by Marié Heese
“Forgive me, Father,” her lips said, “for I have sinned.”
In his capacious bag he had found a codex. “Since the Despoina is unable to speak, I shall read the psalm of contrition,” he said, opening it. His deep voice resonated in the quiet room, reading the formal Latin words: “Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.”
“Lord have mercy,” whispered Theodora.
“Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me …”
Theodora whispered again.
“What, my love?” asked Justinian.
I had read her lips. But I would not repeat it. “Thirty thousand men,” she had said. “Thirty thousand men.”
The priest continued: “Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: and thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest …”
“Lord have mercy,” whispered Theodora.
“Lord have mercy,” echoed Justinian’s deep voice and Claudia’s soft one.
“Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow …” The priest raised his voice: “Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me …”
“Lord have mercy.”
“… Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation: and my tongue shall sing aloud of thy righteousness. O Lord, open thou my lips; and my mouth shall show forth thy praise.”
“Amen,” echoed the small chorus in the room.
“A broken and contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise,” said the priest. He opened the small box that he had placed on the table beside the bowl of oil. From it he took a wafer. “This is the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world,” he said. “Happy are those who are called to His supper.”
“Lord, I am not … worthy,” whispered Theodora. She clearly had almost no breath left. She struggled for it. “… only … say … the word …”
The priest administered the wafer. “The Body of Christ,” he said. “May the Lord Jesus protect you and lead you to eternal life.” He dipped his thumb in the oil and drew a cross on her forehead.
She closed her eyes.
Justinian was weeping soundlessly; the tears ran unheeded down his cheeks.
Theodora’s breathing changed, becoming deeper. From being inaudible it took on a gurgling sound. Yet she lay peacefully now, no longer battling for air. Justinian began to sob uncontrollably, turned and stumbled out of the room.
I stepped closer and took her hand. It clung to mine. I placed it against my cheek.
“Bless you, Theodora, Empress of Byzantium. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti,” said Father Anthimus, tracing a cross in the air.
“Amen,” I said.
“Amen,” said Claudia. I had forgotten she was there.
“Amen,” said Father Anthimus.
My lady died just before daybreak. I was with her. I did not weep.
I have a grand state funeral to organise. There is a great deal of protocol involved. I must work out who takes precedence over whom, and exactly where every person should walk in the funeral procession, and I must determine where in the church each one should stand or sit. I must decide on the appropriate music. And the flowers.
I will not fail her. It shall be perfect.
Epilogue: Narses the eunuch: his journal, AD 580
I have outlived my time
February, AD 580
I have outlived my time and all my loves. The dearest was the first to go. I loved, in my long life: Theodora, Empress of Byzantium; power, and riches; I loved the Eastern Roman Empire, and I gave it my best.
Yes, I have outlived them all. Even the great Justinian, who himself outlived his beloved wife by seventeen years, and never ceased mourning her. He went often to the Church of the Holy Apostles where Theodora’s small body, once the butt of lewd jokes and the object of vicious scandal, achieved the status of a holy relic. She became what one might describe as the focus of a cult, and candles were lit on her grand tomb to invoke her assistance for difficult undertakings. At the age of seventy-seven, Justinian for the one and only time in his life personally directed a battle; he repelled an attack by Huns in the vicinity of Constantinople. This success he attributed to the influence of his late dearly beloved consort, and thanked her for her intervention on his creaking knees.
Procopius used to say that she had bewitched him. Perhaps she did. She certainly bewitched me. From the first time she set foot in the Imperial Palace complex, which for her was a hostile environment, I was devoted to her. She was so small, so pale, so brave, so resolute. And so beautiful: poised head with its shining pile of ebony hair on a little slender neck, big dark sooty eyes and the graceful carriage that came of having been an acrobat and a dancer. She could break a man’s heart at fifty paces. Even a eunuch’s. Could and did.
Justinian kept his promise to her regarding her religious refugees. He never evicted them from the Hormisdas Palace; Chrysomallo and Indaro were also allowed to stay on. Both of them died before he did.
Jacob Baradaeus, old Ragbag, the man Theodora sent forth to sustain the Monophysites, did indeed become the root of a large and sturdy tree. So remarkable was his effect on the morale of the Monophysites that the Orthodox authorities soon mounted a vast manhunt for him, but there was never a single soul who would betray him, for he was greatly loved. It was reported that over the years he ordained eighty thousand priests, and consecrated eighty-nine bishops and two patriarchs. He carried out one of the most extraordinary ministries in the entire history of the Christian Church. To this day the Monophysite Christian Church that he built bears his name: the Jacobite Church. It will, I am certain, outlast us all.
Those who believed that attempts at unification of the Church were only made at Theodora’s instigation, and that Justinian would be a whole-hearted Chalcedonian after her death, were clearly shown to be wrong. The old patriarch, Father Anthimus, who emerged from hiding, was welcomed as an honoured guest in the Imperial Palace. Justinian, called upon to carry out the work of God on earth, continued the struggle to reconcile the warring religious factions until the day of his own death.
Also Justinian never wavered in his continued efforts to achieve the geographical and political unification of the entire Roman Empire. Strange though it may seem for an elderly eunuch, I was instrumental in this great matter. Yes, I became a general in the Roman army, and in 550 I was named Commander in Chief. Rome itself was assaulted and captured five times during the protracted Italian war. The fifth and final time I was the conqueror; I had the head of the fallen Goth king exhibited on a pike. In the autumn of 554, I was awarded a true Roman Triumph – very likely, I imagine, the last. There have certainly been none since then. Preceded by trumpeters, I rode in a four-horse triumphal chariot over the Via Sacra at the head of a grand parade. My soldiers, bearing garlands, chanted my praises. Many wagonloads of arms and treasures were on display.
Having finally cleared Italy of Goths and Barbarians, I earned the nickname “Hammer of the Goths”. Not bad for a small person with no balls. (A comment, now that I think of it, that could equally apply to the extraordinary achievements of Theodora herself.)
And yet, looking back now, I can no longer summon up much pride in all that – not even, really, satisfaction. The war took eighteen years to bring to a conclusion, and I fear that it exacted a fearful cost. The New Rome, the Eastern Empire, triumphed and ingested what was left of the Old Rome, but the long struggle devastated the Italian peninsula. Bridges and aqueducts had been allowed to fall into disrepair. Fields had not been cultivated and lay barren and desolate. The splendid cities of the old Empire were all ruined; Milan almost totally destroyed.
So Justinian’s grand vision of a New Roman Empire, peac
eful and prosperous, reconciled in the religious sphere and united in the political one, was effectively never entirely achieved, and the fragile unity that he did manage to bring about did not last long. If you ask me, his most likely enduring monument will not be built of stone or circumscribed by geographical boundaries. It will be constructed of words. I do not mean those of Procopius, whose reports I consider to be untrustworthy; in my opinion he has little integrity as an historian.
No, Justinian may well be best remembered by posterity for the Corpus Juris Civilis that he gave to the world. The great framework of laws. But that will depend on what becomes of society and on the future development of the human race. If a new race of Barbarians sweeps across the world, one that cares not for the rule of law, Justinian’s great bastion of civilisation may be destroyed. As to the likelihood of that I can say nothing. I am too old, I shall not see what comes of it.
After Theodora died, John the Cappadocian returned to Constantinople still dreaming of being restored to high office. This did not happen. Justinian had no intention of appointing him to any kind of post ever again. Finally, reduced to great poverty, he decided to take religion seriously. With no other recourse, he sought to be ordained as a priest. I was there, that day, at the ordination ceremony. So poor was he that he had no cassock, and one of the younger monks stepped forward to lend him his. I discovered that this man was called Augustus. Well, John, I said to him, the mantle of Augustus has finally fallen on your shoulders. He gave me a cold and horrified stare.
Belisarius did not end his life as a blind beggar on the streets of Constantinople – that is a canard. But Justinian never let him have the support he required, and at last he was recalled without having achieved what he and the Emperor desired. His estates were restored to him, and he lived quietly at home with Antonina, visited often by his veterans who loved him. It is true, however, that he was ordered not to leave his home; his popularity was such that Justinian never ceased to fear him as a likely rival. The great general who had survived such fearsome battles passed away gently in his sleep. Rumour had it that his body was without blemishes: not a single scar was to be seen. Whereat Antonina, so it is reported, said: “The only grievous injuries he suffered were at the hands of his Emperor.” She outlived him by several years, having in her old age acquired propriety and dignity. Like Theodora, she always had courage.
Joannina and Anastasius did not marry. He did not achieve the throne. Justinian on his deathbed named Justin as his successor. When all was said and done, Anastasius was merely the son of a bastard child of a courtesan and a governor of the Pentapolis. Justin was Justinian’s nephew; the young Justin’s grandfather was the Illyrian peasant who became Justin I. He had a better claim. So Justin became Justin II and Sophia, daughter of Theodora’s sister Comito by General Sittas, became his empress. She sent me a message, that if ever I returned to Constantinople she would set me to overseeing the women who spin the wool. I would spin a web for her, I let her know, that she would never break.
And so it was that I encouraged the Lombards to conquer Italy, despite the fact that I used to care a great deal, and expended much time and energy on protecting and expanding the Roman Empire. I owe no allegiance to the couple currently on the throne. Let them lose Rome to the Barbarians once again, I thought. What will it matter by and by?
One may become an emperor if one begins as a peasant, but not as a eunuch. No, for such as I am, one must attain power by other means. As indeed I did. My last decades were spent as Exarch in Italy. I taxed the people heavily but I governed well. Naturally I myself amassed a great deal, some of my spoils being booty after successful battles, the rest a percentage of taxes skimmed off the top.
Since I am rich, I am not alone. I have a comfortable villa in Naples, with a peasant couple to keep house for me. The man, surly but strong, sees to the gardens and the dourly dutiful wife cooks and cleans. Their daughter helps me to wash and dress and serves my food. She is small and dark and deft in movement and if I half close my eyes and she does not speak I can imagine that it is my lovely lady come to be with me.
As soon as she speaks, the illusion is shattered, though. She has a squeaky voice which she pitches even higher than usual when she addresses me, which she does with the forced jocularity one might employ toward an idiot child. She has the irritating habit of speaking of me rather than to me, as if I were not here at all.
“Did he sleep well?” she asks brightly, drawing up the blind to allow another flawless day in Naples to flood into the room. “Does he want a little porridge now? Or first perhaps a little stewed prunes? But first a nice little wash!”
Sometimes I think that if she uses another diminutive I will kill her as I did Amalasuintha, only not in her bath. I could still manage it myself, I do believe. I could garrote her, when she kneels beside my bed with a basin of soapy water to give me my daily wash. She begins with my feet and lathers up past my knees, as smooth and hard as the bowls of two much-handled pipes, along my shrunken and bony thighs, right up to the flaccid appendage that does not bother her as it might have done if I had still had testicles. She flips it aside with her stubby-fingered hands, coarsened with work, and wipes over my scar. My lady’s hands were always soft, so I am unable to imagine that it is she doing this.
It was not entirely useless, though. If they had excised that as well I do not think I could have been a general. One cannot command troops if one has to squat to pee.
When she has washed up to my neck and dried me off with a rough towel, she rolls me over on my side and does my back, the back passage also, using a scratchy sponge. I always try to gather enough strength to fart in her face. Such are the pleasures to which I am reduced.
She won’t leave me, though, nor will her parents. My attorney has instructions to give them a good bonus after I die, provided I have been well tended and die of natural causes, and they know this. Besides, they believe I have a hoard of gold hidden away somewhere and they hope to discover it. In which case they could kill me and decamp with the loot. Well, they are right, but find it they will not. It’s in a large cistern built into the hill behind my villa, with a compartment that contains water as it should, so nobody thinks there may be something more. It’s described in my will, that only I and my attorney have knowledge of. I often chuckle quietly to myself when I notice my gardener attacking the earth with his avaricious spade. His labours result in excellent vegetables.
My attorney is elderly himself but younger than I am; so is everybody else, since I am on my way to ninety-five. He regularly comes to check on me and usually has some herbal tea while we sit on the terrace looking out across the verdant fields warmed to lushness by the generous Italian sun. By this time I’m dressed in a simple tunic and I have a light covering across my knees. Sun or no sun, old bones are cold.
Sometimes we talk and sometimes we sit in silence, except that he slurps his tea.
Sometimes I get a bit confused and I take him for the Grim Reaper finally come for me.
“I suppose I will go to hell,” I remark.
“Why do you say that?” He looks upset. “Surely you have made your peace with God? Should I bring the priest?”
“No, no priest.” Confession will do me no good, I think. Since I have no contrition. I am a murderer but I do not regret it. Yes, I have killed many men and one woman. Many on the field of battle but also in cold blood. But I do not regret one single thing, because I did it all for her. Well, at first I served Justinian, but when she came, she was my lady and what I did, I did for her. The battles I directed were aimed at strengthening and expanding the empire over which she reigned. And after she had died I dedicated all my undertakings to her memory. The gold has been willed to fund the almshouses, hospices and other charitable institutions she began. The current rulers do not care much for that. But generous though that bequest will be, I don’t suppose it will suffice to buy my redemption.
Perhaps the blessed Virgin may intercede for me. Sometimes I petition her: Hail
Mary, full of grace, pray for me now and at the hour of death. Perhaps she will understand that I regret nothing that I did for love. Perhaps she can save my immortal soul. If not, I go to eternal purgatory. If she does have that power, I may yet meet my lady in the Elysian fields.
Theodora. She was my lady, and she was my life.
Author’s note
As I stated with regard to The Colour of Power (the novel about Theodora that precedes this one), this is a historical novel, which I have presented as fictional narrative, keeping for the most part within the framework of what is known about the characters and events that figure in it. Since it is a novel and not a biography or a textbook, however, there are omissions, simplifications, manipulations and fabrications, as there were in the previous book.
About the characters
Whereas in my novel on ancient Egypt, The Double Crown, I invented a large number of fictional characters, in this novel and in The Colour of Power the majority by far are historical persons. Fictional additions are indicated with an asterisk in the list of characters.
Justinian is often termed the “last great Roman emperor”, although of the Eastern Roman empire (i.e. Byzantium rather than ancient Rome as it was before the Barbarians conquered it). He is known to this day for his Corpus Juris Civilis, a great body of recorded law that still under-pins legal judgements in certain instances.
He did catch the plague, which I have portrayed as accurately as I could, and he survived it with a temporary speech impediment. He adored Theodora and mourned her for seventeen years.
Theodora is a fascinating character whose life is partially documented. There is general consensus among historians as regards the main facts of Theodora’s life. The narrative is, as I have remarked before, a magnificent illustration of the statement that truth is stranger than fiction. However, as regards some parts of her life, the facts are meagre (for instance, no one knows exactly how she managed to get back to Constantinople from Africa), allowing the writer’s imagination room to wander.
