by Marié Heese
“He’s unpredictable,” said Justinian, frustrated. “I never know when he’ll countermand my orders. And he’s always meant me to follow him on the throne, he’s always said that, he brought me to this city, had me educated, adopted me … But he’s capable of a completely crazy decision in one of his moments of … of delirium, and then who knows …”
“He should name you co-emperor,” said Theodora. “And you ought to be properly crowned. Then, when he dies, as he surely will quite soon, there cannot be the slightest doubt about the succession.”
“There shouldn’t be any doubt at all,” said Justinian. “God knows I have been dutiful, I have laboured, I have …”
“Yes, you have. But there is always Germanus,” warned Theodora. “You know there are people who favour him. Especially among the aristocrats. You should be very, very wary of Germanus.”
“And there are still Hypatius, Pompeius and Probus. Royal blood.”
“Idiots all,” said Theodora. “Besides, Anastasius had his royalty from his wife. He owed the purple to her, let no one forget.”
“True,” grunted Justinian. “Well, I’ll try to convince my uncle. If I can catch him on a rational day. The guards say he wanders in the gardens, talking to Euphemia.”
“Who has been dead for several years.”
“But not to him.”
The best Justinian could do was to achieve an extra rank, created by his royal uncle especially for him: Noblissimus. Higher even than patrician. But not yet royal.
“He sat there, hands trembling,” reported the newly promoted one, “and he shook his purple robe, and he said: ‘This is not a garment for young men!’”
“Young men!” echoed Theodora.
“Well,” said Justinian, “if he had been forty-five right now, he would no doubt feel young.”
Yet resist it as he might, the gangrene that had set in from the old arrow wound to his heel continued to devour the ailing emperor’s leg. It sapped his strength. The time came when he could no longer get out of bed. There he lay, in the Sacred Palace, in the Sacred Cubicle, in the huge carved and gilded bed, draped in silk, resting on tasselled cushions, surrounded by candles, physicians and sycophants, emitting a powerful odour of putrefaction.
“Uncle,” said Justinian, “it is necessary for you to act. You must ensure a smooth succession. There should be no possibility of confusion, no moment of weakness for our enemies to launch an attack. No opportunity for chaos. I have worked too hard … you, we have worked too hard … to … to let the chariot reins be plucked from our hands at the final bend.”
“Yes,” whispered a voice made harsh by pain, from the regal bed. “Time for me soon to be ushered out through the Nekra Gate.”
“Uncle …”
“We both know it. Yes, yes. Well. What does … what does Euphemia say?”
Euphemia? “The Empress was always fond of me,” said Justinian, truthfully.
“Hmmph. Yes, yes. Well, nephew, we have received a deputation of senators and senior officers of state, pleading your case. If it must be done, it must be done. The Patriarch …” The harsh, exhausted old voice petered out.
“Will have to officiate,” said Justinian, keeping his voice level with some difficulty as joy and triumph coursed through him.
“Yes, yes. Must crown … must crown you. Should be me,” said Justin, querulously. “As God’s regent here on earth.”
“Indeed, Uncle, that is so. But unfortunately …”
“The Patriarch … must … officiate,” gasped Justin. “My represen … tative.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
It was arranged. The initial ceremony took place on 4 April 527, in the Triclinium of the Nineteen Couches. Epiphanius, the Patriarch of Constantinople, acting on behalf of the Emperor Justin, placed the diadem on Justinian’s head. Custom prescribed that three days later, on Easter Day, the couple should go to the Church of the Holy Wisdom, where the Patriarch would consecrate them.
The Mistress of the Women’s Chambers in the Daphne Palace oversaw the dressing of Theodora in her royal robes. The perfectly proportioned little figure at the centre of attention was the smallest of them all. The Mistress, an unmarried daughter of an impoverished noble family, was extremely tall and thin, with a severe and bony face, while the two Ladies-in-Waiting were a strapping pair of twins.
Theodora was primarily aware of being thirsty. “Kyria should drink as little water as possible,” the Mistress had warned her early in the morning. “A man may still be passed a bottle at some stage of the ceremony. A woman cannot.”
Yet she took great pleasure in the dressing. Layer after layer of fine silk, beautifully embroidered with gold and silver thread, was slipped over her head, and carefully arranged to fall just right, over that same small body that had been splayed naked – no, not absolutely naked, but apparently so – and exposed to the lascivious gaze of many thousands of men, to be pecked at by geese. Now rich and rare materials covered her, beautified her, provided her with a new identity. The outer garments, of heavier silk brocade, sparkling with jewels, went on and were carefully draped, the tasselled sash tied exactly right, the flat wide collar of flaming gems settled on her narrow shoulders. Her small feet were thrust into scarlet shoes sewn with rubies. During the ceremony, she knew, a purple robe and diadem would complete the image of the new person she would become: the Empress Theodora. So long desired and striven for.
How she yearned to feel entirely legitimate, and safe. Yet even while the hands of women dressed her in garments befitting her new estate, even as she was shod as no other woman might be, even as she took her place beside Justinian in his regal, jewel-encrusted garments and crimson boots, even as the solemn procession entered the huge church to the soaring accompaniment of a sacred chant by a choir of bearded monks, she could not conquer the fear that somehow, something, someone, would put a stop to it. Outwardly she had the rigid, glowing beauty of an icon; but the core of her body trembled, it shivered in anticipation of she knew not what.
That was why her hands lighting the symbolic candles shook; why she stared straight ahead, never casting a glance upward at the gallery packed with women, where also her mother and sisters sat; why she did not even see the massed ranks of men precisely ordered by protocol on either side of the long aisle. Only one desperate look did she shoot away from the altar towards which the ponderous procession moved, and her eyes fastened for a moment on a statue of the Emperor Constantine’s mother Helena, carved from porphyry. It seemed to Theodora that it frowned. Imposter, she thought she heard it pronounce. Whore.
Yet despite her fear, she did not miss a step. Along the aisle they proceeded up to the sanctuary, where they lit more candles, thickening the air with smoke and incense. Tiny points of light glimmered in their many jewels. They stepped up from the nave to a table holding the Imperial regalia. In sonorous tones the Patriarch Epiphanius blessed each item. Now the Vestitores cloaked first Justinian and then Theodora in purple; then the Patriarch crowned them, one by one, with glittering diadems. His voice rang loudly: “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.” The sceptre of dominion was handed to Justinian. The massed spectators roared in unison: “Holy, holy, holy!” and the choir reached a crescendo: “Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth!” They were enthroned. They were acclaimed. Theodora’s internal shivering began to abate.
After the ceremony in the church had been completed, the splendid procession descended the church steps to resounding cheers. The newly crowned pair took their seats in the glittering state coach drawn by four black horses, heralded by trumpets, escorted by the Imperial Guards through the ecstatic, flower-bedecked and banner-swathed streets of their beloved city. Yet even when they reached the palace, the ceremonies were not yet complete. The royal couple and their entourage took the internal palace route to the Kathisma, where they emerged to be formally presented to the packed Hippodrome. More than a hundred thousand people roared their delight. Brilliantly coloured stan
dards dipped in homage.
“Justinian August! Be thou victorious!” thousands of voices rang out in unison. “Theodora Augusta! Long may thou live!”
Holding hands tightly, they acknowledged the adulation together.
“God have mercy!” bellowed the crowd. “God have mercy on the Emperor and Empress!”
“God have mercy,” whispered Theodora. Basileus and Basilissa, at long last.
Fifth interlude: The Nika revolt continues, 17 January, AD 532
Narses the eunuch: his journal
In the year of Our Lord 532, January 17
This morning, as a scarlet sun bled into the smoke, the Goths and Heruls issued forth once more from the palace barracks and hurled themselves at the rebel base. Yet even with the added force of soldiers from Hebdomon joining in the fraught battle, the stand-off continues. The insurgents took a stand in the Octagon, near the Basilica, and withstood all attempts to dislodge them. They held off wave after wave of attacks from the soldiers. At length, in utter frustration, someone conceived the idea of fighting fire with fire; the Imperial troops turned to the rebels’ own weapon and torched the Octagon.
This was a catastrophic action, for the fatal northerly still roared through the shattered streets. A third major conflagration destroyed not only the Octagon, but also the Church of St Theodore Sphoracius; it gobbled up the Palace of Lausus and all its many treasures; it raged along the porticos of the Mesê, then consumed the Church of St Aquilina and the arch across the Mesê near the Forum of Constantine.
More than a third of this great city lies in smoking ruins. Again the mercenaries returned to their barracks while the newly arrived soldiers – those who survived, for the battle was bloody – retired to their ships. The two generals are back with us, utterly despondent. They are not used to failure, especially Belisarius.
Justinian could not believe it. “My city is being destroyed, and my best generals are beaten to their knees!” he raged. “I might as well have sent out a gaggle of slaves with mops and dusters, for all the use you were!”
“Despotes, every day more reinforcements join the rioters,” said Belisarius, wiping perspiration from his forehead and leaving a black streak. “Riding in from the great estates. They have an army now.”
“So. Is this a plan to rid the kingdom of the peasant who should not be wearing the purple, is that it?”
“It may not have begun as an insurrection, Despotes,” said Belisarius. “But it undoubtedly is one now.”
Gloomily, Mundus concurred, his weather-beaten face wrinkled with woe. Both great generals smell powerfully of smoke and sweat.
And Procopius, ever diligent, writes.
Justinian and Theodora withdrew to their private quarters; as always, I knew he would discuss his options with his wife.
In the late afternoon, Justinian emerged and drew me aside. “Narses,” he said, “I’m ordering everyone to gather in the triclinium. I’m going to tell the senators to leave, and Hypatius and Pompeius as well.” His round dark eyes had a wild and skittish look, much like those of a frightened horse. “I want you to see to it that there are guards ready to escort them out.”
“Despotes, is this wise?” Undistinguished though these two nephews of old Anastasius are, they do have royal blood, and I suspect that either one might form a focus for the insurrection.
Justinian drew back behind a velvet drape. “Let them go out and see if they can wrest the throne from me,” he said in a low voice. “Let them commit themselves to treason. Let there be no possible doubt in anybody’s mind what they are guilty of.”
I looked at him. I hear you speak, I thought. That is your voice, it comes from your mouth, but those are Theodora’s words. She may be staying out of sight, but she cannot fool me. She wants them gone, not just from the palace, but entirely out of the way. She’s rolling the dice; if they do go out, and if one of them is put up in opposition to the legitimate emperor, he who was elected, anointed, and crowned, and if, in the face of that opposition, she and Justinian prevail, then the hapless pretender will be a political criminal. He will have shown himself to be a traitor. The Emperor will have every right to condemn him to death. And it is very likely that the rebels will seek someone to elevate. Furthermore, it is extremely likely that these two witless fellows will be drawn into treason the moment they leave this safe haven. And then she will be able to get rid of them. Oh, my lady, you are a fearful foe.
“And I’ll no longer protect these senators when it’s their very own armies who besiege the palace gates,” went on Justinian. “They too must leave. At once.”
“I’ll muster the guards, Despotes,” I said, and left unobtrusively to round up four burly excubitors I knew to be loyal to Justinian. I had them wait in the corridor while I slipped back inside.
A sadly bedraggled lot it was that shuffled into the triclinium, tense and weary. The six senators have been keeping to their allotted sleeping quarters, only gathering with the rest of us at mealtimes, but they too were ordered to line up, shoulder to shoulder with the hated Cappa-docian John who had wrung more taxes from them than they had ever been forced to yield up before, the detested Tribonian, who sold justice in practice while he clarified it in principle, the arrogant Praetorian Prefect Eudaemon, and the two nincompoops who had diced away the hours of what might well be their last days on this earth. The two generals, sword in hand, flanked the exit. Only Theodora was not present, clearly with permission, since she sent no excuse.
Justinian was composed, his expression grim. Curtly he informed the group that all except the three dismissed officials, the generals and the secretary were to depart at once. The senators had probably been expecting some such order, for they looked resigned and unsurprised.
Hypatius and Pompeius, however, were aghast. “But, Despotes, we cannot … it would not be … be right, to abandon our sovereign lord at such a dangerous time,” exclaimed Hypatius, gesturing widely with his pudgy hands.
“Indeed, Despotes, my brother speaks for both of us,” added Pompeius, shocked into standing up straight for once. “Our place is here! We are both … both military men!”
Even the senators, about to be expelled, smiled dourly at this sudden metamorphosis of the lounging gamblers into courageous saviours of the crown.
“We are adequately protected,” said Justinian. “You should go home and see to the safety of your families.”
“But … but … Thrice August … we cannot … it might …” Hypatius was gabbling. He knows, I thought, he knows that the insurgents are very likely to seek an alternative to the Emperor, and they will most probably fix on him. But he cannot voice such a thought to Justinian, for it might seem that he looks forward to his elevation. Besides, it could occur to Justinian to remove a possible alternative forthwith: he need only give the nod to Belisarius. Hypatius is in a such a panic that his lower lip trembles like a child’s.
“Our place is here,” reiterated Pompeius. Yet already he sounded less convinced than he had before. Could it be possible, I wondered, that the fool has ambitions to mount the throne? He is surely stupid and grasping – two characteristics that will not prolong his undistinguished life.
Out they went, the aristocratic senators holding their heads high; perhaps they hope that they will never again need to prostrate themselves before a peasant and a sometime whore. That would gladden their hearts. But the pathetic duo who do have royal blood would make a sad alternative. The excubitors saw them all off.
Here we sit, the small remaining core around the royal pair. Darkness falls, seeming merely a thickening of the smoky pall in which we have been enveloped since Wednesday.
Part 6: Wearing the purple AD 527-532
Chapter 21: Despotes and Despoina
Reluctant though he had been to relinquish the purple, the aged Justin was finally overcome by gangrene. As it consumed his leg, it wrested from him his obstinate peasant strength, his grip on power, and ultimately his hold on life. Only a few months after the grand consecra
tion in the Sancta Sophia, Justinian and Theodora moved out of the Hormisdas Palace to take possession of the Imperial Palace. Justinian would now spend many of his often wakeful nights in the Sacred Cubicle in the Sacred Palace, fumigated and renovated after the old emperor’s putrefying body had been removed; she was installed with an extensive entourage in the magnificent royal suite in the Daphne Palace, occupied not so long ago by an empress who had been a slave.
Whereas the new empress had been an actress, an acrobat and worse. So said the vicious gossip in aristocratic circles, spreading like a nasty smell, and impossible to fumigate.
“People are giggling about something behind my back,” Theodora complained to Narses. “I’m being very careful to carry out proper protocol, just as you instruct me. To my face, everyone is respectful, but just as I turn away, I sense a … a ripple of suppressed mirth. How am I making a fool of myself? You must tell me!”
“You are behaving perfectly correctly, Basilissa,” said Narses. “No one could fault you. Most dignified.”
“Well, then, what is it? There’s something going on.” Her normally pale face was flushed with mortification.
Narses sighed. “It’s a comment someone made. It’s been doing the rounds.”
“Tell me! Come on, out with it!”
“Someone said, there have been empresses who became harlots, but never in our history has a … has a …”
“… harlot become an empress,” she supplied.
He looked completely woebegone.
“That’s right, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
“Yes, Basilissa.”
“I’ll show them!” she said. “I’ll teach them to laugh at me!”
Protocol in the palace and in the public rooms was intensified. Justinian would not allow any disrespect to be shown to his “most pious consort”, his gift from God. Nor, for that matter, to his thrice august self. He decreed that they would assume the titles of Despotes and Despoina. Then it would no longer be sufficient for anyone to merely genuflect to either of them, or to bow a meek head for the Emperor’s kiss.
