by Marié Heese
The last days of March saw Belisarius sailing to Carthage. He left his wife Antonina in command of the army remaining behind in Syracuse, with full authority to act on his behalf.
When we reached Carthage, reported Procopius’s next dispatch, the Roman commander was on the point of capitulating, since his garrison of Roman soldiers had been close to starvation when Belisarius sailed into harbour. The mere name of the famous general terrified the rebels, who promptly abandoned the siege and withdrew westwards. If the locals join up with them, fresh troops may be required to quell the uprising completely.
Justinian decreed: “I’ll appoint Germanus as Magister Militum in Africa to deal with the crisis from here on. Belisarius must return to Italy.”
“It may be a mistake to give Germanus scope,” said Theodora.
“On the other hand,” observed Narses, “he might fall in battle.”
Germanus was appointed, and Belisarius sailed again to the western front.
With the spring, a new hope unfurled in Theodora’s heart like a small plant putting forth tentative leaves in the still feeble sun. Once again, her menses had not arrived. She normally had a regular cycle, not heavy, but fairly strong over two days and then tailing off over two more. Now, there was nothing. But she said not a word to anyone, and she tried not even to think about it.
I must not let myself be glad, she thought. Remember what happened last time. Three weeks late, and then the usual. It can stay away just from thinking about it, and then as soon as you’ve got your hopes up, there it is again. No, I must not let myself be glad.
And yet she was. Carefully, quietly, secretly, filled with a tremulous joy.
She might have told Antonina, if she had been in Constantinople. But her friend was in Syracuse, and she was in trouble.
My dearest Theodora, wrote Antonina from Syracuse, Salutations to the Empress!
Something dreadful has happened. While Belisarius was away subduing the uprising in Carthage, he left me in charge of the army. Not to lead any military operations, naturally, but to take decisions and give orders regarding administrative matters. I am perfectly capable of doing this, as my husband knows. He appointed Theodosius as our household bursar and my dear son has been my right hand.
Well, there were some division commanders who resented my being in a position of authority over them, and they refused to carry out straightforward orders, nor would they deliver the obligatory daily reports to me. One Constantine, a general of the infantry, was the ring-leader, declaring roundly that it was not a Roman custom to appoint women as military commanders. I could not condone such rebelliousness and I had Constantine placed under close arrest.
At this point Belisarius returned. He released Constantine, although he gave him a severe dressing-down, telling him that his actions had amounted to insubordination, since he had acted contrary to his commander in chief’s explicit orders. This man, resentful and angry, then hinted to Belisarius that there was more to the situation than met the eye. That there was good and sufficient reason for men of honour not to obey the instructions of a woman such as myself.
Belisarius was deeply troubled and puzzled by these hints, on which Constantine refused to elaborate. But then a female slave, one Macedonia, approached Belisarius secretly and informed him that it was common gossip that Theodosius and I were conducting an affair right under his nose, that we had behaved particularly shamelessly while he was away, and that everyone was laughing about it. She brought two young pages of the bedroom to support this calumny, all three giving their oath that they had actually observed us fornicating. The slave swore Belisarius to secrecy, being afraid of my anger if I discovered who had told him this.
Of course my husband was devastated. He would not look at me nor speak to me, not one single word. He instructed his men to take Theodosius into custody forthwith and stand by for further orders, most likely a public hanging, I imagine. My loyal aide, the eunuch Eugenius, overheard this and – thank God – was able to warn Theodosius of the danger in which he stood. Theodosius fled to the docks in fear of his life and embarked on a ship to Ephesus, where, I am informed, he has claimed sanctuary in the great Church of St John.
I faced Belisarius with the injured sorrow of a greatly maligned wife. Had I not begged him to take me with him to Carthage? I asked. Had I not, throughout our marriage, remained at his side, faithfully following him into hardship and danger? Had I ever, I asked him, given him reason to be angry with me? To believe such terrible calumnies? He could only shake his head in distress and agree that, up to the present time, I had been the most devoted of wives. As I truly have.
Who, I demanded to know, had told him these dreadful lies? For sure, if I knew, I would show him a connection to Photius, whose enmity toward me is clear for all to see. I ascribed it to the anger of a son who felt himself rejected as a child. He would have found eager supporters, I said, among the men who resented a woman in a position of authority.
Now you may wonder why I have not told Belisarius the truth about Theodosius. I own that I have been greatly tempted. But we are about to wage war on the Goths. This is not the time to make it known that the wife of the Commander in Chief bore a bastard son to a Goth, and that this very son is an important member of the Commander’s household. Yet that is not the main reason. I deeply fear what Photius would do if he ever found out who Theodosius actually is. My first-born is a vicious man. So I must keep my secret.
Belisarius then admitted that the slave Macedonia had been the tattle-tale. Well, at once the connection was obvious. It is common knowledge that Photius has been sleeping with her. The two young lads, on being confronted, admitted that Photius had given them instructions to lie about me, threatened them with death if they disobeyed and promised to reward them if they did as they were told. I had the three of them flogged, branded and dismissed.
Belisarius is much relieved and we are reconciled in love and amity. But I feel bereft by the loss of Theodosius. Why should the envious Photius have the power to cause me so much unhappiness? Theodora, could you not help to fetch Theodosius back to us? We miss his services, for he is extremely capable – but mainly I just long for his company, for his presence at my side. I know you will understand. Please will you try?
Ever your loving friend
Antonina
Theodora sent a message to Ephesus, assuring Theodosius that Belisarius had accepted his innocence, and it would be safe for him to return to take up his former position. His response was that he did not fear the general, but he feared Photius. He hesitated to return to a situation where he would again be subjected to the ill will and malice of Antonina’s son.
Theodora told Justinian that Photius had tried to make trouble between Antonina and his commander in chief. “The fellow is a mischief-maker, and if he tries again, it could undermine the entire war effort. We can’t afford to have Belisarius miserable and distracted. Can Photius not be recalled?”
“Photius is a first-class soldier,” said Justinian. “He could be useful guarding our border along the Danube. I shall send orders to that effect.”
It took some time for all of these communications to make their way to and fro across the intervening distances, but when Belisarius reached the shores of Italy, Theodosius left Ephesus and once more joined the general’s household staff. He could be comfortable, since Photius had been redeployed against the marauding Slavs, where he soon established a reputation for effectiveness and cruelty.
“Photius has deterred the Slavs in his area from making raids across the border,” reported Narses. “After the last raid took place, he made a punitive sortie into Slav territory, rounded up twenty men, women and children, herded them to the river bank, and impaled them on a row of stakes. Not a single Slav has since taken one step past that grisly palisade.”
While Belisarius was engaging a distant enemy, the religious conflict continued at home. When spring was well advanced, Agapetus decided it was necessary to confront Z’ura. “He is preaching rou
sing sermons propounding Monophysite views and welcoming heretical monks to his monastery,” complained the Pope. “This is insupportable! It cannot be tolerated!”
“Z’ura will not bend,” warned Theodora. “Not even for the Pope.”
“The Holy Father insists, so a meeting will have to take place,” said Justinian. “This monk must obey when his Emperor commands.”
“It will not be a happy event,” predicted Theodora.
The first messenger sent by the Emperor to bring Z’ura to the palace from his monastery at Sykae across the Golden Horn encountered a locked door and a flat refusal to go anywhere.
“Despotes, he said it was not possible to interrupt his devotions during Lent, not even for the Thrice August, who could however … umm, ah …”
“Could do what?” demanded the frowning Emperor.
“Could … use force if that was his pleasure,” said the officer, reluctantly.
Theodora hid a smile.
This open defiance enraged Justinian. “Take a half-dozen armed excubitors to fetch the fellow and bring him to me, Lent or no Lent,” he roared.
The men ordered a boat to transport them across the Golden Horn. It was a windy day with a storm threatening; rumbles of thunder followed flashes of lightning on the horizon. As the boat approached the quay, a sudden blast gusted across the water and swept the boat onto the shore. With considerable trouble the boat was launched into the choppy water once again, reached the quay and took the guards on board.
The crossing was attempted; again the howling wind lashed the waves so high that the boat had to return to the quay. They would wait, said the officer in charge, for the wind to die down a bit, then try once more. But the storm did not diminish, it intensified.
“And then, Despotes, a bolt of lightning struck the boat,” said the officer, reporting complete failure to his emperor. He shivered and dripped on the rich carpet. “Truly, God does not want this monk to be disturbed. The boat went up in flames.”
Pope Agapetus nonetheless persisted in denouncing Z’ura and all his works. He stood on the quay, ignoring the smoking black hulk, and pontificated into the insubordinate wind, which refused to die down, whipped the Pope’s vestments disrespectfully and threw his angry words back into his furious face.
At last he returned to the palace, where he sat hunched in front of a brazier, steaming, and wiped blood from his pronounced chin.
“Has the Holy Father injured himself?” asked Theodora.
“I tripped on a loose cobblestone and bit my tongue,” mumbled the Pope. “It is nothing.”
But it caused him considerable pain. “The Holy Father’s tongue has become ulcerated,” said the Chief Physician. “It is in danger of mortification. Despoina, it will have to be lanced.”
Theodora went to see for herself. She found the patient lying back on a pile of silken cushions, his dark eyes sunken, chin and nose bony protuberances in a thin face flushed with fever. He was clearly struggling to breathe. The lancing had brought some respite, but no cure. He was unable to eat, and could take liquids only with much effort.
In the space of a week the tongue had been lanced twice, but still it remained swollen and began changing colour, from bright strawberry red to dark brown. Pope Agapatus was losing his battle against mortality.
“Despoina,” said the Chief Physician, “I believe it is time to administer the Last Rites. The patient is much distressed. It may calm him.”
“I’ll send for the Patriarch,” said Theodora, and Father Menas arrived armed with incense, candles and the orthodox liturgy. She stood helplessly by as the Pope clawed at his sheets and strained to suck in air past his swollen tongue and congested airways. He rolled his eyes in fear and frustration. It was beyond him to utter even a single word. He who had spoken with such angry vehemence was now constrained by silence.
Well might he be distressed, thought Theodora. He had been deputed by Theodahad to prevent war, but he had not succeeded – in truth, he had hardly made any such attempt. He had also obstructed the reconciliation of the warring theological camps. Probably, thought Theodora, he had made things worse.
Soon after receiving Extreme Unction the pope choked to death on his own tongue. It was difficult not to interpret his painful demise as a sign of God’s displeasure.
“His Holiness believed that God cannot possibly be on anyone else’s side,” remarked Tribonian, adding: “Yet in this instance one could conclude that God is a Monophysite.”
Meanwhile, Belisarius was marching up the Italian boot. Dispatches were brought regularly by swift couriers.
The first order of business, wrote Procopius, was to secure Naples to the south of Rome. Belisarius tried to persuade the populace to submit peacefully, but they refused. Thereupon he subjected the city to a month-long siege. The Neapolitans stubbornly defended their city and Belisarius began to despair of taking it. But then a foot soldier wandering around on his own discovered that a destroyed aqueduct could be used as a tunnel through the otherwise impenetrable city walls.
So the Roman infantry gained entry and fierce fighting ensued. By the time the resistance broke down, the troops were angry and they swept through the city raping and slaughtering civilians and plundering whatever they could find. Shrieks and groans and howls of pain resounded in the streets of the city that had known fearful violence before on many occasions, but not of late. Belisarius had hoped to avoid such a massacre, but in the humble opinion of this historian, it may well help him to avoid further bloodshed in future.
It seemed that the Goths in Italy held the same poor opinion of their king as Narses did, for the news arrived that Theodahad had been deposed.
“The Goths called a council of warriors,” Justinian told his wife. “They concluded that a philosopher king given to writing poetry could not be depended on in time of war. The fall of Naples decided them.”
“So, who rules?”
“The council elected Witigis – he’s a Gothic nobleman and, they say, personally courageous. Theodahad, it seems, fled to Ravenna. They sent a Gothic knight after him, who slew him with the appropriate ceremony as befitted his status.”
“No doubt that was a comfort to him,” said Theodora. “So. The Italian campaign will after all not be easy.”
“Witigis is not about to resign his kingship as Theodahad offered to do, and Amalasuintha almost did. Yet I have good hopes that God will grant us the restoration of our authority,” said Justinian. “We must reign once more, as the ancient Romans did, to the limits of both oceans.” He looked at his wife attentively. “Are you quite well, my love? You look pale.”
“Just a little nauseous,” said Theodora. “Something I ate, no doubt.” Still she had not told Justinian of her pregnancy, although by this time she was completely convinced that a miracle had happened. She had, after all, been pregnant before, and she knew the signs. Three due dates for her menses had come and gone, and still there had been no blood. Her breasts were slightly swollen, and certainly tender. Nausea overcame her almost every morning. Once again, she was exultant.
Yet somehow she held back from an announcement. Somehow she didn’t want to put her hopes into words. One should not tempt fate, she thought. The baby she had aborted, and the painful miscarriage she had suffered after the vicious attack by Hecebolus, still weighed upon her heart. Something could still go wrong. She would keep her secret for a while longer. And she would not consult the royal physicians. That crowd of fussy old dodderers, what did they know of childbirth? She would not be poked and prodded by them. She would have a midwife when the time came.
Once the nausea had passed, she rejoiced in the sensation of being healthy and fecund. She felt like a sturdy young tree, with the sap bursting into leaf and blossom and fruit. Lustier than she had ever been in a life that had not always offered sexual freedom and fulfilment. Except, perhaps, in the first months of pregnancy when she had been the governor’s lady in Apollonia; then, as now, she had responded with unrestrained ardour to a man who
loved her. No, she thought, Hecebolus had not truly loved her. But Justinian did. Justinian adored her. He had given her a throne. She would give him a successor.
At this time Theodora saw an opportunity. Pope Agapetus had foiled her attempt to appoint a Monophysite patriarch in Constantinople. But now the Throne of St Peter itself stood empty.
“Vigilius,” she said to Justinian, “is the obvious choice for Pope. He’s been the papal nuncio. He’s an able man. And he’ll undertake to help our army, not the Goths.”
“We’ll need the support of the Church when our soldiers reach Rome,” agreed Justinian. “But can we depend on Vigilius?”
“His family prides itself on keeping pledges and promises. But mainly, he’s ambitious. He wants the power and the glory of being Pope. And if he’s indebted to us, we could pressure him to lend aid to Belisarius.”
“Also, he’s a Monophysite,” said Justinian, eyeing her shrewdly, “which I’m sure has not escaped your notice.”
“But that’s just what we need,” argued Theodora, “to reach a balance, and a way to unify the Church. He’s given me assurances in writing that he’ll act in accordance with that aim.”
“Perhaps you are right. It might help to end the division,” said Justinian. “Very well, then. Send him to Rome, with the necessary documents.”
Vigilius departed for Italy, but found to his chagrin that the Goths who held Rome had pre-empted him. They had already installed a new pope, whose name was Silverius. Theodahad had ratified this election before he was killed.
“The election of a new pope should have been ratified by our representatives,” said Theodora, white with fury. “Theodahad had no right to do this! It’s not acceptable!”
“Too late now,” said Justinian. “What’s done is done.”
“We’ll see about that,” vowed Theodora.
Meanwhile, month by month, the Church of the Holy Wisdom was rearing up higher on its hill, dominating the skyline of Constantinople, far larger and more imposing than the building that had been burned to the ground during the Nika uprising.
