by Stella Duffy
‘Of course, there isn’t one of them who got position without doing something, good or bad to gain it, but what about him as a person?’
‘Theodora, I don’t know. Or really care. We’re not being harassed right now, that’s good, that’s all I need to know. Now get on with some work and stop trying to distract me from the fact that your weft is too tight, you’ve managed to weave two great long strands of your own hair into this seam, and if you were making that piece with real silk instead of rough-spun wool, you’d have thrown away the equivalent of one poor soldier’s annual income on a wasted lot of thread.’
There came a day, three weeks in, and with a lot more solid concentration, when Theodora knew what she was doing, without thinking about it. The cloth grew beneath her hands, and she was simply making, as Esther had promised would happen eventually, with intent but without actual thought. Theodora’s attention was on the whole, not the specific, and so, as in the best of dances, the most successful of shows, the specific was part of the whole and held perfectly within it.
‘Oh my God, Esther. Look. Look!’
Esther sighed at the blasphemy, raised her eyes from the tiny hand-loom where she was weaving an intricate pattern, vastly more difficult than the simple fabric Theodora was working, and smiled. Her pupil’s hands were working in the syncopated cross-rhythm she’d taught, her back was bent lightly over the work, allowing her arms to be neither too close nor too far, keeping the tension perfect in both warp and weft, and cloth was growing from thread. It was plain cloth, simply made, but it was cloth, and it would work, it would wear. It might even last.
‘I’ve made it, I’m making it. This is incredible. Don’t you think? I’m actually making a thing.’
And Theodora, who had received standing ovations for every possible performance, who had brought the Hippodrome to its knees with laughter and leaping up again in her praise, who had seduced the Governor of the Pentapolis, surviving his passion and his disdain, who had undergone trial by sadness and sickness and inner demons in the desert, and then had come home, brave enough to start again – and who was rightly proud of all these things – now understood the simple pleasure of making.
As a dancer, as an acrobat, and especially as a whore, Theodora had long ago learned to look forward to the moment when the mind relaxed and the body took over. She now realised that weaving cloth was no different, and that – exactly as with any new physical skill – once she’d mastered the basics, the rest was a matter of building. Taking the form and adding to it. From cotton, Esther promoted her to fine and then finer wool. Then, on the third day of frenzied making, Esther tried her out on her first silk. This was not the famous silk, more costly than gold, that the family specialised in. It was a lesser thread, sold by their Chinese contacts to traders who didn’t really care about quality, or – in this case – sold cheaply to someone with Esther’s skill to make into a perfect item, recreating the imperfections as a feature of the design. For Theodora’s task though, the cheap silk, still costly compared to any other thread, was used as it was, with no pattern to incorporate the knobbly slubs which would otherwise spoil a perfect finished piece. The resulting fabric would not be dyed in the purple, or even the far cheaper reds and deep ochres of which the Imperial household were currently so fond, but it was silk and, like every other silk thread in the City, had travelled all the way from the East, keeping the secret of its provenance, to be remade here, in this workshop. It was precious.
Theodora gave herself over to this new dance, she relaxed into the cloth that did not yet exist, allowing the piece to use her to create itself. The first half-hour was sticky, stalling, slow, but the rhythm of the new material found itself in her body and the thread began to run smoothly through her hands, she in the trance of making and Esther sewing proudly nearby. By the end of the day there was a single piece of cloth, half an arm-length long and three fingers wide. The seams frayed a little, the tension was slightly too tight at one point, but Esther took the piece and, circling her forefinger to her thumb, leaving a hole the width of a child’s fingernail, pulled the piece through.
‘You see?’ she said, ‘Only silk – even poor silk, with these slubs and imperfections – can do this. My grandmother would take a stretch of fabric large enough to make robes for two full-grown men, and if she couldn’t pull it through her wedding ring, then she would say it was not good enough and my grandfather would have to sell it more cheaply.’
‘So how did your family make a living?’
‘People come to us for the best. Once won, that trust remains.’
‘You think that’s why we value silk? Because it can be run through a grandmother’s narrow ring?’
‘And the secret of its origins, the distance it travels, the borders crossed. But no, that’s not why I value it.’ Esther leaned across to Theodora, pulled up the sleeve of her student’s plain robe, and stroked the silk across Theodora’s skin: ‘This is.’
The fabric brushed her skin, barely touching, there and not there, light and warm as a kiss given to a sleeping lover. It was the closest Theodora had come to a caress since she’d said goodbye to Macedonia and Esther quickly moved the cloth before it caught the stain of Theodora’s tears.
Theodora had just three days to enjoy the pleasure of her new skill. On the fourth day a messenger came from Narses, telling her to present herself at the Chalke. Adding, as plainly as only a Palace messenger sent to the Jewish industrial quarter to meet an ex-actress could, that Narses recommended she wear her sober best. Theodora spat after the insolent youth and then walked upstairs to enlist her landladies’ help in the dressing. Mother and daughter were both well skilled in elegantly understated clothing. Their business meant they could have worn the finest fabrics, could have fashioned those fabrics into the most exquisite robes, but the fluctuating fortunes of their faith had proved that dressing down was always safer than dressing to attract interest. Theodora did not explain why she had been summoned to the Chalke, and neither woman asked. They had accepted Narses’ payment for teaching and housing their student, they understood the fee also purchased a certain lack of interest. For now, Theodora was showing only nervous excitement; if she later came home showing another emotion, she would probably share it. In the few weeks she’d lived with them it had become obvious that Theodora was not one to keep her feelings to herself.
Putting on Esther’s dark blue gown, allowing Naomi to run tiny, invisible tacking stitches across the bodice so it fitted perfectly, and then to cover her shoulders and arms with a barely lighter blue shawl, fixing it so it covered her right up to her collarbones, bending to Esther’s pressure to tie her hair back simply, with no tendrils to distract, to attract, Theodora submitted to the ministrations of mother and daughter as if she were allowing her dressers to costume her before a show. Whatever was to come this evening, it would be something of a performance. She would take herself to Narses as a penitent, a woman who was now a simple weaver, and he would then show her to Justinian, his boss who would be Consul. After that it was up to her to find a way to befriend, or at least interest, the man they said was interested in none of the things she usually had to offer – charm, elegance, humour, flesh. Narses had said Timothy wanted her to become useful to Justinian. There might be more to come, but for now, this was all. Theodora had been many things to many men: useful was new. As was covering her body in several layers just in case she might prove too tempting to the one man everyone said was more interested in books than flesh. If he was that staid, then surely one less shawl couldn’t hurt. She thanked Naomi and Esther, handed back the final veil of dark silk they’d been trying to get her to wear over her hair, and stepped out into the street.
Twenty-Eight
Despite its high walls and self-sufficiency in almost every part of its daily business, the Palace was very much at the centre of City life. An army of domestic and civil servants was needed to run the buildings and offices, and not all of them lived in the Palace complex itself. Most people knew s
omeone who had a sister in the kitchens or a brother in the Empress’ retinue or an uncle who was a valued member of the library staff, and even those who did not have a direct family connection to the Palace could not help but be aware of its presence, at the physical head of the City, central to its functioning and the business of the Empire. The coming and going of Imperial processions to churches and Senate meant that most citizens felt some kind of physical as well as emotional connection to the Emperor and those who worked for him, maintained by a lively interest in the stories of what went on behind closed doors, drawn curtains. This interest was enthusiasm, concern, engagement, disappointment, mistrust, hope – and it was gossip.
Any number of these rumours centred on Justinian and, even in her short time back in the City, Theodora had heard most of them. He barely ate and slept even less, he roamed the Palace hallways at night, on occasion with his own head tucked beneath his arm. He hated politics, he loved politics. He and his uncle had been so perturbed by the former Consul Vitalian’s offences against the old Emperor Anastasius that it was inevitable they would have Vitalian deposed, and then executed, once they came to power. Alternatively, he and his uncle had, as good supporters of the Council of Chalcedon, pretended to agree with Vitalian’s stance against the old Emperor Anastasius’ anti-Chalcedonian beliefs, and at the last moment turned against their ally, engineering his downfall for their own good. Justinian had entirely orchestrated his uncle’s rise to prominence, over the heads of Anastasius’ own family members, Probus, Hypatius and Pompeius; or perhaps he had simply been trying to secure a good situation for his uncle, and was horrified when Anastasius chose Justin as successor, not least because it forced him into the limelight of state. He was a virgin, he preferred eunuchs, he had been secretly promised to the Goth Princess Amalasuntha in an Imperial alliance that would one day unite East and West once and for all – all that was needed was for Amalasuntha’s husband to die. He believed the second flood was on its way, he knew which of the many relics in the City’s churches were true and which fakes, he planned to rewrite the findings of the Council of Chalcedon to patch up the growing schism, or he had no faith at all. He was true, he was false, he was really Justin’s son, he was Justin’s sister’s bastard, his dream of one new Rome was the only way forward for the City and the Empire, he would bring the Empire to its knees. For a reputedly quiet academic, Justinian was a much-imagined man, and Theodora dreamed every possibility in her brief walk to the Chalke.
In reality he was shorter than she had expected, solid, serious-looking. Eighteen years her senior, he was certainly a man, not a boy, definitely a statesman rather than a soldier. While his uncle had the bearing of his many years in the military, Justinian already showed signs of the stoop and the heavy eyelids of a book-bound lawyer, with ink-splattered fingers to match. Long, lovely fingers, Theodora was surprised to find herself noticing. He held out a hand to both welcome her in and send his servant to wait for his next call, and she bowed low in honour of his status, which was soon to become even higher. The low bow allowed her to let slip the veil that covered her shoulders and collarbones. She wasn’t entirely sure about Timothy’s reasons for sending her to this man, but she knew that if the Patriarch’s aims were to be met she needed to make Justinian like her, want to use her. So she presented herself in the way she knew any man of the Palace would appreciate.
Any man except Justinian, apparently. Instead of studying Theodora’s charms, he took the fallen veil and rubbed it between his fingers.
‘Not silk?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It’s good, though?’
‘Yes. It’s a fake silk, made of wool, in an extremely fine weave.’
‘As a deception?’
‘Not at all. To offer something when the buyer wants good work but can’t afford the best.’
Justinian nodded his approval. ‘I have a dream that we might one day manufacture silk here, in the City. The amount we’re paying these traders, it’s beyond reason. Especially when other fabrics might do as well. There’s no accounting for taste, is there, the choice of one fabric over another? Once something is a commodity, all we can do is try to make sure our people aren’t being cheated too badly. Yes?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Good. Now then, Narses tells me you were a performer? In the Hippodrome.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And successful? Famous, he says?’
‘I had a certain following.’
‘You were a dancer?’
‘Yes,’ Theodora answered more slowly this time, wondering where he was going with this, hoping she wouldn’t be kicked out before she’d even tried to do the Patriarch’s will, ‘But not for a long time … I have been away.’
‘Narses said.’ Justinian stared at her, then shook his head. ‘Well, I trust him, if he thinks you’ll do, then you will. So, I know you’ve been away, but you can hardly have failed to hear the stories – the Emperor’s strange nephew who doesn’t eat and doesn’t sleep and wouldn’t know one end of the rank and file from the other, what’s the old man doing making him Consul? Am I right? Yes?’
Theodora decided honesty was the better option in the presence of this strangely enthusiastic dark-eyed man with the heavy brows and the solid figure, and the surprisingly lovely hands, hands he now beckoned with, urging an answer, ‘Well?’
‘I have.’
Justinian nodded at her bravery. ‘Good. As have I. So, we’ll give them a story they do like, something good about me instead. We’ll make a show. Yes? They like that, don’t they? The people?’
‘I think they do, sir.’
‘Fine, fine. Let’s get to work.’
They worked all that afternoon and into the early evening on plans for the Consul’s ceremonials. Theodora talked him through every available option and some she imagined might be available for the right fee. She explained her view of the difference between a ceremonial for a figure of state, like Justinian, and that for a member of the military – someone the public, for perfectly understandable reasons, felt was one of them. She explained that Justinian himself fitted into neither category. She was not coy about the rumours, he had brought them up after all, nor did she fail to mention that both he and his uncle were, despite their grand status, still Slav foreigners to the many who were born and bred in the City. Even when Justinian launched into a rant about the nature of the Empire and his desire to bring all together, so that no Roman could ever feel a foreigner, no matter what part of the Empire they were born in, she brought him back to reality by reminding him that the accent he used in speaking to his servant was entirely different to the one that came out of his mouth now, in his excitement. In the five hours they were together Justinian neither ate nor drank, though he was solicitous in requesting food and drink for Theodora – which she, despite her own appetite, refused. He noted her refusal and nodded his approval; she was clearly working at it and he liked that. He paced the room, threw his arms around to make his points, constantly returned to the windows that looked out over the wall and into the City. He was never still except when he was saying yes or no to an idea. Then, once it was decided, he was off again on a new thought.
By the time she left that evening Theodora was convinced of two things. One, that almost all of the rumours about Justinian were probably right – he was both calm and crazy, wise and foolhardy, incredibly learned and almost childish in his enthusiasms. And two, that she really wanted this job. Working in the Palace, working with and somehow influencing Justinian – though she wasn’t sure how much she could possibly influence that force of energy contained in such an oddly stolid, serious body – was what Timothy wanted from her. Now that she had met the man herself, it was definitely what she wanted as well. She hadn’t had such an entertaining day in years. Fortunately, Justinian thought the same.
Two weeks later, Justinian had given her a small suite of rooms in the Palace; within the month she was producing the theatrical elements of his consular celebrations wit
h a team of her own friends creating the entertainment, and even Sophia had managed to hold her tongue long enough to simply say thank you and get on with the work. With no interest whatsoever in the military component of the celebration, Theodora passed that section of the planning on to Narses who knew far more than she did about men in uniform – a fact she couldn’t deny, given how unattractive soldiers had always seemed to her, even those of the higher ranks.
A month after her rise in fortune, she was so swamped with work that she was given two ladies to attend her. Narses had decided that Theodora needed help and she agreed, but stipulated that whoever was sent to help was as plain as possible. She’d been caught out once by Chrysomallo, it wasn’t going to happen again. She put the society girls who arrived – too plain to marry money, too silly to marry well – to work sewing costumes for the private show Justinian would give his staff on the night of the celebration, a generous gesture from his own purse to thank them for their support. Theodora had no intention of letting the giggling girls dress her, no matter that Narses clearly felt she’d fit in better in the pretty pinks and warm reds they wore themselves. She was here as Timothy’s envoy, not to party: she’d stay with sober grey and black. Besides, even if Justinian and those she was working with in the Palace guessed at the full truth of her past before her present incarnation as weaver and celebration adviser, it was important that the Emperor and Empress believed her cover story for a while at least, and they’d be more likely to do so if she didn’t draw attention to her dress. Narses shrugged when he saw that his gift of virtual ladies-in-waiting was rejected; privately, though, he was impressed. Perhaps the Patriarch did know what he was doing after all, sending this girl to Justinian. At the very least, she worked hard – but then she would, Menander had trained her well. Menander trained them all well.
