by Marié Heese
“Ah! You are right,” she said. “That is exactly what needs to be done. Yes! A procession, a litany of penitence! It will be a striking spectacle.” As a former actress in the Kynêgion, she knew all about spectacles. “Even as a small child, I once experienced the power of symbolic action to sway the emotions of a crowd.”
“When was that, Despoina?”
“After my father died. You know he was keeper of the bears, for the Greens?”
“It is generally known, Despoina. Also, that a bear killed him.”
“Yes. We were destitute. My mother married again in haste, and our stepfather took over the bear-keeping post,” said Theodora. “But then he was dismissed, for no good reason. My mother took me and my sisters to the Kynêgion, barefoot and dressed in white, to beg that he should be reinstated.”
“You walked into the amphitheatre? Three little girls? One never heard about that. It must have been terrifying.”
“Extremely.”
“And did it succeed?”
“Not at first.” She felt again the demeaning pressure of the contemptuous silence that had answered them. She recalled the complete degradation of that moment of rejection. “The Greens ignored us. But then the dancing master of the Blues called us over to the opposite side of the amphitheatre and offered him the same post with the Blues.”
“You touched his heart,” said Narses.
“The Blues took our side,” she said. Those small figures all in white enacting supplication had in the end moved the hearts of thousands of men. She would never forget that.
“Ah. Now I understand, Despoina, why you always support the Blues.”
“So, I think you have precisely the right idea. We shall wear full mourning,” she said. “The Emperor and I. And everyone in the procession shall wear black sashes.”
“The Patriarch should preside,” added Narses, ever aware of protocol.
“Of course. Not merely a palace priest. Yet they must walk with us. Their stoles should be black.”
“Yes, Despoina. I … ah … don’t think the generals Belisarius and Mundus should …”
“No, no. Too many people lost loved ones at their hands. But General Sittas might join us.”
“Yes, Despoina. It is known that he made many Christian converts after conquering the Tzani. I shall put everything in train.”
Chapter 2: A litany of penitence
The morning of the procession dawned cold and clear with a pale sun. Narses came to lead the escort as Commander of the Imperial Guard. He wore a broad black sash across his usual uniform. “Are you ready, Despoina?”
“I am ready.” Theodora was dressed from head to tiny foot in unrelieved black, layer upon layer of embroidered silk. Jet and onyx glittered in the diadem on her ebony hair. Her pale skin gleamed in contrast, her slender neck looking as vulnerable as a child’s.
Narses said: “Despoina. You are … beautiful.”
“Why, thank you,” said Theodora, surprised by the sudden emotion in the voice of this official who was usually so formal and correct.
He coughed. “The Patriarch awaits, on the steps of the main Palace Church.”
The procession formed up in the square in front of the church. A phalanx of guards surrounded the royal couple at the head; Justinian, like Theodora, wore unrelieved black. Theodora’s sisters stepped up: Comito, the wife of General Sittas, and Stasie, now married to a self-important middle-aged senator. Once again, thought Theodora, we three sisters are actors in a public mime, only dressed in black instead of white. It suits Comito with her crown of chestnut hair, but Stasie looks like a dun-coloured, plump bird. No, I shouldn’t be concerned with looks today, Theodora thought guiltily. I must be serious.
More priests took their places, swinging censers. Then the Excubitors fell into line, followed by the Scholarian and the Domestic Guards, and then various officials, all on foot. Not, however, the Goth and Herul mercenaries who had been directly involved in the slaughter.
The Patriarch of Constantinople, a black stole draped over his snowy vestments, welcomed the penitents to the steps of the church from which they would depart. He raised his arms in their wide winglike sleeves and intoned:
“Our heavenly Lord and Father … we thank thee for the knowledge that thou dost not despise the sinner, but dost ordain repentance for his salvation … Accept, O Master, from the lips of us sinners the thrice-holy hymn, and deal with us according to thy kindness: forgive us every offence, whether of malice or of weakness, sanctify our souls and bodies, and grant that we may serve thee in holiness all the days of our life …”
Malice and weakness, thought Theodora, there had certainly been. On their part, she and Justinian had had the best of intentions. They had meant only to serve their people. Once the rioting had begun, Justinian had tried to negotiate with the rebels, yet they had persisted in their intransigence. The Crown had been reviled, thought Theodora. Traitorous actions had engendered terrible violence, just as a fierce wind at sea lashes the waves into wreaking havoc and destruction on the shore. Action forcing violent reaction. Her words, aimed at strengthening the resolve of Justinian, had not been intended to prompt the slaughter of thirty thousand men.
Yet that had happened. That deed was done. And now, their people mourned, a deep grief that could yet rebound in renewed rebellion. The penitential procession was, in her mind, necessary to demonstrate to the populace that the Emperor and Empress were also grieving, to create a sense of unity and renewed acceptance of their legitimacy.
The procession left the palace complex and proceeded at a stately pace, set by a muffled drumbeat, along the recently cleared streets, stopping at predetermined churches where the prayers of the Patriarch echoed and the massed voices of the participants chanted their responses. Groups of people began to gather by the roadside to witness the solemn ritual. They stopped and stared.
“Most holy and merciful Father: we confess to thee and to one another, and to the whole communion of saints in heaven and on earth, that we have sinned by our own fault …” the Patriarch proclaimed.
“Have mercy on us, Lord,” the supplicants chorused the response.
“We have not loved thee with our whole heart, and mind, and strength. We have not loved our neighbours as ourselves. We have not forgiven others, as we have been forgiven. We … have grieved thy Holy Spirit.”
“Have mercy on us, Lord.”
A sturdy washerwoman had set down a heavy bundle to watch. As the litany continued, she wiped away tears.
“We confess to thee, Lord, all our past unfaithfulness: the pride, hypocrisy and impatience of our lives … We confess to thee, Lord, our anger at our own frustration …”
Indeed, thought Theodora, she was both angry and frustrated. That she could truly confess. “Have mercy on us, Lord,” she said, through lips stiff with tension and cold. Her legs were aching. She noted that Comito was leaning on her husband’s arm, while he stood tirelessly to attention, his military bearing ingrained. He has a good profile for a coin, thought Theodora. Unlike Stasie’s senator. A Roman nose is required; bulbous will not do. But fortunately the Senator is rich. She wrenched her attention back to the ceremony.
“We confess to thee, Lord, our intemperate love of worldly goods and comforts …”
Ah, thought Theodora, I do love comforts. I do love worldly goods. But I have known what it is to be poor. I have known what it is to possess nothing, to be dependent on others for mere sustenance.
“Accept our repentance, Lord, for the wrongs we have done: for our blindness to human need and suffering, and our indifference to injustice and cruelty …”
The rolling, sonorous words were uplifting. As Empress she had done much to relieve need and suffering, she thought, but still the people had been rebellious. Yet she would dedicate herself again, she would renew her efforts, she would fight injustice and cruelty to the utmost of her ability.
“Accept our repentance, Lord … For all false judgements …”
Yes, thought
Theodora, mistakes had been made.
“Accept our repentance, Lord. Restore us, good Lord, and let thy anger depart from us. Favourably hear us, for thy mercy is great … Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who desires not the death of sinners … who pardons and absolves … grant us true repentance … that the rest of our lives hereafter may be pure and holy, so that at the last we may come to eternal joy; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed the throng.
Amen, thought Theodora. She was resolved to rededicate her life to the service of her people, in the name of Christ.
“I need something concrete to do,” said Theodora. “Something that matters. I want to be truly involved in the restoration of our city.”
“The Church of the Apostles also requires rebuilding,” said Justinian. “You could undertake that as your personal project. Consult Anthemius and Isidorus.”
“I will do that.” She was eager to embrace this undertaking, well worth doing. She would oversee the rebuilding of the second most important church in the city, one that counted among its many treasured relics the skulls of Saint Andrew, Saint Luke and Saint Timothy. It also housed the tomb of Constantine I, who had made Constantinople the capital of the Roman Empire after Rome itself had fallen to the Barbarians. “I’ll need a clerk of works, to handle the administration. Ordering materials, seeing that they are stored safely, keeping track so that nothing gets stolen before it is required.”
Justinian smiled at this evidence of her clear-eyed practicality. “Ask Narses,” he advised.
Narses recommended one Areobindus, a young man lately come to court from Thrace. “His father rides with Belisarius,” he said, “as a mercenary. The boy’s had a decent education and he seeks advancement.”
“He shall be my steward,” said Theodora. She tackled the task with great earnestness, conferring often with the architect and the engineer, who created a plan that called for five cupolas, one on each of four arms of a cross design and a huge one over the central nave. She met daily with her steward, who turned out to be very efficient.
“Capable of precision,” said Narses approvingly.
“Ooooo, very good-looking,” said Chrysomallo. “Almost as handsome as Belisarius. Nice change from all those refugees. They stink, Theodora.”
Theodora frowned. “Kindly do not distract him. He has a great deal of work to do, and I depend on him.”
It was a time not only of reconstruction, but also for reconciliation. “We must try,” said Theodora, “to effect reconciliation in the Church. The truth is, the persecution of the Monophysites has not succeeded in forcing them to accept the Chalcedonian creed.”
“No, it hasn’t,” conceded Justinian. “All it has done is to cause suffering and loss of lives. It would be a great achievement to bring about a formula concordiae.”
“Enormous,” said Theodora. “I think there’s a terrible failure in communication at the root of the battle. Each side ascribes the most extreme heretical view to the other group, and both of them twist the statements of the opposition.”
“True,” said Justinian. “For example, it doesn’t seem to me that Monophysites actually believe that the single divine nature in Christ took the place of his rational human soul, do they?”
“No, no, we certainly don’t think that,” said Theodora.
“On the other hand, it is also not true,” went on Justinian, “that the Dyophysite view emphasises his humanity at the expense of his divinity.”
“I’m willing to accept that,” said Theodora. “You know, I live with an awareness of injustice. Everyone knows I hold Monophysite views, but due to my position, I don’t suffer the persecution that others do. It doesn’t seem right.”
“You aren’t the sole exception. Many powerful Monophysites escape punishment.”
“Not to mention the whole of Egypt being exempt because of the crucial importance of the grain supply. I saw that when I was in Alexandria, the city was full of refugees. But still …”
“I think our people realise that the persecution is primarily driven by the Orthodox churchmen themselves. My own view is, reconciliation should be possible, and it’s greatly to be desired. We should arrange a conference.”
“Then why don’t we invite two deputations? Six delegates representing each view,” suggested Theodora. “A manageable number. I’ll write to the Reverend Mother Sophia, she’ll recommend the right Chalcedonians.”
“Have you maintained contact with her?”
“She writes once a year at least,” said Theodora. “When she told me that I should aim for a better life, I imagine she didn’t quite expect that I would gain the throne of Byzantium. Just didn’t want me to return to the stage. She still addresses me as ‘my child’.”
“Very well, then. Two deputations. Let them confer in Constantinople in the summer,” said Justinian.
So, in the summer of 532 six Dyophysite and six Monophysite church leaders met in the capital of Byzantium to address yet again the opposing conceptions of the nature of Christ. Theodora welcomed them graciously. They were not, however, able to reach a satisfactory conclusion in a short period of time.
“Hardly surprising,” said Justinian, “when you think that the Church has been debating the nature of Christ for centuries.”
“But we must not give up,” said Theodora.
“We won’t,” Justinian assured her. He reached for her hand and held it as if sealing a pact. “We are both strong in will, and when we act together, we exercise great influence.”
“We do, my love,” said Theodora, smiling at him, and returning his firm grip.
“Let them continue to debate,” said Justinian. “Meanwhile, I shall give orders: no more persecution.”
Now, thought Theodora, now would be a perfect time for her to fall pregnant. After all, the sibyl had said it was possible. She should be carrying the heir to the throne of Byzantium. It would be a symbol of renewal, a pledge to the people, the promise of a continuing, legitimate line: a direct descendant of the ruling emperor. Although she had her own quarters in the Daphne Palace, with her own retinue (indeed, her own court), while Justinian slept in state in the Sacred Cubicle in the Sacred Palace behind a purple veil, they still spent three nights a week together in the Sigma section of the Imperial Palace. There they shared a small suite of rooms that, unlike most of the spaces in the palace complex, had not been designed with the aim of overawing visitors with the splendour and riches of the Byzantine court; these rooms created instead a habitation of human scope, offering the comfort of intimate domesticity.
It was a refuge for them both from the endless ceremony and pressure of the court. Only a small, hand-picked coterie of persons served them there, each one absolutely dependable, deft and discreet. The usual fluttering crowd of ladies-in-waiting and the horde of attendants, each with a resounding title (even Master of the Royal Chamber Pot), knew they would not be required. No senators, officials, courtiers, or supplicants for positions or favours would be allowed in.
Justinian and Theodora would often linger over their light supper of fruit and fish, telling each other what they had been doing, discussing and debating, analysing and planning. Their conversations might be roundly argumentative, or loving and intimate, or philosophical, ranging across the wide expanses of their empire and backward and forward through centuries experienced and yet to come.
Their staff knew that they should not hover too long, that dishes should be cleared away with dispatch, that the silken covers on the plump bed should be turned back smartly, that the Emperor would himself blow out the last candles on the dinner table and lead his lady into the bedroom where small lamps created a magical golden circle and they were welcomed by warm air scented with the sweetness of myrrh. The Excubitor Guards responsible for the safety of the royal couple knew that they should herd out every last eunuch and slave, and take up their stations outside the tall, carved doors that closed behind the Despotes and the Despoina with the solid
clunk and click of beautifully hand-tooled wood and bronze fittings.
Since on these specific nights, the Despotes and the Despoina wanted to be alone. Alone together.
At this time, Theodora did not share with Justinian her renewed desire for a child. For long enough this consuming need had dominated their love-making, eventually causing so much disappointment, frustration, tension and anger that she had sometimes feared it might sunder the powerful bond that sustained their marriage. No, she was determined to say nothing to rake up that old hurt. Justinian had been deeply injured by the insurrection, she knew. He needed his wife to be loving and receptive, responsive to him as a man, not as a prospective father. He needed no reminder of impotence. But she could still nurture an unspoken hope.
Alone in their shared bedroom, they could put off all the pomp and protocol that determined every action outside that circumscribed sanctuary. They could disrobe, removing layer by layer their imperial identities. Justinian cast off his clothing faster than she did, turning eagerly to help his small wife emerge from her last undergarments until the two of them stood naked, face to face, simply a man and a woman, still delighting in each other after seven years of marriage. He, by far the taller, had retained the rangy build of the peasant he was by birth; even at fifty, he carried no surplus fat, his ruddy-cheeked face bore few lines and his brown hair was still vigorous. Theodora, at thirty-two, had kept the taut shape and poise of the acrobat she had been; a great deal of her time and trouble went into maintaining the sleek black sheen of her hip-long hair and keeping her smooth pale porcelain skin unblemished.
No longer was he the inept, fumbling lover who had turned his face aside on their first night together in the Hormisdas Palace. Over the shared years they had explored and experimented; learned to cast off inhibitions and tensions, discovered how to pleasure each other. No longer was their entire shared focus on forcing the miracle of fertility to happen. Now they could come together at the height of their physical bloom in exuberant affirmation of their love.
