by Ross Laidlaw
‘A pity you can’t supplement my poor collection from the richest store of knowledge known to man,’ sighed Timothy one day when she showed up to present her report, ‘ — the great library of Alexandria, burned down by a Christian mob over a century ago in the time of the first Theodosius.’ He shook his great head sadly. ‘Misguided bigots. Fanaticism — the curse of the Eastern mind, I fear. Hence the present unhappy state of near-schism between the Monophysites — Easterners of Syria and Egypt, unbending in devotion to their creed — and the Chalcedonians of the West.’
‘But Irene said you favoured the Monophysites.’
‘True. But not too openly, I fear.’ Timothy grinned ruefully and spread his hands, as if to disown what he was about to say. ‘As Patriarch, officially I represent the emperor in a spiritual sense, so can’t afford to wear my heart upon my sleeve. Monophysites, you see, can tolerate a bit of mystery in their creed. Christ, to us, though born of woman is still entirely God, and so can have but one, divine, nature. Egyptians like myself, and Syrians — a Semitic people — have no problem accepting that apparent contradiction. Try to force us to abandon our belief and you risk provoking insurrection on a massive scale. Of the multitude of monks and nuns on the streets out there, scarcely one but would gladly give their life to defend a view we hold so passionately — fanatically, if you like. Although, speaking for myself, I can understand the Chalcedonian point of view, and — tell it not in Gath — even sympathize with it to some extent. Luckily, the present imperial regime has the good sense to turn a partial blind eye to what it regards as Monophysite heresy — at least in Egypt. Four centuries ago, Titus and Hadrian faced the same sort of problem when they stirred up a hornet’s nest by tampering with the religion of the Jews — another race of Semites.’
‘Then why on earth does the government insist on uniformity, when that risks turning half the Empire into heretics?’
Timothy rose, and began to pace the tablinum. ‘Ah — there you have the Graeco-Roman mind,’ he boomed, wheeling to begin another circuit of the chamber, ‘whose legacy is Greek philosophy and Roman law. You Westerners, with your restless probing intellects, never satisfied until you have defined a thing precisely, or worked out a rational solution to a problem. To you, Christ, because He walked the earth as man, yet also was the Son of God, logically must have two natures: human and divine. Q.E.D., as Euclid would have said. Anyone who can’t see that is just being obstinately unreasonable. And as one true belief is as important for personal salvation as it is for promoting political unity within the Empire, orthodoxy must be made to prevail. Anyway, that’s how the Chalcedonians would see it.’
‘Then the Chalcedonians are stupid as well as narrow-minded!’
‘Really, my dear,’ declared Timothy, holding up his hands in mock horror, ‘such views — while refreshingly forthright — are also hopelessly naive.’ He halted his perambulations to stab an accusing finger at Theodora. ‘Heaven help you if you were ever called upon to defend them in argument. You would be utterly demolished, and deservedly so. I have a suggestion: tomorrow, I visit an old friend, one Severus, Patriarch of Antioch and an ardent Monophysite, so presently in Alexandria as a refugee from persecution. He’s renowned throughout the Roman world for his skill in disputation, and as a teacher. Were I to ask him, I’m sure he would be willing to accept you as his pupil. What do you say?
Under Severus’ benignly merciless tuition, Theodora learned to hold her own in theological argument and debate. By the end of three months in the Egyptian capital, Theodora’s metamorphosis was almost complete. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, she had become transformed from the frightened lonely derelict who had fled from Apollonia. In a world which had shown her little kindness, she had at last encountered others who had given her true and disinterested affection. (That two of these were male had shown her that there were at least some men prepared to value her for herself alone, and not just for the pleasure her body could provide.) Buoyed up by the friendship of two eminent and respected figures who had helped her to regain her self-respect and cultivate her mind (as well as imbuing her with sympathy and admiration for the Monophysites), she was ready to embark on the next stage of her voyage of self-discovery. For Alexandria, she knew, could only be a staging-post. She must find her destiny, whatever that should prove to be, in her home city, Constantinople, with its strong pull of family and genius loci — the place’s soul.
‘I understand, my dear,’ said Timothy sadly, when she told him the time had come to move on. ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions,* and you must seek your fortune wherever it may call you. I can’t pretend you won’t be greatly missed; the poor whom you served so well have come to love you — as have I, as a father loves a daughter. May I suggest you break your journey in Antioch, where an old friend of mine lives — a wealthy widow with many contacts in the world of trade and business. I’d be surprised if Macedonia were unable to help you find an opening in work you’d find congenial. I’ll give you a letter of introduction.’
Timothy did more than that. Although Theodora had saved enough (just) from her stipend to cover the cost of the voyage home, the bishop pressed on her a bag of solidi, ‘for unforeseen emergencies’ (a kindness Theodora would one day repay a thousand-fold**).
Disembarking at Seleucia — Antioch’s harbour, fourteen miles from the sea on the River Orontes — Theodora entered ‘The Crown of the East’ via the great city’s Watergate. Before her stretched a vast townscape, its suburbs chequered with orchards, olive groves, and vineyards, extending to the lower slopes of Mount Casius three miles distant. A few enquiries enabled her to track down Macedonia’s home, its entrance opening onto the street in the wealthy suburb of Daphne. On producing Timothy’s letter of introduction, she was conducted by a porter to the atrium — a courtyard floored with magnificent mosaics and surrounded by colonnaded walkways. ‘The Domina will be with you presently,’ the man murmured respectfully and withdrew. A little later, an attractive and elegantly clad lady entered the atrium and approached Theodora. While still some yards away, she halted, and exclaimed, ‘The actress from Constantinople!’
‘The dancer from Antioch!’ gasped Theodora in sudden recognition, as a tide of feelings, long suppressed, surged up inside her.
* The Alexandrian terminus of the cursus publicus — the imperial post. See Notes.
* In this quotation from the Bible, ‘mansion’ doesn’t mean a large house. The English meaning of the Latin mansio is ‘station, stage’ (Cassell’s New Compact Latin Dictionary) — i.e. a staging-post on the cursus publicus.
** See Notes.
SIX
And on soft beds. . tenderly. . we would satisfy desire
Sappho of Lesbos, Fragment 94, c. 600 BC
Macedonia was the first to recover. Taking the letter from the other’s unresisting hand, she perused its contents then looked up with a smile, in which there lurked a hint of mischief.
‘Well, Theodora, who’d have thought we’d meet up again like this? I’ll be delighted to help you — if I can. Archbishop Timothy speaks highly of you; I’m sure we can find something that will suit. But before discussing your situation, we must catch up with each other’s news over cena;* I’m all agog.’
Extended on a couch in the triclinium or dining-room beside her hostess, Theodora — to cover the embarrassment that had suddenly engulfed her — prattled on inconsequentially about life in Alexandria, scarcely tasting the delicious dishes from the table beside her. At last, aware that a mounting flush was colouring her neck and cheeks, she floundered to a stop.
‘It’s all right, my dear,’ murmured Macedonia, in tones of understanding mingled with amusement. ‘We don’t need to be shy with each other.’ Moving from her couch, she stretched out beside Theodora, and putting her arms around her, kissed her gently on the mouth.
Immediately, Theodora felt herself responding, and returned the kiss with ardour. Unbelievingly, she became aware of the other beginning to undress her; arou
sal coursing through her veins, she helped Macedonia complete the process then returned the service, till soon both women were lying naked, side by side.
‘Are you ready for this?’ asked Macedonia softly, beginning to stroke the other’s breasts.
For a brief moment, Theodora felt herself stiffen. Never before had she been touched by a woman; thus far, her only experience of sex had consisted of fleeting intercourse with male clients, coldly commercial acts, undertaken not from choice but simply to keep the wolf from the door.
Barring a mild disgust both for herself and for the man who had purchased the temporary use of her body, she had felt nothing on these occasions. But this was different. As delicious sensations from the other’s cunning fingertips began to spread throughout her bosom, all resistance melted and she whispered in a voice husky with excitement, ‘Yes, I’m ready.’
Theodora gasped as Macedonia caressed her nipples, causing them to swell erect, her pleasure mounting in intensity as lips and tongue replaced the work of fingers. She felt Macedonia’s hand slide down her body, explore those other lips now slippery with expectation, fondle the swelling bud until she cried aloud in ecstasy, as the sensations climbed to a pinnacle of exquisite delight. Then suddenly she was convulsing in a violent orgasm, which gradually subsided to a glow of blissful satisfaction, leaving her shaken but at peace.
‘I didn’t know anything could be so beautiful,’ she whispered to Macedonia, gazing adoringly at her lover’s face. ‘Now, I must try to do the same for you. Be warned though — I don’t know if I’ll be any good. All this is new to me, you see.’
‘Provided a willing pupil has a good teacher, what’s there to worry about?’ murmured Macedonia. Smiling, she lay back languorously, and closed her eyes in sensuous anticipation.
To the short list of the only true friends she had ever known — Irene, Timothy, and Severus — Theodora was now able to add another name, Macedonia, one associated with a new dimension in her life — passion. The next few weeks passed in a delectable blur — long, intimate talks sometimes lasting far into the night; delicious meals complemented by the finest of wines; excursions around the splendours of Antioch, its colonnaded streets, magnificent circus, theatres, baths, and great churches;* bouts of tender lovemaking.
In the course of sharing confidences about their past lives, Macedonia revealed to Theodora that she had been briefly married to a successful merchant, before his untimely death from ague. ‘Mathias was a sweet, kind man,’ she recounted, ‘who fell in love with me after seeing me perform with my troupe of dancers. It was hard to refuse his proposal of marriage; he offered me security, genuine affection, a life of luxury beyond the wildest dreams of a mere dancing-girl from a poor background. And I was truly fond of him. Not, of course, in the way I feel about yourself, my love, but as a dear friend, whose death left me with a devastating sense of loss and sadness. He willed me his trading empire which, though I say it myself, I manage pretty well; if there’s one thing my sort of upbringing has taught me, it’s how many nummi make a solidus.’
‘You were lucky; my own seeming passport to a better life came about in circumstances not dissimilar to yours,’ remarked Theodora, adding with a rueful laugh, ‘but instead of a Mathias, I ended up with an absolute bastard.’ And she related the story of her sojourn with Hecebolus.
But nothing lasts forever; as the days grew shorter, warning of the autumn gales to come which would make voyages by sea impossible, Theodora knew that the time had come when the idyll had to end.
‘You don’t have to go,’ entreated Macedonia. ‘We could be partners in business, as in love.’
‘Darling, I have my path to find,’ Theodora responded gently. ‘We’ll meet again, I promise. But first, I have to make a new life for myself.’
And so, with many tears and kisses, they parted, Theodora embarking from Seleucia on a vessel bound for the Golden Horn. Packed with her belongings was a business plan for a wool-spinning enterprise, drawn up by Macedonia; also a sheaf of letters of introduction.* Among the latter was one addressed to a certain ‘Petrus Sabbatius, Comes, Vir Illuster, Consul et Patricius’ (Count, the Illustrious, Consul and Patrician).
* Dinner.
* All to be laid low seven years later, in the catastrophic earthquake of 29 November 528.
* See Notes.
SEVEN
Barbarian nations. . know the scale of our exertions in war
Justinian, Institutes, 533
Looking across the camp fire at his friend Petrus (‘Justinian’, he corrected himself — the official name bestowed on Petrus in January as one of last year’s* consuls), Valerian felt a twinge of concern. Here they were, deep in the wilds of Aethiopia two thousand miles from Constantinople, heading a probably dangerous mission the success of which could not be guaranteed. . Yet, from his relaxed, almost carefree demeanour, you would think Petrus (‘Justinian’, he reminded himself again) didn’t have a care in the world.
Beyond the glowing circle of light from their own camp fire, hundreds of flickering dots, extending to a radius of several hundred yards, indicated the presence of the Roman expeditionary force supplemented by its Aethiopian guides. Perhaps he was being unduly apprehensive, Valerian conceded to himself. Thus far, he had to admit, the expedition had proceeded without a hitch. Sailing from the Golden Horn three months ago, the force (comprising a large contingent, mainly cavalry, from the Army of the East) had disembarked at Pelusium on the Nile Delta, marched the short distance overland to Arsinoe at the head of the Sinus Arabicus,** whence a fleet of transports (making excellent progress with a steady wind on the beam) had conveyed them to the port of Adulis on the coast of Aethiopia, a thousand miles further to the south-east at the other end of the Sinus.
Led by native guides sent to meet them at the port, the expedition had then struck inland across a rising tract of barren scrub-land to a high plateau — blessedly cool, Valerian found, after the energy-sapping heat of the coastal strip. Ahead towered a vast rampart of cliffs split by a mighty defile, before whose entrance the expedition made camp for the night. Next day, the force threaded the Great Pass, as the defile was known, through a series of striking and ever-changing scenes: groves of mimosa and laurel, flower-starred meadows, stands of pine and fir on the lower slopes and (just to remind you that this was Africa and not, say, Isauria or the Caucusus, thought Valerian) higher up, clumps of strange cactus shaped like many-branched candelabra.
The Dhu-Nuwas Expedition, AD 522-3
Beyond the Great Pass the scenery changed abruptly, the way climbing up into range upon range of stark mountains — a nightmare vision of fantastically shaped peaks, some like fangs, others like flat-topped pillars, riven by boulder-filled gullies or dizzying precipices. For weeks the column inched its way south-westwards through that fissured wilderness, whose only sign of human habitation was an occasional stone fortress impossibly perched atop sheer cliffs. At last, to everyone’s huge relief, the terrain began to descend, barren mountains giving place to rolling veldt — a sea of waving grass, relieved by crystal streams fringed by stands of sycamore fig, and stippled by herds of antelope, also a curious species of black-and-white striped horse. Although (assuming the great geographer Ptolemy was correct) Valerian reckoned they must now be midway between the line of the Tropic in the northern hemisphere and that of the Aequator, the climate, on account of the elevation of the country, was delightfully temperate — warm rather than hot by day, and cool at night. They passed many villages, each a cluster of cone-shaped thatched huts surrounded by a stockade. The inhabitants (tall, slim, brown-skinned people with, rather to Valerian’s surprise, an Arabic rather than a negro cast of countenance), negotiating with the expedition’s guides, were happy to exchange, for sticks of salt, fresh milk, bread, and meat — all much appreciated by the troops who had survived up to this point on hard tack and dried beef. In the midst of this Elysium, they came at last to Gondar* — an imposing hill-top city of stone-built houses, shops, and churches, and the agree
d rendezvous with the King of Axum.
As the soldiers set up camp outside the town, Valerian recalled that fateful briefing in the Empire’s capital, when the expedition had been planned. .
Early in Justin’s reign, in the year that his friend Petrus was made consul (his name on the occasion being changed to Justinianus, as being thought more fitting for the nephew of an emperor), Valerian, along with Justinian, received a summons to attend a meeting at the palace.
A silentiarius conducted the pair to an audience chamber in which were seated Justin, wearing plain undress military uniform (he hated wearing the imperial regalia of diadem and purple robe, and avoided doing so whenever possible), and a large, red-faced, coarse-looking man, whom Valerian recognized as John the Cappadocian* — a clerk in the scrinium for military billeting. Justin waved the friends to a bench.
‘Dhu-Nuwas has invaded Arabia Felix,’** announced John, speaking in a pronounced mid-Anatolian accent. ‘What does that tell you?’ He stared expectantly at Justinian and Valerian.
