by Marié Heese
“I hear, Despoina.” But his stance was not expressive of obedience. It spoke a resentful reproach.
Justinian took leave of Theodora on his way to the Triclineum, where several deputations awaited him. He looked exhausted and distracted. His mind had gone ahead of him, she thought. It often did.
“You should rest, my dearest,” he said, in a tone of vague concern. “You’ve not been well. It will be good for you to go and recuperate.”
“Yes, my love,” she said huskily. “It will be good to rest.”
And no longer to have to get up and go through the wearying routine of constructing a regal persona every day, she thought. It had lately become harder and harder to do. She had begun to feel that the rich garments were getting heavier, that the glittering jewels gained daily in weight, that she no longer had the strength to bear all of those things. At Hieron, she thought, she would be allowed to lie down.
The boat trip along the strait was restful in itself; the weather was mild, and the waterway between the indented, rocky shores remained calm. Theodora sat on deck muffled to the nose in wraps and scarves, rocked gently by the motion of the boat. On the shores of the Bosphorus rising up and away from the level of the water, the judas trees were just bursting into opulent purple bloom.
At Hieron the sun was kind, the air balmy, the sea breezes gentle. Theodora spent hours outside on her terrace under an awning, dressed in a simple shift, resting on cushions beneath a coverlet of silk. A young female slave played melodiously on a small harp. But the cruel canker gripping her throat showed no deference toward royalty. It did not temper its attack with mercy. Its tentacles grew ever stronger, infiltrating her defenceless body to squeeze and choke and wring with ever-increasing power.
More and more often, her days and nights were pain-wracked. “My ears,” moaned Theodora. “Oh, God, my ears!
“A referred pain,” said Aetios. “It is actually the throat that hurts. Powdered willow bark should help. And a little poppy juice, when it is very bad.”
He had lengths of cloth wrapped around heated stones, and then placed on her neck. The warmth was soothing.
Some days her last adversary did allow her a slight respite. Then she could once more lie in the shade on the terrace, looking out over the glittering water. Aetios sat patiently by her side, sometimes sketching, sometimes writing. She thought: he has the gift of being silent in a companionable manner.
The cries of sea birds carried across the water.
“Shearwaters,” she said. Her voice had dwindled to a hoarse croak.
“Despoina?”
“Birds. Those flying low … over the water. Souls of drowned sailors, they say.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. Despoina, do not try to use your voice. Just whisper. I have good hearing.”
She whispered her question: “Do you believe … that one has a soul? That lives on … after death?” Harsh, difficult breaths punctuated her sentences.
“There is a vast difference,” he said, considering, “between one who lives and one who has died. A miraculous difference. Every physician observes that. So, I believe there is a spirit, yes. But I don’t believe it lives on, individually, after death.”
“What do you … believe, then? No God?”
“To me, the universe is God. I believe individual souls are fragments of a universal existence in which all things are contained.”
“A pagan concept … but intriguing.” A pause to suck in air. “Then what happens … to souls … after death?”
“After death they are spun back into the primary thread.”
“Ah. Like a roving,” she whispered.
“A what?”
“A roving. Bundle of carded fleece … ready to be spun into a strand of wool. I used to be … a wool-spinner, you know.”
“I heard.”
“Nuns taught me … when I lived with them … in Alexandria.”
For a while she lay silent, occasionally taking a small sip of juice. Even swallowing, normally such a simple, unthinking thing to do, now required resolve. She gathered her strength to continue the sibilant conversation. “Tell me, Aetios … what do you do, in the face of … mortality?”
“Me? Me personally?”
“Yes. You.”
“I write,” he said.
“Really? What d’you … write?”
“Medical texts. I have completed quite a number.”
“Topics?”
“General, to begin with. But I have a special interest in the eye. It is a most remarkable organ. I have studied it in detail.”
“A good legacy,” whispered Theodora. “To leave … behind.”
“You too will leave a good legacy, Despoina.”
“Don’t know. Tried. But it’s been … harder than I thought. Much … much harder.” She coughed and groaned.
“Reality is intractable,” he said. “One’s reach always exceeds one’s grasp.”
Mealtimes became a struggle. Trying to eat proper food made Theodora gag, choke, and vomit. Sometimes she coughed up blood. She fought desperately for breath, eyes streaming.
“No more of this,” said Aetios. “No more mealtimes, as such. Only soft mushes are to be prepared, and given in spoonfuls, just a few at a time, but often. And liquids, constantly. Watered wine and fruit juices, with a little salt added, and honey stirred in. Slightly warmed.”
He stationed a slave at her bedside with orders to keep spooning liquid into her mouth. “And smooth this salve onto Her Majesty’s lips regularly, so that they do not become dry and cracked.”
It tasted of honey and mint.
The pain grew worse. It seemed bent on drilling right through her head from ear to ear. Aetios increased the doses of poppy juice. Sometimes she felt as if she had turned into a shearwater and was floating in the air on widespread wings. The harpist played tirelessly in the background, a peaceful, rippling, wordless song.
Spring faded into summer. She had become a shell, light and fragile, empty except for the rushing sound of the sea.
“Despoina.”
His voice came from a distance. She blinked at the kind face peering at her through a haze.
“Despoina?”
“Yes?” she whispered.
“The time has come to go back,” he said. “I have given orders. We can wait no longer.”
“Yes,” she whispered. She, who had depended for her survival on her indomitable will, had no will left. He could decide for her. She would do as she was told.
Once more she sailed into the harbour closest to the Imperial Palace. The gangplank was laid down. One muscular excubitor carried her ashore carefully, her head resting against his shoulder, her dainty little feet dangling. She was eased into a sedan chair. Justinian was a horrified face hovering above her before the chair was shouldered and the journey to the Daphne Palace began. She heard anxious voices exclaiming and debating, asking and answering, giving orders, demanding, directing. None of it had anything to do with her.
When the ship bearing Theodora arrived from Hieron, Justinian was shattered to see the state of his beloved wife. He took his shock and distress out on Aetios, accusing him of having failed to care for her properly, and wouldn’t allow him near her any more. He had the city combed for other physicians, who came, saw, and shook their heads. They agreed that there was nothing further to be done and that the Empress should be kept as comfortable as possible. They argued with each other as to how this might be achieved, anxious to curry favour with the Emperor. Bed sores should be avoided. Beaten egg whites might be applied. No, minted oil. No, goose grease. When this last was tried, the Empress wept, so they desisted. The room was too cold. No, it was too hot. There was a draught, she would get pneumonia. There should be a stove. She should be fanned …
Narses the eunuch: his journal, AD 548
The Lord will not take her unshriven
June, AD 548
Justinian finds it more and more difficult to enter the sickroom. He cannot stand to see the Em
press waste away, nor suffer pain. So he sleeps even less than usual, and sits poring over his work with red-rimmed eyes. Or roams distractedly along the warren of corridors in his palace and hers, appearing so suddenly and soundlessly that those who think him possessed of demonic abilities have even more tales to tell to prove their superstitious belief true.
She can no longer speak to him; her voice has gone completely. She has become very small, my lovely lady. She has eaten nothing at all for days, and she can’t even drink soup. Just a little water, and even that is clearly difficult for her to swallow. I do not think she weighs much more than a child of five. I could pick her up and carry her with ease, although I am myself not very big or strong.
This morning when I walked into her bedroom, I was much tempted to do exactly that, to take her in my arms and bear her away into the gardens. We could sit quietly together in the sunshine, I thought; it was a luminous summer’s day. I could hold her on my lap, and stroke her hair, and croon to her. Where she was she had no peace. She was surrounded by fussing physicians and officious eunuchs and anxious ladies-in-waiting; there was a consternation of caregivers causing nothing but bother.
“What is the matter?” I asked. “Does she have much pain?” I could hear that each exhalation of her breath was like a small, soundless moan.
“Grand Chamberlain, the Empress is distressed, but it seems to have to do with her hair. She is tearing it.”
“Tearing it?” I stepped closer. Her huge dark eyes, sunken and dilated, looked pleadingly up at me and she took a hank of her hair, still long, still mostly black, in her thin hand and made a cutting gesture.
“We have left it loose, to be more comfortable, but I think she wants us to cut it off,” said one of the ladies. “She seems hot. See, her skin is damp.”
“No,” I said. “Don’t come near her with those scissors. Just make two braids. You know how, don’t you?” I wished I could do it, but it is not a skill that I have ever acquired.
“Yes, Sir. I would have done that, but it is very tangled. I didn’t want to …”
“Bring a brush.” I stared at the knot of useless men of medicine. “And get out, you’re no earthly use to her!”
“But, Grand Chamberlain …”
“Out!”
Out they sidled, glaring; yet I think they were glad to go. Not one of them wants to be present when the Empress dies, and be obliged to carry the tidings to the Emperor. The brush was brought, and two ribbons. I took it and began, gently, to work through the tangled mass of hair that lay across the silken sheets. Theodora had become passive, her thin arms like the stems of some pale plant long deprived of sunlight resting by her sides.
“First brush out the ends,” the woman said. “Then move up, gradually.” She was older than the others, with a strong Roman nose in a patrician face.
“What is your name?”
“Claudia.”
“Of the Anicii?”
“The Julii.”
“Ah. Send the rest of the ladies out. They serve no purpose.”
She did. They fluttered out twittering among themselves like birds. The room settled into a somnolent silence, with only the soft sound of brush on hair registering in the hush. I could no longer hear the Empress breathe, but she was awake, watching me. I went on untangling and smoothing the strands of living silk. Patiently, a little at a time. It was still mainly black, with some streaks of silver. As I brushed closer to her scalp, several strands came loose in my hands.
After a while one side was done. I moved around the bed, and Claudia began to plait the first half.
“Be very gentle,” I whispered. “It’s falling out.”
“I see that.” Her fingers, long and bony, were deft. First she divided the tresses into three long sections, then she wove them efficiently into one gleaming braid.
“It looks easy when you do it,” I said, brushing as delicately as I could.
“I brought up four daughters,” she said. “And I have a dozen grandchildren, of whom eight are female. One learns.”
Theodora was now entirely docile. I thought she might fall asleep, but still her eyes were fixed on mine.
“The Despoina has not much strength left,” said Claudia, tying the end of the completed braid with a length of white ribbon. “I think you should call for the priest. The Patriarch, no doubt? And we must send an usher to inform the Emperor. What about the other family members? Daughter, grandchild, sisters …”
Theodora’s hand snaked out and gripped my arm. “No, no, no …” I couldn’t hear it, but I could read it.
“She doesn’t want anyone to see her like this,” I said.
She nodded voiceless agreement.
“No relations except the Emperor in here at the last. They will only cause her distress.”
Theodora was still clutching at me, insistently. She was mouthing something. I leaned forward and put my ear close to her lips. Even so near death, she still smelled of roses. Doubtless her ladies had applied some scented unguent, but I prefer to believe it was just the natural scent of her skin.
“Tell me,” I said. “Talk to me.”
She formed a word, with no sound but sibilants, using only her limited breath.
“Timuss,” I heard. “Timuss.”
“She says ‘timuss’, do you know what that means?”
“No,” said Claudia, walking around the bed to start on the second braid. “I can’t think … no. I don’t understand.”
Theodora increased her urgent grip.
“Timuss,” she breathed. “Hor-mis-dass. Palace.”
“All right,” I said, patting her hand. “All right. I’ll go. Claudia, you’ll stay with her? I’ll ask her friends who live in her palace what it is she wants.”
“Of course.” Her expert fingers wove strands into order. We both knew that when Theodora lay in state in her ornate coffin on a gold catafalque, her hair would have been unplaited and done up again, and a diadem would have been placed on her head. But now, what mattered was that she should be comfortable.
Outside the door, a whole group of people had congregated, muttering among themselves. They looked at me in expectation. “Come here,” I said, beckoning to one of my silentiaries. “Go quickly and tell the Emperor he should come. It is time.”
“At once, Grand Chamberlain.”
I walked as fast as I could without running in the opposite direction, along the passages, out of the doors, down the stairs and into the Hormisdas Palace. Theodora’s refugees, it seemed, did not sleep, for there was a subdued chant to be heard from their wing. Even without that, one would have known they were there; they smelled like old cheese and rotten parings. I found Indaro and Chrysomallo still up, sipping wine together in the lamplight.
“The Empress is fading fast,” I told them.
Indaro put her goblet down. “Should we … should we come?”
“No. No friends, no relatives. I’m here because she wants something, or somebody, from this palace, but I don’t know what it is. She has no voice left, you know. She speaks on her breath only.”
“What did she say?”
“Timuss,” I said. “Quite clearly. Do you know what she wants?”
They looked at each other. Then Chrysomallo said: “Yes. Anthimus. She wants the priest, Father Anthimus. The Monophysite. Probably for the last rites.” She began to cry.
“But he’s dead! He’s been dead for … twelve, thirteen years, surely?”
“No,” said Indaro, also crying. I had not known a glass eye could weep. “He’s here. Among her refugees. She’s been sheltering him.”
“Oh. Extraordinary. Well, can you call him? Tell him the Empress needs him. He need have no fear.”
“I’ll fetch him,” said Indaro, and she went away.
The old man came quickly, robed in a rough-woven monk’s garb with a cowl that hid most of his face. What wisps of hair I could see were white. He was tall and skeletally thin but vigorous enough to stride the passages by my side, clutching a
n embossed leather bag. He merely nodded in greeting, but did not waste his breath on a healthy sinner such as myself.
“I hope,” I said, “that we will be … in time.”
“The Lord will not take her unshriven,” said the priest. His voice was unexpectedly strong. It did not sound unused. Doubtless he did a great deal of chanting, I thought.
Unshriven. The word suddenly made real what was inevitable. She was going to die. Theodora, Empress of Byzantium, was going to die. I was going to lose her. Her time had come. I felt my breath catch. The statues in their niches along the walls howled with grief.
In the room Theodora lay with her neat braids on top of the cover, composed and quiet, like a good and obedient small girl. Justinian knelt beside the bed, holding one of Theodora’s hands in both of his large and knuckly ones. Claudia stood to attention patiently.
“Despotes,” I said. “The Despoina asked for a Monophysite priest. I have brought this Reverend Father.” The priest made no prostration, just bowed.
Justinian nodded. “Father Anthimus,” he said. He got up, stiffly, and laid his wife’s slack hand gently on her breast. “I thank you for coming.”
He does not sound surprised, I thought.
Theodora opened her eyes, reached out and looked intently at Justinian. “Promise,” she breathed. I stood back, concentrating so that I could read every word.
“My love,” said Justinian. “Anything.”
“My refugeesss. Look … after them.”
“I will,” vowed Justinian.
“Promisss.”
“They are safe. I promise. They are safe, as long as I live. This Reverend Father also. I promise.”
She sighed, relieved. Her eyelids drooped.
The priest had meanwhile taken a richly embroidered stole from his bag and draped it around his neck over his rough robe. In the lamplight it had a golden sheen. Claudia had placed a table ready to hand. Father Anthimus took a small box and a bowl from his bag, also a bottle from which he removed the stopper. He poured oil into the bowl, set a cotton wick in it and lit it with a taper, using the flame from the lamp. He took up a stance next to the bed, facing east. He removed a small gold-handled brush from the bag and dipped it in oil. Gently, he anointed Theodora’s forehead, breast and hands. She opened her eyes again and lay looking up at him.
