Theodora

by Stella Duffy

  From inside the hysteria Theodora could see she was frightening him but it was all, just now, too much, and she truly couldn’t stop herself. It was hilarious and awful and incredible, all at the same time. She was Theodora and a whore and a redeemed woman and the Empress. She had her emerald for safety still strapped beneath her breast and she was staining her purple robe with tears for all she had been and the woman she now needed to be. Everything had been organised and orchestrated by these men, by Justin and Justinian and Timothy and Narses, and now it was sinking in that none of this had ever been her ambition, her desire. She had gone along with it, and for the first time in her life she had accepted other people’s plans for her without question. Finally it had come to fruition and only now was she becoming aware of what it really meant. She was the highest woman in the Empire and she was exactly the same. Everything had changed and nothing, and that she was still the same woman who had seen those revelations in the desert cave astonished her. The robes and the crown and the purple, even the anointing, she was still the same Theodora and she was Empress. The duality was impossible to comprehend.

  Mariam appeared at the door, scared that her mistress needed her, or worse, that Justinian was harming her. Justinian waved the child away: if he didn’t know how to make this better, he doubted very much that the damaged girl could. Theodora went on sobbing and laughing, and eventually, when his kisses and the wine and his holding her still seemed to have made no difference, when Justinian was ready to send for Antonina or Comito or Sophia, his wife abruptly pulled herself together, wiped her eyes, drank the glass of wine and sat up.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Justinian wasn’t sure it was, but he didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘No, it’s not. I apologise. It’s been a long day, a long time. I needed … a release. Or something. But I shouldn’t have shown you that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re my husband – Antonina would have slapped me, and been right to do so.’

  ‘She damn well would not.’

  ‘Antonina says we should never show ourselves as anything but perfect to our husbands. Perfectly made up, perfectly poised, always composed, always ready to care for them. She’s been married longer than I have, I expect she’s right.’

  ‘She’s been married longer to a man fifteen years younger than her, I think that explains a great deal. Anyway, I’m not sure there is anyone else you can allow to see this. There is no one else I can show my fears or my joy to either. Other than Justin, and I wouldn’t want to concern him now, he is too easily tired.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we are just the two of us. Here. And right now, we are not really husband and wife …’

  ‘No?’

  ‘We are August and Augusta. And while I am happy to see you as my honest Theodora, and have always been content to show you my failings, I agree with Antonina that no one else should see August and Augusta as anything less than perfectly controlled. There is no one who can see this but me, no one I can show myself to but you.’

  Theodora sat back, her legs beneath her, twisted in her robes so that one thigh was almost completely exposed. Her arms were crossed in front of her and she hugged herself tight, feeling – as always – the press of the emerald bound beneath her left breast. She could feel the makeup her servant had applied this morning smudged down her cheeks, curls from the hair carefully arranged to hold the crown were stroking her back and one bare shoulder, there were tear stains on the perfect silk of her robe. Justinian sat in front of her, looking exhausted from his three-night Easter and coronation vigil: he was frowning hard and stroking her free leg with one hand, while pulling at his hair with the other, the most obvious sign he ever gave of his concern.

  She laughed, ‘No, I don’t suppose there is anyone else we can allow to see August and Augusta on the floor, in a mess of purple.’

  She kissed him then, and the mess of purple and the soft new carpet were a soft new bed for two people making love on the floor of the Augusta’s meeting room, two people who were higher than any other, taking joy in each other’s body, Theodora the shield for Justinian’s worries, he the shield for her fears. No one else would ever see them like this, their concerns about authority and governing, their elation at the elevation, the pleasure and terror of power as private as the bed.

  Thirty-Seven

  In the morning Armeneus, in charge of Theodora’s new personal staff, let them both sleep a little later in the new rooms. Their privacy was not disturbed, but the scattered robes told their own story. Justinian was woken, late for him, at six, with honeyed water and the papers he needed to study – permits to allow or deny, petitions to analyse. Theodora slept on in her own bed until ten, the latest she had slept since coming to the Palace. When she woke she called for hot water and two maids. She wanted a long bath and breakfast of fruit, with fresh juices and perhaps some music if they could find a girl with a sweet voice. She was only joking when she said it, repeating the demands that, according to rumour, Juliana Anicia made every morning of her wizened old life, but she was delighted when she went to the bathing room and found it all laid on, little girl with lovely voice included. Theodora sank into the warm, scented water, looking at the exquisitely carved ivory of the new triptych that had been placed on her dressing table, another of her wedding gifts from Justinian, thinking she could possibly get used to this.

  As Justin faded from bad to worse health, Justinian needed to immediately step up in every area of governing the Empire. There was both Ostrogoth and Visigoth aggression in the west, problems closer to home with the interminable small disputes between Green and Blue, the ongoing problem of potential schism with new claims from the Arian and Coptic branches of the Church and, as always, Persian demands for border negotiations. Justinian was also not entirely well himself. It was a far lesser complaint than the disease that had infested his uncle’s lungs and was killing him, and therefore one he took some time to bring before the doctor, not least because he was shy about the ailment. What had started out as the lightly bruised testicle any healthy man in possession of an even healthier young wife might expect, was now a more intense problem, with swelling and pain and a discomfort that was not easily attributable to Theodora’s kindness. The problem resolved itself after a while. The jokes that Theodora had battered her husband’s privates with her excessive demands took a little longer to go away, but the rumour that perhaps Justinian would not now be able to father a child persisted – and Theodora did nothing to dispel the suggestion. She’d certainly seen him in great pain; the twisted testicle had swollen and reddened, and it had taken careful work on the part of a skilled Syrian physician to bring Justinian back to the role of a still-generous lover who was just a little less ready to spend the night on the floor with her. For all she knew, the passing problem truly had damaged his ability to make her a mother again. At the very least, it took the pressure off Theodora, stopped the City’s high-born women from looking quite so intently at her belly whenever she was in public.

  Once her husband was perfectly well and constantly busy again, Theodora was thrown back on the company of her old friends and new Palace acquaintances. Old friends like Sophia and Leon were around, of course, but they were getting used to Theodora’s change of role, having to ask her staff if they could meet up. It didn’t sit easily with Sophia to have to time an appointment that didn’t clash with a lesson in Persian etiquette or a discussion on Vandal history. No matter that she knew Theodora hungrily welcomed her company, Sophia herself needed time to adjust. Theodora knew her old friend would accustom herself to the new regime eventually, hoped for sooner rather than later. Antonina too was a welcome distraction, and her knowledge of court and military form came in very handy, but while she was keen to become better friends with Theodora, Antonina was far less interested in Palace life than most women of her age and class. She was an army wife, had been on tours of duty with her husband, would happily go away with him again, bu
t while they were here in the City she saw it as her job to do her best for her husband and his men. Just at the point when Theodora could have done with a good new friend, Antonina was working daily on a military matchmaking task, and one that Theodora could not but approve, much as she wanted Antonina’s company for herself. Antonina was endeavouring to bring Comito together with Sittas, one of Justinian’s most favoured generals. Theodora’s rise in station had not made Comito any less arrogant about her own work, it just meant she confined her performances to even more exclusive and better-paid events. Sittas was famously uninterested in anything or anyone but war, horses and his men, more or less in that order. If it could be arranged, their union would be a good move for her sister and her family – Theodora was finding marriage so much to her own liking, she did not want Comito to miss out on similar happiness. Antonina got on with the matchmaking and Theodora turned even closer to home for companionship.

  Narses still looked in on her every now and then, but primarily to check on the reports from Theodora’s tutors. According to most of them, she was doing as well as could be expected, and better than many had hoped. The eunuch offered a gentle nod of approval, but no more than that. Much as he’d encouraged her to get on with the work in the first place, she was the Augusta now, and as Justinian was so new to his job and there was so much to do getting him up to speed, it wouldn’t do Theodora any harm to learn to be her own mentor.

  More bored than lonely, Theodora tried making friends with some of the new servants she had been assigned, chatting to the woman who did her hair, trying to encourage Esther – who now came once a fortnight to discuss clothing requirements – to talk about her own life, but it quickly became obvious that while Theodora might be able to disregard her status, they certainly couldn’t, and her overtures of friendship simply made them feel uncomfortable. The people attending her were pleased with their work. Most of them had jostled hard to get positions in the Augusta’s household and none were prepared to risk losing the Empress’ favour and losing their place. Friendship and secrets were fine between people who already knew each other, and Theodora might prove a friend in time, let her prove herself a good Empress first.

  Finally, Theodora realised she would have to look elsewhere for companionship, and then the call came for her to visit Justin. The old Emperor had always been kind to her, especially surprising given his commitment to his wife, even more surprising given his disapproval of Theodora’s religious mentor. He’d had time for the girl while Euphemia was alive, and these days he had even more. Justin realised he now had all the permission in the world to do exactly, and only, what he wanted; he also had very little time left to enjoy that freedom. As the old man became more frail, he took to asking Theodora to visit him more often.

  Theodora had been trained from her youth to be a good listener and, with the classes Narses had arranged for her, she had become a better conversationalist. Both her husband and his uncle had been supportive of the idea of her new lessons, not that either man dared tell Theodora directly that they had been party to a discussion about her intellect and education – they happily left those delicate matters to the eunuch. Now she was developing an interest in matters Justin had himself learned to care about a great deal, the questions his own wife had been too frightened to discuss once he had become Emperor. Nervous of making the kind of mistake that would remind people of her past, Euphemia had been happy to offer her views to all and sundry, and regularly did, but never to her own husband. Theodora, though, had learned in Menander’s training that mistakes were simply steps from which to move forward. Euphemia had been scared that her accent or her phrasing or a misinterpretation of foreign protocol would point up her slave origins, betray her as a product of her past, Theodora had no doubt that everyone knew her history, and the very few who hadn’t known about her before were hearing it now.

  She was the talk of the town. There were those in the taverns who railed against her promotion, who spat at her name in the bars, blessed themselves against catching her corruption when they stood in the same church, cited her husband’s passing illness as another example of her dangerous ways. These detractors were few, but very loud. In some ways worse though, were her fellow performers who, so proud of her elevation, thought nothing of embellishing her story to give themselves roles in her past, more often than not as sexual partners. The whore-Empress had a known history: how simple then for a young man making a name for himself on the stage to cite himself as one of her early conquests and gain the kind of notoriety that went down very well indeed with the Hippodrome crowd – even better when his routine was about how well she herself went down.

  Theodora had nothing to hide and everything to learn, and to gain. Justin’s militarily biased views on the history of the Empire, the various uses of the Latin she was coming to know better and the formal old Greek she was perfecting were all very useful, but far more interesting were his opinions on the elegant and intensely rigid court manners of the Sassanids compared to the rough Huns, the singing Celts in favour of the passionate Vandals. He knew them all, as often as not because he had spent time with these people, had met them when discussing treaties or borders, had faced them both in battle and in troubled peace. Now, childlessly facing his own death, Justin was anxious to pass on what he knew, he had shared this knowledge with Justinian over time but he wanted to make sure his opinions did not stay solely with Justinian. Especially knowing how eager Justinian was to empty the coffers Justin himself had filled all these years, he was keen to encourage Theodora to understand his thinking, for later, when he was no longer here.

  Gratifyingly, Theodora did not just want to listen, she also asked questions. Where other people – analysts and students of military strategy – asked Justin what he and other soldiers had done, Theodora asked how he felt. Facts were all very well, but there were plenty of scholars both in the present and the future who would be able to provide Justinian with any number of facts for any number of scenarios. What really mattered in the moment, when pressing and difficult choices needed to be made, was the heart. How it felt to deal with this huge problem or that private joy, how it felt to know that every action, however small, would eventually be made public, be seen by all. Soon, Justin would die, and then the one man who had been in Justinian’s position, who knew how it actually felt to command, to lead, would be gone, no longer able to offer his counsel.

  And so Theodora dutifully spent hours by Justin’s bedside. Even the most censorious of Palace staff had to admit they were impressed by the little whore’s behaviour with the old man. It was good of her to humour him, especially now that she didn’t have to, now that she and Justinian had the crown. What they didn’t know was that now his censorious wife was out of the way, Justin was more relaxed than he had been in years. The old Emperor had a wicked sense of humour and, when he was detailing some of his less salubrious exploits in the army, admitting in a painful but animated croak that he, not his nephew, had been behind the deposition and execution of Vitalian, or whispering through pain and exhaustion his favourite story of the Greek whore and the dolphin – not a story he’d ever shared with Justinian – he also had a really very dirty laugh.

  Thirty-Eight

  The old man lay on the narrow bed. Those who had begun readying the body for the lying in state, for the funeral, hurried from the room. Justinian and Theodora, who had come to see their uncle, wanted an empty space and quiet. They did not want the bustle of funeral preparations, they did not need to see Justin in the clothes of his coffin, they simply wanted to spend some time, to say their prayers, in the presence of the old man’s body. Both believed that his spirit had already departed.

  Theodora was sure, contrary to all teachings, that Justin’s spirit had probably gone some days before. She had been sitting with him when the pain became too great, when it was obvious he would not return this time, and he had whispered to her, as she held his hand, the papery skin dry and thin, the words gurgling in his throat against the fluid that
was drowning him, ‘I am worried to see Euphemia.’

  She knew exactly what he meant, they had been talking more often of what was to come, what might be waiting for him, the truth of his wife as she was now: would her soul include all her temporal emotions and feelings, or would he merely find a form of her? Theodora had promised Justin that Euphemia would be gentle, though she was sure the old man knew she was offering the kind of soft truths given to the dying by anyone other than the most honest of priests.

  She held his hand and spoke quietly. ‘You are the Emperor, your choices were bigger than mere family allegiances, your decisions have been for the City and more, for Rome. Justinian will do well, I promise. You trained him, and he has me as his support.’

  In kindness to the old man who was in such extreme pain, fighting his own drowning on dry land, she deflected his fears from his dead wife’s ire to the genuinely capable nephew. Euphemia had been fond of Germanus, had a certain respect for the Emperor Anastasius’ relatives, but she’d loved Justinian. Justin knew it too, and he understood that Theodora was making it safe for him, easing his concerns with her quiet avoidance. He smiled and closed his eyes, his bony fingers moving restlessly in her hand. Even as she reassured him, Theodora was sure she could feel him leaving, his spirit moving away. Justin fell asleep that evening, and did not wake again.

  Beside the thin corpse, Justinian prayed for the repose of his uncle’s soul and for the strength to take on his work, to be the good son, to live up to the trust Justin had shown in him. He prayed to be a good Emperor.

  Theodora knelt beside her husband and prayed, yet again, to be a good wife, to support Justinian, to be the perfect consort. She did not pray to be a good Empress. Empress was just another job, many people had been involved in getting her that appointment: her choice now was to be Justinian’s partner, and it was for that role that she prayed.