by Marié Heese
“Merely a setback,” repeated Justinian with conviction. “Look at this map. You’ll note that the Euphrates and its islands are well into Persian territory. Belisarius may have lost one battle. But he has kept the frontier intact. I have confidence in him.”
Belisarius had certainly not lost the war. He went on to take several fiercely defended strongholds. “He utilises surprise and audacity,” commented Narses, who closely followed all the twists and turns of the war on the Persian front. “Also, he depends on highly trained and extremely mobile cavalry. That’s how he often outmanoeuvres an enemy with far larger numbers in the field.”
“You are very knowledgeable about war,” observed Theodora, “for a …” She paused.
“For a eunuch?” supplied Narses, mimicking the tone of contempt so often employed by others.
“I meant to say, for a court official. You shouldn’t be so touchy.”
“Touchy! Touchy!” In that moment, pure fury glared out of his eyes. “One has been unmanned, one has been mutilated, one may never live a full life, one suffers lifelong contempt, but one must not be touchy!”
Theodora was shaken by the force of the emotion suddenly unleashed by her unthinking words from someone usually serenely composed and self-contained. “Narses, please, I didn’t mean to hurt you! I just …”
Angry tears stood in his wounded eyes. He breathed deeply and unevenly, turned his back on her and walked away, entirely disregarding the protocol that forbade this.
“Narses,” she said. “Please. Don’t be angry. You’re my best friend. I depend on you. Don’t go.”
She could see his back shake as he fought for self-control.
At length he turned. “I come from a family of military men,” he said in clipped tones. “I have made a study of the art of war. I have studied every codex on war, every report on a major battle. Whatever has been …” he swallowed hard, “been removed from me, it is not my insight, it is not my courage. It is not my ability to …” He stood still, breathing with obvious care.
“I have the greatest respect for you,” said Theodora, her heart wrung. “So does the Emperor.”
“I know,” said Narses, shortly. “The Despotes has just informed me, he has appointed me Commander of the Imperial Guard.”
“Well, that’s wonderful! You see, he trusts you, he depends on you as I do! I am so glad.”
Narses said, mastering himself with a visible effort: “I’ll do my best to give satisfaction.”
Like her aunt Comito, Juliana was soon with child. Zeno was as pleased with himself as if he had achieved a significant victory on the battlefield; Theodora was delighted; what Juliana felt was never the particular issue. She had to ensure the succession and she was doing her duty. As was expected of her.
One year after her wedding, she was safely delivered of a lusty son. She gave birth reasonably easily, as her mother had done when she was born. She did not labour long. “His name shall be Anastasius,” said his proud grandmother, brooking no arguments. “He shall bear the name of a king. Besides, it also honours my mother.” She gave orders for celebratory masses to be held in every church in Constantinople.
Juliana insisted on breastfeeding him. “I don’t want a wet nurse! This is my baby, and I’ll feed him myself!” For the first time, Theodora saw in Juliana, who was usually so biddable and accommodating, something of her own adamantine spirit, and it pleased her. The baby was well formed and vigorous. He latched on to his mother’s swollen, blue-veined breast with determination, swallowing audibly with little grunts and whuffles of satisfaction.
His life force is strong, thought Theodora, watching. Why could he not have been mine? Oh, I should have borne this child! I could have borne such a child! Her nipples contracted with longing.
When he was sated, Theodora took him from his mother’s arms, well wrapped in swaddling clothes, a bubble of milk clinging to his small, perfect, still seeking mouth. She held him tightly. This is bone of my bones, she thought. Flesh of my flesh. He is so beautiful. He smells so beautiful. We have a son, for the succession! At last, we have a son! Praise the Lord, oh my soul and all that is within me, praise his holy name!
Theodora received from Antonina a long letter sent to Constantinople along with military despatches.
My dearest Theodora,
Salutations to the Empress!
You will, of course, be receiving the usual reports from my husband, but I can tell you some things that will not be mentioned therein. First and foremost, my friend, I’m happy! Happy, happy, happy! Didn’t think it was possible, at my age, but I’ve been surprised by love. Belisarius is a truly extraordinary man. At first I thought he couldn’t possibly be as brave and noble and, well, great, as he seems. I thought he must have some murky hidden depths where bad things lurk. But he hasn’t. He’s clear water. All the way down. I am so immeasurably fortunate, to have married such a man.
And then, there’s Theodosius. He’s a delight. (And handsome. Blond Gothic good looks, Belisarius might well have been his father.) We’ve become fast friends. Naturally he has no idea of any blood connection between us, but even had we been complete strangers, as he believes we are, I am certain we would have taken to each other. We share the same somewhat irreverent sense of humour and we often find ourselves laughing together about something no one else seems to have remarked.
He’s been well brought up, although in the Eunomian faith, which as you know is a heresy, but he’s accepted Orthodoxy, and just before we left, he was baptised at a most moving ceremony, where Belisarius and I stood up as godparents. He has a sharp intelligence, reads and writes fluently in Latin and Greek, and has a particular interest in and talent for drawing maps. This suits Belisarius, who holds that strategy in warfare is dependent on geography, and does not move one mile without a mapmaker. So Theodosius, like myself, is always at his side.
Life on campaign is often tough, of course. Hours on horseback. At first Belisarius wanted me to be carried in a litter. Not on your life, I said. I grew up with horses. I can ride. So I do. And just as soon as he decides where to stop over, I direct the setting up of his tent, everything in its place, bed made, lamps lit. I make him as comfortable as I can, although he refuses any special luxuries that his men don’t have. There aren’t many other wives, but soldiers on a campaign have a way of attracting women from the countryside. Especially the cavalry. They’re always the biggest, most muscular men, and they look frightfully impressive riding by.
You shouldn’t think that an army consists exclusively of soldiers. In a way, it’s a huge perambulating household, and it requires an able quartermaster, muleteers who transport equipment, tents and food supplies, cooks who can prepare not only the usual rations but also meat, grains, vegetables and fruit acquired from the local territory, artisans like smiths and leatherworkers, eunuchs who do administrative work (I’m able to help with that), slaves and washerwomen. The latter often serve a dual purpose, as you may imagine. Naturally we are also accompanied by physicians versed in the treatment of war wounds, and several priests.
Belisarius is always attended by two spear-bearers who are officers in his own comitatus, numbering around two thousand right now. They were not best pleased to discover that I was henceforth to be always at his side. However, they have observed that just like them, I am devoted to the general, and to his welfare and happiness, and they have somewhat reluctantly accepted me.
There’s an ever-present edge of danger, especially when actual fighting takes place (there’s a lot more marching and riding to and fro than you might expect), and when at last one comes to rest, it’s as if the smallest things have value, because you might never have them again. Just a fire to warm oneself at, a tin plate with steaming stewed wild hare, a warm blanket, and a beloved body, miraculously safe, to be held and cherished – those are all one wants. Riches beyond compare.
I did not expect that I would ever be so blessed. I think of you often, my dear friend, and pray that you too may be blessed wit
h the child you so earnestly desire.
Ever your loving friend
Antonina
For some time the reports from the Persian front were mixed. The battle surged inconclusively to and fro across the extended frontier. Then Justinian took a drastic decision. “I am recalling Belisarius and Mundus to Constantinople,” he told Theodora.
She frowned. “Why?”
“The war against Persia is not, I think, capable of being finally resolved. Neither one of us can win decisively. We take some forts, they take some forts. We win some battles, they win some battles. It drains our coffers and it ties up our soldiers and it has no future.”
“Are you simply going to leave the field and let them redraw the boundaries as they please?” asked Theodora, dismayed.
“No. We’ll negotiate a treaty. They are demanding a considerable tribute, since they have lately won a couple of engagements and their forces outnumber ours. It will cost us less, in the long run, to pay up than to continue to fritter away income and men in an endless war.”
“Will Khosrau maintain his side of a peace treaty?”
“It will be called the Endless Peace,” said Justinian. “He has agreed to that. Once the details have been sorted out, we shall be free – free to take on the Vandals.”
“In Africa,” said Theodora, understanding. “You want to reclaim Africa in the west?”
“Yes! We must wrest it from the Vandals. They may have held it for three centuries, but it was a Roman province and so it shall be again. I am determined. We must reclaim Africa, then Spain, Sicily, Gaul, Italy – ultimately Rome itself.”
“Will you send Belisarius?”
“For certain. I am sure that Belisarius will achieve great victories. But first he must come back, and we must provision a great expeditionary force.”
With Belisarius came Antonina, sunbrowned, glossy and glowing.
“You look like a well-curried horse,” said Theodora. “Clearly campaigning suits you. And you can’t be going hungry, you’ve become somewhat overweight.”
“I’m not fat,” said Antonina. “I’m pregnant. Seven months already.”
“Oh.”
Antonina put her hand on her friend’s arm. “I’m sorry. I mean, for myself I’m glad, but I know this is hard for you.”
Theodora thought, desolately: every woman in Byzantium can fall pregnant, only not the Empress. She asked, “Does Belisarius want this child?”
“He’s delighted, and so solicitous you’d think I was bearing a new Messiah.”
“But you can’t give birth on the outskirts of a battlefield, surely!”
“No, I’m going to my aunt and uncle in Bithynia, while the expeditionary force is assembled. I’ll leave the baby with them. They brought up Photius and Alexia. She’s married now, lives nearby, she’ll help. My place is with Belisarius.”
Leave the baby! cried Theodora in her yearning heart. She said: “So. You’re sure you’ll have no regrets?”
“Of course I will. Of course. But I won’t take a baby on campaign, and besides, I can be close to Theodosius.”
“And you’re determined to go to Africa?”
“My place is with Belisarius,” reiterated Antonina. “He really is a wonderful, wonderful man.”
“Nothing negative at all?”
“Well, he snores,” said Antonina.
No avid eyes on the throne? No secret ambition to reign over the Byzantine Empire? No desire for absolute power? wondered Theodora. But she could not put such questions to the general’s devoted wife.
A message reached Theodora that a man from the Kynêgion wished to speak to her. Privately. When Narses told him to wait his turn, as all other supplicants had to do, he insisted that the Despoina would see him if she knew who he was. “Tell her it’s Marius,” he said. “Old dancing master of the Blues. If she does not remember, remind her of chicken livers.”
Theodora did remember. She had him brought to her in a garden daubed richly russet by autumn, in the lee of the Hormisdas Palace. He was smaller and thinner than she remembered, and where he had always sported a row of artful black ringlets, he was now bald. His smile revealed several missing teeth. He still had the swaggering carriage of an actor and dancer, though, as he walked towards her across drifts of fallen leaves, his poise and exaggerated gestures calling for long-unheard applause.
“Despoina,” he intoned, preparing to prostrate himself at her small feet in their embroidered shoes. He also still possessed the resonant tones of a well-schooled voice.
“Oh, Marius!” She reached out.
He knelt instead, took her hands and kissed them with a flourish. “Remarkable,” he said. “Still beautiful. Even more beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I heard you buried your beloved mother recently. My condolences. A remarkable woman, most remarkable.”
“Yes, she was,” said Theodora. “I miss her terribly. Dear Marius, take a seat – here, let’s sit together on this bench.”
“And look out over the boundless sea.” He grunted as he lowered himself onto the stone seat, and narrowed his eyes against the brilliance of the setting sun on turquoise water. “Your horizons have expanded, Despoina, in sad contrast to little old me. Mine have shrunk. I am retired now, merely lending a hand in the properties department.”
“What can I do for you?”
“It is I that have brought something to show to you. Despoina, I bring a message. No, a warning. I know you are busy, but this is important. I have brought these.” He drew a small parcel from under his cloak and laid it on her silken lap, leaned across and undid the string.
Theodora found herself staring at burned and broken clay figures, with rough black writing on the pieces.
“If you put the bits together, you can read the words,” he said, fitting jagged edges together.
“I … burn thy name, accursed … Green,” read Theodora, with growing dismay. “May thou never … rest in peace. May thou be … forever damned when … when … the Day of Judgement dawns.” She drew a shaky breath. “What is this? It’s dreadful!”
“Execration texts,” said Marius. “Thrown onto recent graves. By supporters of the Blues, but also of the Greens. One sees more and more of this. Strife between Greens and Blues increases by the day. I thought, if you see these, you will understand the depth of hatred that exists. Despoina, it is dangerous.”
“Justinian … the Emperor … has given orders that the gangs should be disciplined. Of both factions. Eudaemon has strict instructions to be even-handed.”
“Yes, Despoina. The result is, the Blues feel that he has abandoned them, while the Greens feel that they are being unfairly targeted. There is enormous resentment, enormous pressure building up. And then, Despoina, Cappadocian John …”
“I know that he is widely hated,” said Theodora.
“Some of his changes have possibly been to the general benefit, but now this man has overreached himself. His latest action can only lead to calamity.”
“What has he done?”
“He has cut down the state post and he’s drastically reduced public transport all over the Empire; where it does still run, asses instead of horses are being used.”
“Why is that not a good idea? I should think it would be a substantial saving,” said Theodora.
“Despoina, it has had a devastating effect on the farmers. They’ve always relied on public transport to get their produce to market, or to ports. I have – I had – two brothers who farm the land. They and many others have resorted to carrying loads on their backs. Last month my younger brother fell by the wayside on the road to Constantinople. He died in a ditch and the crows fed on his eyes.”
“I am so … dreadfully sorry to hear that.”
He ducked his bald head in acknowledgement. “Many farmers are simply leaving their crops to rot. We shall have acute food shortages soon. I think nobody wants to be the bearer of such bad news, so perhaps the Emperor does not know of this.”
“Thank you, Marius. We have heard that refugees are coming to the city, but it sounds much worse than we’d thought. I’ll convey this to the Emperor. Now tell me, what can I do for you?”
“Well, Despoina, I … I didn’t come to beg.” Yet he had a look, half ashamed and half shifty, that belied his words.
“I know. But I can never forget that you saved our family.”
He gave a deprecating shrug, but he looked pleased.
“A small pension, perhaps?” she suggested.
“Wouldn’t come amiss, Despoina. Truth be told, old Marius is a bit hard pressed.”
“It shall be arranged.”
Justinian did not place much credence on this dire warning. “My dear Theodora, you need not fear the gangs. Eudaemon has matters firmly in hand. We can’t allow an old actor to frighten us. He invented a drama, because he wanted a pension. You gave him one, no doubt?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You see? Quite simple.”
“But the farmers, Justinian! Crops left on the land? What shall we eat?”
“The man exaggerated, he was playing on your soft heart. Some peasants are going to the wall, I know that is happening, but we are getting a grip on the rich landowners who exploit them. Meanwhile, taxes are pouring in, I’ve been able to keep our promises to succour Jerusalem.”
“Doubtless Saint Sabas will be pleased,” said Theodora.
“It will soon all be so much better,” said Justinian reassuringly. “Matters will fall into place.”
“Perhaps,” said Theodora. Yet she was tense and restless, like a cat on a velvet cushion sensing, beneath the plush and yielding luxury, hints of an impending seismic convulsion too far off as yet for humans to discern.
January arrived with a chill north wind. It lashed the sea into froth and scoured the icy streets and impertinently rattled the doors and shutters of the Imperial Palace. Beggars cowered in culverts while rioting youths smashed and looted shops. Blue and Green partisans clashed and the wounded either bled or froze to death.
Narses doubled the guards at the huge bronze gates of the Chalkê.
“But there is no need to panic,” insisted Justinian. “Eudaemon will enforce my edict. He’ll make short shrift of these gangs. Keep calm. You’ll see.”
