinian should inherit the throne,” observed the skeletal Syrian monk. “Vitalian being so rabidly Dyophysite.”
“Indeed, indeed,” agreed Father Severus. “Church needs an emperor who could bring about unity.”
“Is he Monophysite? Justinian?” Theodora enquired.
“No, he’s not … but more open to conciliation, reports suggest. Vitalian would be a disaster to our cause. Justinian debates; Vitalian goes to war, or sends his executioners.”
Eric repeated his invitation. “Ship leaves on Wednesday,” he said. “I’ve paid your passage. And the child’s. Best chance you’ll ever get to go back, you know.”
Theodora went in search of Sister Margaret. She found the small nun on her knees, busily weeding. “Sister Margaret, has God ever spoken to you?” asked Theodora.
Sister Margaret sat back on her haunches to consider. “Not directly, I wouldn’t say,” she said, her sandy hands dangling. “I don’t think God ever speaks to such as me. To Mother Superior, yes. To Father Timothy and Father Severus. To me, no.”
“Then how do you know what God wants you to do?”
The nun looked a little surprised. “He shows me,” she said simply. “I look around, and I see the weeds. And that’s what I can do. A person must do what a person can.”
A soldier for Christ, thought Theodora. I have sworn to be a soldier for Christ. Only not like this. This was not what I meant. Not what I meant, at all. But if not, then how else? I can wield neither sword nor longbow; I can’t take the field. Yet I might be able to wield … influence. Maybe I can unearth important information. A successful general requires courageous scouts to bring him critical intelligence. That might be my task, what I am called upon to do.
And yet, and yet, her heart was defiant. It was rebellious. I am a daughter of the Church, it cried, I have received the Sacrament of Confirmation. I have been purified, my sins have been washed away. I have been absolved. How can I surrender that new innocence? How can I betray that gift of grace?
More than one way to be a soldier for Christ, said Macedonia’s sardonic voice.
When I vowed to serve Christ, thought Theodora, I undertook to endure the suffering and persecution that comes from conflict with the world. As best I can.
Well, then. A person must do what a person can.
And so she and Juliana said farewell to the nuns, who understood that she was moving on in the company of an elderly couple who required a companion.
“Look after my baby,” said Sister Margaret, her bright blue eyes full of tears. She kissed Juliana on the top of her black curls.
Juliana whimpered.
“I shall miss you, my dear,” said Mother Sophia. “You have been most helpful. You have a fine mind. You must be sure to make good use of it.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” said Theodora.
With sails full-bellied before a brisk following wind, they sped towards an Antiochian spring. It was totally unlike the dreadful trip from Apollonia to Alexandria. The days were blue and innocent. Male and female passengers were, as usual, put up in separate areas, but she saw Eric daily. They leaned on the railing side by side as the ship sailed into the thronged and raucous harbour. Juliana clung to her mother’s knees and laughed at the gulls that swooped down to snap up floating scraps.
It was time, of course, for payment to be made. The debt was considerable: two passages, board and lodging. Quarters in a good part of town, close to the intersection of the
broad main avenues that sliced the town into four quarters. A female slave, to help with cleaning and looking after Juliana. A cook. Once again, there were people who called her “Kyria”.
Some things, said Theodora, in answer to the voice of Mother Sophia residing in her head, cannot be paid for by spinning wool.
Theodora was tense, for there had been nobody since Hecebolus. Other than the blessing hands of a priest, no man had touched her since her darkest night when she had lain battered and bleeding on the floor. Her body remembered how it had suffered; it was not prepared for submission. But she resolutely willed it into compliance. It was beyond her even to pretend to joy.
Fortunately he was a selfish lover, to whom it was sufficient that she was penetrated and possessed. And ready to serve him whenever he felt the need.
They settled into a routine that almost achieved comfortable domesticity. Some weeks passed quietly. Theodora went to services at the huge octagonal cathedral that had been built by Constantius II. Eric, an unashamed pagan, let her go and never realised that she skipped the Eucharist. He did insist that she should entertain the numerous soldiers, beer-swilling Goths, who clumped into their rooms and filled them with loud voices and the ever-present threat of war.
Theodora upheld her part of the unspoken deal. While dispensing efficient if not gracious hospitality, she listened intently. Plans were being laid, she gathered, to eliminate all Monophysite clergy in a countrywide sweep that would wait upon a certain event in Constantinople. Exactly what that would be, she could not discover.
“We’ll be going on to Constantinople very soon,” murmured Eric, winding her hair around his arm so that she couldn’t move her head. Couldn’t hide her face. She looked at him limpidly, from behind a mask of innocence.
“To do what?” she asked.
He whispered into her ear: “To despatch Justinian. It must be done secretly, suddenly, unexpectedly, by someone not already known in the city. Justinian is too powerful, he has too much support, he could keep Vitalian from the throne.”
She had to close her eyes, and school the muscles of her face into stillness. “A dangerous mission,” she said, as evenly as possible.
“But essential. You’ll come with me, won’t you? You want to go home? You could be well set. My reward should be rich.”
“Of course I’ll come,” said Theodora. This time, she had no doubt at all about what she ought to do.
Fourth interlude: The Nika revolt continues, 16 January, AD 532
Narses the eunuch: his journal
In the year of Our Lord 532, January 16
Today is Friday. We have now been cowering here for three days. A fine layer of ash dulls the surfaces of polished marble and porphyry, the richly coloured mosaics, the bright tiles; nobody is polishing the candelabra, replacing drooping flowers or dusting urns; the woven tapestries, curtains, cushions and carpets are growing musty and will soon be harbouring moths, chumbling their way through the royal drapes and infesting even gold-bordered swags with a plague of eggs. There are no slaves left inside to scrub and sweep, to shake out and set to rights. Justinian has sent away every servant that he does not know. Ironically, there is no fire in the braziers that normally warm the palace and we all shiver. A couple of cooks toil in the huge kitchens, producing inferior fare. Most of us hardly touch it.
Hypatius and Pompeius, mediocre soldiers both, who have made not the slightest attempt to play a part in putting down the revolt, are playing a desultory game of dice (Hypatius wins most of the time). Procopius does nothing but write. All the senators, plus Tribonian and Eudaemon, have retired to their rooms, but the gross figure of Cappadocian John is planted in a large armchair, knees apart, eating undercooked chicken with peasant stoicism. He chews the bones.
Theodora shudders; she detests the Cappadocian as obviously as she does Procopius. She leans against a pillar near me. Others in this shelter are beginning to smell sourly unwashed, but she still has an aura of spice and roses. I lean a little closer, inhaling, ostensibly to hear her better. “This is his fault, you know,” she mutters to me, jutting her chin in the direction of John. “Asses instead of horses, for heaven’s sake! How are the farmers expected to transport their produce? Crops rotting on the lands! Food shortages! No wonder there’s rioting. The man’s a fool!”
Cappadocian John may be many things, but a fool he is not. This is not the time, however, to remind her how greatly the Emperor has benefited from the brutal efficiency the Praetorian Prefect of the East has shown in collecting taxes, how fearless the hated John has been in wringing payment out of the rich merchants and traders and the large landowners, who have always been adept at avoiding taxes by various means, including bribery and the fiddling of books.
“The landowners have had some part in it,” I suggest. “Dispossessed peasants who have nothing to lose make furious fighters.”
“Bloody patricians,” says Theodora. “I know exactly how they operate. Give the poor peasants credit, how very gracious of them, and then grab their property when they can’t pay. Justinian’s been trying to put a stop to that kind of thing, and this is how he’s rewarded!”
“It hasn’t increased his popularity in the Senate, though.”
“Nor in the Imperial Council,” admits Theodora. “Especially since he stopped pretending to consult them. They never had any real power anyway.” She shivers. “Is that what this is all about? Is this truly a revolution? Not just a mindlessly rioting rabble?”
“Hard to say.” I know better than to try and fob her off with half-truths and platitudes. She has a sharp mind and a politician’s instincts. “The great landowners have definitely thrown their private armies into the battle, no doubt about that.”
“Maybe it’s the religious issue,” says Theodora. “There are strong factions who would prefer a Monophysite emperor on the throne.”
I cannot deny this. The schism between the Monophysites and the Dyophysites has never been healed. “It is possible,” I acknowledge.
“And of course, Tribonian hasn’t helped.” She scowls at the thought.
I grunt in assent. It has always puzzled me, that a man capable of guiding and editing the Codex Constitutionem can be so brilliant a jurist and at the same time so corrupt in taking bribes. A mind like a scalpel and the soul of a pickpocket. A patrician appearance, as if mere money should be beneath his notice. Truly, people are strange.
“Even the wind seems to have joined the rebels against us,” says Theodora with a note of desperation in her voice.
Indeed, it hasn’t stopped blowing for days.
Early this morning, Belisarius, Mundus and their men launched an attack on the rebel base in the area of the Brassmarket. Meanwhile the uncontrollable mob continued with arson, completely destroying the Praetorium, the Baths of Alexander and the Church of St Irene. The wild north wind took my breath away as I clung to a pillar observing the unfolding disaster.
The soldiers battled courageously, but they could not prevail against the rioters, who had the flame-throwing wind at their backs. Yet the wind is a treacherous comrade-in-arms. Surely even the most ferocious of the fighters could not have intended that the Hospice of Samson should burn to the ground. Not with all the patients trapped inside. But the flames leapt from the Church of St Irene and consumed the hospice next door to it in a raging inferno. Bone-breaks and boils, failing hearts and festering sores were all cured between one breath and the next by Doctor Death. An enormous pyre flung all the suffering souls inside it to the heavens, the newly born and the aged ones alike, those whose days were numbered and those who might have emerged healed and ready to grow strong.
So loudly did the flames crackle and roar and the wind keen that one could hear no screams, but the gale carried the telltale smell of roasted meat. The world whirled around me and I bent down with my back to the rush of searing heat and threw up. When I had emptied myself, I staggered back to the palace in the wake of the mercenaries, who once again had been turned back, defeated.
/> With tears making white runnels on his blackened face, Belisarius reported to his beleaguered emperor: “Despotes, we cannot prevail in this. They have burned down even the Hospice of Samson, patients and all. None could escape.” He coughed. “We must wait, at least until the wind has died down. It cannot blow for ever.”
So the soldiers returned to their barracks; we here in the Sacred Palace wait upon the wind.
Suddenly there is a commotion. A single messenger, one Ephraem – known to Justinian because he too, like the Emperor, hails from Illyria – has been kept busy running to and fro between the triclinium where we gather each day and the guards at the blackened and barricaded entrance. He enters the huge room now at a breathless trot, mops his round face with a dirty tunic sleeve, then drops to the dusty floor in obeisance.
“Get up, man! Speak!” orders Justinian.
Ephraem raises his head. “Despotes, the ships from Hebdomon are anchored off the Golden Horn. They have brought several companies of soldiers faithful to the Crown.”
“Good, good,” says Belisarius. “Basileus, tomorrow we shall attack once more, and with reinforcements we should be able to master this insurgency.”
Justinian, Belisarius and Mundus confer, planning the new day’s battle. They are adamantly opposed to seeking a compromise with people so contemptible as to destroy a hospice. Procopius sits and listens, but nobody asks for his opinion. A complete nonentity, that man. All he does is scribble, scribble, scribble and be ignored.
The nephews of the old emperor Anastasius yawn and throw the dice. Hypatius and Pompeius look very much alike, both fairly short and somewhat overweight, with nondescript brown hair and over-large noses that seem designed for persons with much broader faces than they possess. However, Hypatius has black eyes and Pompeius blue; neither takes after his late Imperial uncle in having one of each. Nor does either nephew have the bearing of a soldier, let alone a prince. They loll.
Theodora, exhausted, has gone to bed.
Cappadocian John has dropped off to sleep with his mouth hanging open. He drools.
They will attack at first light.
