by Marié Heese
The two physicians left the room grim with injured dignity, while the eunuchs jumped to do what they were told.
“Now, we require an infusion of ginger and rosemary. It must steep for a good five minutes.”
“The kitchens will have both,” said Narses.
“But I’ll make it myself,” said Theodora, who mistrusted any concoction that she had not seen prepared.
“I’ll have boiling water sent up,” said Narses, “and the herbs and ginger.”
The ambient temperature of the room came down. Theodora made the infusion and the air acquired the scent of herbs. She sat down on a stool next to the bed and helped Justinian to drink the infusion, lifting his head on her arm. He swallowed with difficulty, but managed almost a cup, then dropped back onto the pillows, which had been newly turned and plumped, clinging to Theodora’s hand.
“Now, let us pray,” said Father Samson. He fell to his knees and put his right hand on Justinian’s chest. The patient’s breathing, which had been quick and shallow, gradually grew slower, deeper and quieter. “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name.”
“Amen,” said Theodora. As the sonorous voice spoke in the silent room, she put her cheek against Justinian’s hand, holding on to it tightly. She willed him to recover.
“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with loving kindness and tender mercies; who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s.”
“Amen,” said Theodora.
“Thou, Holy Father, doctor of souls and bodies, who sent thy only begotten Son Jesus Christ to cure every sickness and to free us from death, heal also thy servant from the infirmity of body and spirit that afflicts him.”
“Amen,” Theodora echoed fervently. Justinian’s grip on her hand tightened. It seemed to her that some force coursed through her body and into his and back again. They were conjoined.
“Father, bring him out of his distresses. Look upon his affliction and his pain; and forgive all his sins. Teach us, Holy Father, to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom, that we may serve thy kingdom.”
“Amen!”
“We ask these things by the grace of Christ. Amen.”
Amen, amen, amen, thought Theodora.
Father Samson left orders. There was to be no more bloodletting nor hot poultices. Definitely no purges or emetics. Regular draughts of infusion, with chamomile and eucalyptus added, and powdered extract of willow bark as soon as the nausea had been overcome. Plenty of rest. Music, he said, would be beneficial. Find a musician to play a harp. And feed the Consul soft-boiled eggs.
Within a week, the recovery was remarkable.
“Oh, Mother!” wept Theodora. “He is better! He is truly better! He has no more fever, no more swelling, no more pain! He can walk again, with ease!”
“Just as well,” said Anastasia, “since men live so greatly by their balls.”
“Mother! How can you be so coarse – so horrible! Can’t you just be glad for him?”
“My dear child,” said Anastasia, in some surprise, “you really do love him!”
“Yes,” said Theodora. “Yes, I do, I do.”
Justinian flung himself into his interrupted activities with renewed energy. Father Samson had refused to accept any payment – no gold, no silver, no jewellery, no property. But since a grateful Justinian insisted on some kind of reward, Father Samson requested, instead, the building of a hospital devoted to caring for the poor. This was immediately undertaken, on a piece of ground directly next door to the Great Church of the Holy Wisdom. Justinian proclaimed that it would be known as the Hospice of Father Samson and that it would be well funded by the crown. It would also be a centre for the training of young physicians. Soon the word “Father” had, in common usage, changed to “Saint”. The building went forward exceptionally quickly.
Justinian again exerted pressure on the Emperor to promulgate a new law allowing marriage between former actresses and people of quality.
“Theodora has already been raised to the rank of patrician, Uncle,” he argued. “It is unconscionable that I cannot be allowed to marry her. Besides, it will benefit society in general if retired actresses – of course suitably contrite …”
“Of course,” agreed Justin.
“… are allowed to make good marriages rather than becoming nuns, for which not everyone has a calling or aptitude, or else being a burden on society.”
Justin, tired of conflict and perhaps remembering the former status of his own empress, complied. The law was passed, and the marriage between Justinian and the bearkeeper’s daughter, sometime actress and courtesan, was at last possible. Acting in unison, they had bent circumstances to their will.
On the morning of the wedding, Justinian presented Theodora with a scroll that bore the royal seal and was tied up with a golden tasselled cord. He had a barely suppressed smile and the air of someone exceptionally pleased with himself. “Open it,” he said.
“What is this?”
“It is my nuptial gift to you. Go on, open it.”
Puzzled, Theodora undid the cord and broke the seal. She scanned the formal legal document and looked up at Justinian in disbelief. “It’s … it’s a title deed,” she said.
“Yes, and it’s in your name. In perpetuity. The Hormisdas Palace is now Theodora’s house.”
She jumped at him and flung her arms around his neck, her small feet off the floor and kicking in delight. “Justinian!”
He laughed, kissed her, and let her down gently. “There! Now nobody will ever have the right to throw you out.”
“You heard about the villa in town,” she said.
“Yes, I did. Narses knew, he told me. Don’t worry, the hire agreement has been cancelled. You have your very own place.”
“My very own place,” said Theodora. “Oh, yes!”
Chapter 20: Ceremonies
Theodora married Justinian in July, in the year of Our Lord 525. “It cannot be a spectacular ceremony,” said Justinian. “I want to get married as soon as possible. But we must keep it small, and private. We must allow no opportunity whatsoever for …” He paused.
“… controversy,” said Theodora. She understood very well what he did not spell out. It would not be a popular union. Not with the Emperor, not with the old aristocratic Roman families, not with the senators, the army, the bureaucrats, nor even with the palace staff. Yet it would happen, because Justinian willed it. And so did she. That, thought Theodora, was surely the essence of power: the ability to make things happen, even if others were opposed. You could will it, and so it would be.
Early that morning, Theodora visited the shrine to the Virgin Mary at Blachernae, outside the Walls of Theodosius. Green-streaked marble walls with pillars and arches enclosed the holy fountain and the deep sacred bath into which she sank, naked, her loose black hair floating around her like some strange water lily. Holding her breath, she stayed under the cool water as long as she could, then emerged, streaming. The place had a dank and earthy odour, a sulphurous tang; it was believed to cure many ills.
“Blessed Mother of Christ,” prayed Theodora, recalling the words of St Paul that she had studied in Alexandria, “make me holy and without blemish, since in Christ we have our redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace. Holy Mother, enlighten the eyes of my heart. I believe that by grace I may be saved through faith, not of myself, but through the gift of God. Witness that I praise the greatness of God, above all rule, and authority, and power, and dominion, and every name that is named, not only in this age, but also in that which is to come.”
Again and again she sank below the surface; then she emerged and walked up the marble steps on cool, wet feet to be patted dry and wrapped in her cloak. She had been cleansed, she thought; she had been wash
ed; all traces of the men who had known her, the joy and pain, the happiness and hardship, the grievous losses wrung from her in blood, all had been wiped away. She would go to Justinian renewed, robed and veiled in white silk, preceded by a branch of white thorns signifying purity.
Only a small group of people had been invited to witness the ceremony, and it would be conducted by a priest from the primary church inside the palace walls, not the Patriarch of Constantinople. There would not be a single person present, thought Theodora, who disapproved of her or hated her. Lupicina who had become Euphemia could no longer offer opposition. Time and determination had vanquished her, Empress though she had been. Even a seemingly insuperable legal obstacle had been removed. The will of Justinian and Theodora, locked together, acting in unison, had prevailed.
The guests who were ushered in to the Hormisdas triclinium where the ceremony was to take place were greeted by the scent of roses. Huge vases filled with white roses lined the veined green marble walls. Looped swathes of golden silk and gold candelabra decorated the white damask tables where the wedding feast would be served. Narses, his simian face even more doleful than usual, stood in the background quietly overseeing every small detail.
Anastasia, Comito and Stasie were present, resplendent in new outfits of pastel silk; Marcus Anicius, in his senatorial garb; Indaro and Chrysomallo, awed by the occasion, in their somewhat garish best; while two young nephews of Justinian’s in scholarian uniform attended on the bridegroom, whose ruddy cheeks testified to the recovery of his good health and who wore his consular attire with aplomb.
At the last minute, Justin, formally robed in purple, was assisted down the steps leading from the Sacred Palace to the Hormisdas entrance. Into the triclinium he tottered, held more or less erect by the muscular arm of an Imperial guard and a golden staff. He was installed on a gilded chair, his heavily bandaged leg propped on a silken cushion upon a stool. With him he brought an aura of majesty and power, and a faintly rotten smell.
The singing strings of a harp heralded the entrance of Theodora in a swirl of white silk; Antonina in a green tunic walked ahead of the bride with a branch of white thorns held high. Juliana, now almost eight and a beautiful black-haired cherub, solemnly carried her mother’s pearl-encrusted train. Looking straight ahead, the bride approached with measured paces to take her place beside the waiting groom. When she reached his side, she tilted her head to look up at his much greater height. Behind the misty veil her features were indistinct, but his expression – rapt as that of a visionary beholding a miracle – was plain for all to see.
Two tall silentiaries stepped forward to flank the bridal couple, each bearing a flaming torch.
“Why must there be torches, Narses?” Juliana had asked earlier, fascinated by all the preparations.
“There must be a burning flame at every wedding, even one held in the morning on a clear and sunny day,” said Narses. “It is symbolic.”
“What does that mean?” She wore the small frown that signalled her earnest intent to understand the world around her.
“I suppose that in pagan times it was believed that torches ward off darkness and evil spirits. But now, the torchlight represents Christ as the Light of the World.”
“Ah, I see.” She nodded, satisfied that now she knew.
So, at the wedding of Theodora and Justinian, to the scent of roses and decay there was added the acrid smell of burning.
Magnificent embroidered vestments draped the gaunt form of the presiding priest who raised his hands and lowered his head, presenting a freckled tonsure to the bridal couple. He intoned: “Let us pray.” They bowed their heads.
The priest proceeded to pray for the couple in sonorous tones, using formal Latin phrases hallowed by time. Then, when he went on to describe the sacrament of marriage and address the bride and groom directly, he switched to the more commonly understood Greek. “Brethren,” he said, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God and His Angels and all the Saints, and in the face of the Church, to join together two bodies, to wit, that of this man and this woman, that henceforth they may be one body …”
Oh, yes, thought Theodora. Oh, yes.
“… and that they may be two souls in the faith and law of God, that they may together deserve eternal life, despite whatsoever they heretofore have done.”
Amen, amen, amen, thought Theodora.
“Lord have mercy,” chorused the guests.
“The servant of God Justinian and the handmaid of God Theodora, now plight each other their troth.”
“Lord have mercy,” responded the assembled guests.
“May there be granted unto them children for the continuation of their race, and all their petitions which are unto salvation.”
“Lord have mercy,” came the response, led by Theodora’s clear voice.
“Pray that the Lord will send down upon them perfect and peaceful love and succour.”
“Lord have mercy,” said Justinian with feeling.
“You may now exchange rings,” said the priest, and the plain gold bands were slipped onto the right hand of each partner.
From the draped table serving as an altar, the priest took two lighted candles in solid gold sconces, giving one to Justinian and one to Theodora. “May Christ, the Light of the World, light the way of your life together. Join your right hands.”
Justinian’s large and bony hand firmly grasped Theodora’s small one.
“Oh Lord, unite thy servants and crown them in one flesh.”
The priest made the sign of the cross over the wedding crowns, slim golden pearl-encrusted circlets joined to each other with a symbolic ribbon, and placed them on the bent heads of the couple.
“O eternal God who has brought into unity these who were sundered,” entreated the priest, “and has ordained for them an indissoluble bond of love …”
It seemed to Theodora that the silken ribbon linking her to Justinian had become as strong and binding as the hawsers that held ships safely connected to shore in the Golden Horn.
“… bless also these thy servants, Justinian and Theodora, guiding them unto every good work …”
Oh yes, thought Theodora, I will do good works. I will.
“For unto thee are due all glory, honour and worship, to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and for ever and unto all ages of ages.”
“Lord have mercy,” came the fervent chorus.
“Amen.”
The priest then blessed the single chalice from which both the bride and groom would sip. An indissoluble bond of love, thought Theodora. Now we are truly conjoined.
“You’re not falling pregnant,” observed Anastasia. “Strange, seeing how very fertile you were when it was not convenient.”
“I don’t understand it,” said Theodora, suppressing a flare-up of anger against her mother. Anastasia had always been outspoken and age had not mellowed her.
“Well, perhaps it’s due to Justinian’s illness,” said Anastasia. “We don’t know whether he was potent before, do we? No illegitimate children born to concubines?”
“No,” said Theodora shortly. “None. We don’t know.”
“But he’s up to it now, is he? I mean …”
“Mother!”
“I merely ask. We do know that you are capable. You had Juliana after Fat Rosa’s ministrations, after all.”
“Yes,” said Theodora. But her mother didn’t know of the baby so violently lost in Apollonia, nor how her maltreated body had protested and mourned in blood and fever. She would not tell her about that. Nor need her mother know with what furious passion Justinian now took his wife, as if to will his seed into her yearning womb. Nor yet with what joyous abandon Theodora answered his possessive thrusting. At long last a wife, legitimised and loved, she now willed a child. Since she had willed such extraordinary realities into being, Theodora felt she should be able to will into existence a son from her still supple loins.
They continued living in the Hormisdas Pala
ce. Theodora discovered that Justinian was a tireless worker, needing far less sleep than she did. Studying, planning and dreaming, he stalked the corridors, a restless, prowling presence that seemed to some malevolent. “You should stop wandering around at night,” she said. “People talk. All manner of weird stories about you are going around.”
Justinian merely smiled. “I know,” he said. “Rumours that I am a demon, that I change shape and flit through walls. It is quite useful to have people believing that one has supernatural powers.”
“Or that one is entirely ruthless,” said Theodora.
He looked at her levelly. “Yes. That also. I wander at night because it helps me think. And there are not so many interruptions when everyone else is asleep.”
There were many matters that demanded his attention, crowding into his busy mind at night like the numberless supplicants who besieged him every day. Legal reforms were already under way. Theodora remembered the corruption witnessed in Apollonia and she exercised her influence: a new law that prohibited the purchase of public office was promulgated. In the wording of the law, Justinian referred to “our most pious consort, granted us by God”.
Surely, Procopius was reported to have remarked, the woman has bewitched her spouse.
The will of Justinian was also materialising in the shape of new building projects. The hospice promised to Father Samson was soon completed and filled with the suffering poor. Justinian and Theodora both thought that more hospices should be built. Also more churches, to the greater glory of God. Acqueducts and cisterns, said Justinian, were as essential as walls and forts, both of which should be extended and strengthened: Constantinople must be capable of withstanding any attack by barbarian hordes. It should never be sacked as the great city of Rome had been sacked. It must be self-sufficient in case of siege. It must be made safe. Large numbers of builders were set to work.
Yet the aged Justin, approaching eighty now, would not relinquish nor officially share any of his power. He clung to it as he clung to life, with a peasant’s crafty obstinacy. Some days he seemed to be feeble and confused; then suddenly he would gather his strength, like an old but still savage lion rearing its scarred head out of the brush, to roar and terrify all before him with one more pain-engendered, furious charge.
