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

by Marié Heese

  “We enjoy each other’s company.”

  “Mmmm. So, he’s not too good in bed.”

  “Mother! How can you …”

  “If he had been, you’d have been head over heels by now, sweet-heart.” Anastasia nodded sagely.

  “He’s learning,” said Theodora, reaching for dignity. “And he’s willing to be taught. And yes, he does adore me. He truly wants to marry me.”

  “Patience,” counselled Justinian. “Patience. They are old. Our time will come.” Then one day he announced: “I shall petition my uncle to raise you to the rank of patrician.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Of course he can do that. By royal decree. Good heavens, Caligula even raised a horse to senatorial rank.”

  “Ah, well then, Justin shouldn’t have too much trouble with me,” said Theodora.

  In the background, Narses snorted before regaining his usual self-control, while Justinian glared.

  And it was done. Theodora was officially proclaimed to be a member of the august rank of patrissimus. She had been raised up to extraordinary heights. Yet still the Empress maintained her implacable opposition. There would be no marriage. She would never agree to it. And Justin would not cross his wife.

  Then, quite suddenly, Euphemia died. She complained merely of tiredness, and took to her bed. She grew increasingly short of breath and within days her heart gave out. A splendid state funeral was held, through which Justin moved in a daze, limping from an old war wound, reduced by shock and sorrow to a bewildered old man.

  “Soon, now, my love,” said Justinian, “I’ll convince my uncle to rescind the law that prevents our marriage, and pass a new one allowing it. Without Lupicina he’ll be amenable, trust me. Please just be patient a little while longer. Truly, it should be soon.”

  To Theodora her life seemed at last to be on a fixed and propitious course. Daughter of a bearkeeper, formerly actress and acrobat of the Kynêgion, snubbed by a charioteer, kept by a merchant, rejected by Hecebolus, sometime “insatiable whore” and lately spinner of wool, she would stand by the side of the next emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire. He would be Thrice August, and she would be Augusta. It was her destiny.

  But then Justinian fell ill. At first he complained of a headache, then he became feverish, and then he retired to bed retching and groaning with pain. Soon he had been transferred from the Hormisdas Palace to a wing of the Sacred Palace where seriously sick courtiers were tended. And the passage to his bedroom was barred.

  Chapter 19: Dangerously ill

  When Theodora wanted to go to Justinian, Narses stood four-square in her way. She could not understand how such a small person could exert so much authority, yet he was not to be moved. “Kyria, the Consul has given orders for no visitors. Only servants and the court physicians may enter his room.”

  “But I’m not a visitor,” said Theodora angrily. “I want to be with him, and I don’t believe he doesn’t want me. I can’t believe it. I always calm him–”

  “Kyria, this is an illness one does not wish to be witnessed by a woman,” said Narses.

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “It is an extremely painful inflammation,” said Narses, “of the kind … how shall I say? Well, let me put it like this: of the kind no beardless one could ever suffer.”

  Theodora stared at him. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, no!”

  “He has been passing blood,” Narses told her. “And vomiting a great deal. The pain is very, very bad, and he can’t keep medication down. Extract of willow bark would probably help, but …”

  “Is he going to die?” demanded Theodora. “I need to know.” Once again she found herself trying to maintain her balance on a very narrow bridge below which a chasm had opened up, leaving her suspended and sightless over a dark void.

  “I cannot say, Kyria. The physicians remain hopeful.”

  “You must tell me, Narses, if he takes a turn for the worse. You must warn me. You will, won’t you? I can depend on you?”

  “Yes, Kyria.”

  Anastasia at this time was filled with dread. High as her daughter had been raised, bringing her family with her, so low might they fall again. Who was there at the palace who would protect them if Justinian should die? Nobody, she thought. Not the aging emperor, himself largely bedridden with his old war wound, which was festering and did not respond to any treatment the physicians could suggest. None of the courtiers, officials, bureaucrats or military men who thronged the palace halls. Probably there were many who would be delighted to see the back of them. They would be thrown out onto the streets, without a breadwinner, and without any means of earning a living. Not one of them could easily be hired as an acrobat or actress now.

  And where would they go? Theodora’s small villa had been rented, and Justinian had paid off the contract all at once. Their old rooms had been taken over long since.

  “Theodora,” said Anastasia, “if he dies, what do we do?”

  Theodora glared at her mother. “He’s not going to die! He has the best of physicians …”

  “We must have a plan,” said Anastasia. “In case. You know that.”

  Theodora sighed deeply. Anastasia had lost her looks. A hard life had baked the juices out of her. She was thin and sallow, and her hair was grey and lustreless. She had done her best to sustain her three girls, but now she herself needed looking after. And there was Stasie, and Juliana. All of them depended on her, Theodora. But she couldn’t think what to do. She felt battle-scarred and weary.

  “What have you got?” demanded Anastasia. “What can we count on?”

  “No properties,” said Theodora, reluctantly considering the harsh reality that Justinian’s death would mean for her and for her family. “He’s promised me property, but nothing has been deeded yet.”

  “Oh, dear God,” said Anastasia, “we’ve nowhere to go. Nowhere at all.”

  “But I have savings,” said Theodora, becoming practical. “Justinian has given me rich gifts. I have gold and jewellery. Mother, you must go and secure a small villa for us. Rented, as before. You’re right, we must have a place. And we might be in a hurry, so it should be furnished.”

  “I’ll go into the city. Give me a deposit. I’ll hide it in a basket of … of flowers, or something. The streets are not safe.”

  “You needn’t go yourself, Mother, I could send someone.”

  “I would not trust anyone from the palace, not at this time,” her mother said grimly.

  “I would trust Narses,” said Theodora.

  “No. Not even Narses. I’ll go.”

  “I can still command a litter and some guards,” said Theodora. “They’ll escort you.”

  “Best send excubitors, well armed,” said Anastasia. “The Blue gangs are running completely wild. And the Prefect doesn’t act, he knows Justinian supports the Blues.”

  Nothing but desperation could have sent Anastasia out of the palace complex into the hostile streets right then. Yet out she went in search of an agent. She scented the hunter, and was instinctively driven to scuttle and scrabble for a bolt-hole where she could cower, preferably disappear.

  Due in part, no doubt, to the scourge of murderous young thugs preying on the populace, and in part to the cruel wintry weather, the streets were almost empty of pedestrians. The footsteps of the litter-bearers sounded like hammer blows on the hard ground. They were approaching the great Church of Holy Wisdom, Saint Sophia. Then, suddenly, there were furious howls and a thundering rush of booted feet. The guards smartly reversed the litter into an alley to let the running men pound past and away.

  Anastasia peered out, in time to see a guard grab someone by the arm and drag him into the alley. He fell to his knees, a spare, greying man diminished by terror, groaning and gabbling: “They got away … they got away … I couldn’t stop them, call the Prefect, call the …”

  “He’s bleeding,” said Anastasia, “his head’s cut open.”

  “It’s the doorman from the ch
urch,” said a guard, “I know him. What’s happened?”

  “Murder,” the man gasped. “They murdered … Hypatius … right there in the church … It’s sacrilege, it is, God will strike them dead. Right inside …”

  “Hypatius? The Emperor’s …”

  “No, no, a businessman. Did them no harm. No reason …”

  “Who did it?”

  “Blues,” said the man. He put a trembling hand to his head and brought it away with gore dripping stickily from swollen knuckles. He groaned again. “Those partisan gangs. Murderers. Right inside …”

  “He needs to get to a hospital,” said Anastasia. “Two of you take him. I’ll wait.”

  By the time her bearers came to collect her, she was cold to her fragile bones, and terrified that the rapacious youths might return. But on she doggedly went. Once more it was her task to wrest safety from a hostile world for her three girls and herself. They had to have a place. She would not go back until she had found it.

  With Justinian seriously ill, the Blues had lost their protector. The Senate passed a vote calling for justice and sent a formal, frowning deputation to complain to the Emperor. Justin struggled into his regal dress and received them in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. He heard their accusations and protestations and he was aghast. It was one of his good days. With his robes of state he had once more put on authority, and he immediately ordered drastic reprisals. The Prefect, on being given clear orders, mercilessly hounded down and executed a considerable number of the lawless hooligans. Some were burned alive; the odour of incinerated flesh did much to re-establish order on the streets. Once more ordinary people felt safe to venture forth.

  In the Hormisdas Palace, Theodora waited out the anxious hours. Unlike her mother and Stasie, she seldom went out into the city. Narses came daily to report on Justinian’s state of health.

  “How ill is the Emperor?” she demanded. “What will happen if he dies and Justinian is also very ill?”

  “The Emperor is not at death’s door,” said Narses. “The ulcer from his war wound pains him a lot, but he’ll live a while yet. And his mind comes and goes. Some days he’s sharp, others … somewhere in the past. For him, the past is a kinder place.”

  “Who might have a claim to the throne?”

  “Well, Vitalian could have done. But he is dead.”

  Theodora started at hearing this name, then collected herself. She wondered how much Narses knew of her part in reporting Vitalian’s schemes.

  “What kind of man was Vitalian?” she asked, carefully keeping her voice neutral.

  “Physically, he was of extremely short stature,” said Narses. “Shorter even than me. Also, he stuttered.”

  “Doesn’t sound much like a contender for the throne.”

  “Ah, but he was highly thought of by his soldiers. Personally brave, and a fine military strategist. Passionately Dyophysite, Chalcedonian through and through. You know that he led a rebellion against Emperor Anastasius?”

  “I have heard of it.”

  “Marched on Constantinople at the head of fifty thousand men, hellbent on removing the heretic Monophysite from the throne.”

  “But was repulsed.”

  “Yes. But Justin, being a Dyophysite, welcomed him when he arrived here with a deputation of clerics, hoping for some kind of conciliation. Justin thought highly of him. In fact, he made him Master of the Soldiers in 519, and then he made him Consul.”

  “At the time,” said Theodora, “I was in Alexandria. I came home in time to see Justinian’s celebrations.”

  Narses nodded. “No doubt you have heard that Vitalian and his men were murdered. In this very palace, in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches.”

  “I have heard,” said Theodora, shuddering a little. “At a banquet, I believe. And after … after …”

  “After Vitalian and Justinian had partaken of the Eucharist together.”

  “That does make it seem … very cruel,” said Theodora. “Utterly ruthless.”

  “A useful reputation for a contender for the throne to have,” said Narses.

  “Are you saying … did Justinian …” She was voicing a suspicion that had kept her awake on many a restless night.

  “Who, exactly, the perpetrators were has never been proved,” said Narses. “But I think, Kyria, you can be assured that Justinian’s hand did not actually drive in the sword.”

  “There must have been … several …”

  “Oh, yes. Three men were killed that night. Vitalian’s body, one heard, bore seventeen stab wounds. The hall ran with blood. Or so said the slaves who had to clean it up.” His monkey face was at its most inscrutable. “It was necessary,” he added, “to replace the drapes.”

  Theodora swallowed.

  “And so, Justinian became First Consul in Vitalian’s place,” said Narses. “Yes. But there’s still Germanus, of course.”

  “Another wretched nephew,” said Theodora, relieved to change the subject. “And married into the Anicii. Does he have aspirations?”

  “Not openly,” said Narses. “But one would be surprised if he didn’t.”

  “And he would find support?”

  “Probably. His military record is excellent.”

  “Where is he now? In Thrace?”

  “Yes, that is still his command. Kyria, rest assured that I have him watched. He has laid no plans.”

  “That we know of,” fretted Theodora. “And those useless nephews of old Odd-eyes are still around.”

  Narses snorted. “Those three idiots have absolutely no support. Hypatius is the only general I ever heard of who managed to lose sixty thousand men all at once. They were run off the edge of a cliff during a battle at Acris, near the Black Sea. Hypatius waded into the sea and tried to hide in the waves, but his head could be seen bobbing up and down. Then Vitalian took him hostage. No, Kyria, I would not fear any one of those three.”

  After eight pain-wracked days Justinian was still not much improved. Narses reported that he got some relief from having the lower end of his bed elevated, his knees propped on piles of cushions, and from mustard dressings on the afflicted parts. Yet still he suffered and his fever remained high.

  Antonina, a frequent visitor to the Hormisdas Palace, found her friend in tears.

  “They won’t even let me in to see him. And it must be so hard for him,” wept Theodora. “He’s in terrible pain. And it must be so … humiliating. And the palace physicians can’t do anything.”

  “Maybe you should call in someone else,” suggested Antonina. “There’s a marvellous man healing the sick near where you used to live. Comes from a rich Roman family, excellent education, skilled physician, but he has a calling to serve the poor. They say he can work wonders.”

  “Can you fetch him to the palace?” begged Theodora. “Please, Antonina, I don’t want to leave here right now, I’m terrified they wouldn’t let me in again. I’ll give you a bag of solidi …”

  “He doesn’t take money,” said Antonina. “He says he works for the glory of God. In fact, I heard that the Patriarch had ordained him a priest. They’re beginning to call him Saint Samson.”

  “Well, we need a miracle,” said Theodora. “Please, Antonina, just go and convince him he’s needed. Please! I’ll send you in a litter with guards.”

  “I can ask him,” said Antonina, pulling the hood of her heavy cloak over her red hair. “You’ll have to meet us at the Chalkê.”

  “I’ll be there,” vowed Theodora.

  And he came. He did not, she thought, look particularly saintly. Tall, heavily built and balding from a high forehead, he had bright blue eyes and a surprisingly deep voice. To her surprise it was easy to talk Narses into allowing the strange man into the sickroom; it seemed that his fame had reached even the Sacred Palace. Maybe matters were so desperate that anything might be tried, thought Theodora.

  “And I’m coming too,” she insisted. “You have to let me in.”

  Narses nodded reluctantly and stood aside.
/>   The room was stuffy, thickly curtained and warmed by two braziers. The air smelled dreadful; some kind of sweet perfume masked but did not overcome a sour stink of sweat and urine. Two court physicians were muttering in a corner, one short and rotund, the other tall but hunched. Two eunuchs, each no doubt with a resounding title such as Count of the Bedchamber, stood to attention against the wall, pretending to be simultaneously blind and invisible.

  From the doorway it was clear that the foot of the bed had been raised on blocks, while two large mounds under the covers of padded and embroidered silk blocked a view of the patient’s head.

  “This is Father Samson,” announced Theodora.

  “Gentlemen,” said Father Samson, in his resonant voice. The two physicians looked up, surprised. “I have been called to attend upon this patient. We should confer. I assume you have done blood-letting?”

  Such was his air of simple authority that they responded.

  “Yes, yes, regularly,” assented the one.

  “Black bile, black bile,” sighed the other. “The patient is melancholy. Very melancholy.”

  “No purges or emetics, though,” said the other. “The condition has caused much vomiting and diarrhoea, excusing your presence, Kyria.”

  Theodora shook her head. “Don’t mind me.”

  The supine patient let out a groan when he heard her voice. She took a few quick steps to the head of the bed and firmly took the hand that clutched at hers.

  “I’m here,” she said gently, as if reassuring a child. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

  “And his fever has remained high?”

  “He hasn’t been able to retain any medications. Not at all.”

  “Very well, then. First, this room is too hot. Please remove one brazier, draw the curtains aside, and open the window – just a little, but we must introduce fresh air.”

  Both physicians began to remonstrate, but Narses intervened. “Distinguished doctors, I think we must try whatever our consultant recommends.”

  “We shall retire,” said the short physician, angrily.

  “Since we have been replaced,” added the tall one.