The seven priests anointed Justinian with the sign of the cross in seven places—the backs of his hands, his palms, heart, lips, cheeks, eyes, and finally, his forehead. When they finished, Justinian kissed the priests’ hands, the Gospel, and finally the ruby-encrusted cross on the altar. Epiphianos placed the Eastern diadem on Justinian’s head and swept a thick purple chalmys over his shoulders to complete the transformation from man to Emperor.
Shouts of “Nika!” and “Flavius Petrus Sabbatius Justinianus Augustus!” shook plaster from the domes, but then the nave fell silent, and the faces of hundreds of senators and patricians swiveled toward the narthex.
It was my turn.
The double lines of the Emperor’s honor guard formed two walls to guide me into the nave. Justinian waited for me at the altar with Epiphanios, a second crown in his hands.
My crown.
I walked slowly past Constantinople’s nobility to allow them their first glimpse of their new Augusta, and to avoid tripping over my samite hem with its dainty clusters of shimmering seed pearls. If butterflies could sew, my stola would have been their creation.
To the right of the altar stood a knot of Justinian’s closest advisers—Tribonium, General Belisarius, Sittas. And John the Cappadocian.
Tasia waited to the left of the altar, dressed like an exquisite doll and dripping with gold. Graceful as a swan, in her wide eyes and delicate bones she held the promise of the young woman she would soon become. She managed a timid smile as I winked at her.
I almost tripped as my gaze fell on another familiar face. Comito stood near the dais next to a frowning senator the size of a small hippo. Time had etched lines around her mouth like the finest spiderweb, and her blond hair was hidden under a green silk veil. She caught my eyes and gave a stiff bow of her head.
Across the aisle from my sister and almost hidden behind the Cappadocian was another woman I hadn’t planned to see.
Macedonia.
It seemed she hadn’t needed my assistance to make it back to the capital after all.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Justinian whispered once I joined him, glancing toward Comito. “I thought your sister should be here, so I had Narses track her.”
“Thank you.” I mouthed the words, touched at his thoughtfulness.
Epiphianos chanted and swung a censer back and forth, cloaking the air with the cloying scent of frankincense and myrrh. I swept to my knees in a rustle of silk, scarcely hearing the Gospel recited over my head. The purple chalmys was heavier than I expected as he draped it across my shoulders, a weight I would do my best to bear with dignity, no matter what the future held. The Patriarch fastened the cloak with a gold and amethyst cross before touching the crown in Justinian’s hands.
“May God Almighty bless this woman, Theodora, wife of Justinian Augustus, with benevolence and wisdom while ruling this great Empire,” Epiphanios said. “May her reign be just and fruitful.”
Justinian placed the crown on my head. His hand was cool as his fingers threaded through mine. Constantinople’s nobility fell before us like a wave, all heads bent in submission.
I was Empress. Augusta Theodora.
There was a breath of silence, and I caught Justinian’s gaze, stealing a moment alone while all other eyes were hidden. I had hitched my star to his, for better or worse, and he to mine. His brows almost reached his crown, and I answered with a grin. The moment broke as we stepped from the altar, and the crowd’s deafening cheers chased us down the middle of the Hagia Sophia and into the clean spring air.
Our first official act was to distribute newly minted coins to the poor outside the church and then make an appearance at the Kathisma gallery, the Emperor’s special box in the Hippodrome. Justinian squeezed my hand as we stepped from the dark passageway into the giant amphitheater, open to the afternoon sky and filled with one hundred thousand of our subjects. They roared at the sight of us, a tapestry of our names and “Nika!” woven into the wind. Justinian and I made the sign of the cross over them and raised our arms for the games to begin.
I hadn’t been to the Hippodrome since the sweltering afternoon Justin had been proclaimed Emperor. Then I had been nobody, but now I wore the Augusta’s purple. I felt like an imposter but reminded myself I’d earned all of this. I’d certainly sacrificed enough to get here.
We were too far away to make out the carved base of the Egyptian obelisk and its image of Emperor Theodosius with eight chariots on the track and the Empire’s damned enemies below, but the scene was reenacted before us as the charioteers took their places. Each circled the sandy track and saluted our royal box flying its purple pennants as they passed. They paused for the Blues’ consul—a nod to the faction both Justinian and I favored—to step before the horses and hold up a gold sphere the size of an apple, one specially commissioned for these games. The horses snorted and threw their heads. The crowd fell silent as the sphere arced into the air, flashed in the sky like a small sun, and hit the ground.
The horses bolted. Tasia huddled her face in my lap as a Green chariot overturned on the last lap and its driver was trampled by the Blues. The charioteer didn’t move, but a stain of crimson spread into the sands under his chest. A Blue in a fearsome bronze eagle helmet won and received the gold sphere that started the race straight from Justinian’s hand. We settled in for the bearbaiting, hare chase, and display of acrobats, including a particularly lithe—and scantily clad—young woman who walked a rope perilously strung across the top of the arena. I knew how she felt.
Typically all women and children would be relegated to stand in the upper tiers of the Hippodrome, but for today, Justinian’s sister joined General Belisarius, Sittas, and Tribonium with us in the Kathisma. John the Cappadocian was seated next to a little girl no more than five years old, Euphemia, his daughter. Rumor claimed the Cappadocian had fathered a clutch of bastard children all over the Empire, but this whey-faced girl was the only one he claimed. I watched him offer her honeyed cherries and toasted almonds, his whispers in her ears making her giggle. There was no mistaking she was John’s daughter with her sand-colored hair and dimpled chin. Something else about her seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place what it was. John ignored me, but that suited me perfectly.
Macedonia sat behind me, still turning heads despite the whisper of lines on her forehead and her glorious copper hair hidden beneath an embroidered blue veil. I’d offered her a position as my lady-in-waiting, and she already wore the golden girdle denoting her new position. It would be useful to have a woman about my court who could gather information where Narses and his eunuchs couldn’t. Not only that, but I wasn’t sure if she knew of my delay in recalling her. I owed her something, and I didn’t want to be any further in her debt than I already was.
She waited until the men were engrossed in conversation, then leaned toward me. “Where’s your son?”
I stared at the acrobat to avoid her eyes. “He died after we left Antioch.”
Macedonia crossed herself. “I’m sorry. May he rest with God.”
Comito sat down. My sister had always sparkled, but now she seemed like a drab river rock compared to the rest of us shining in our jewels. I clasped her hand, thankful she’d come today. “When are you going to join my court?”
“Never. I’d rather gouge my eyes out than live at court.” The way she said it made me wonder if she really meant she’d never live at my court. Comito may have come to my coronation today, but the hardness in her eyes told me she might never truly forgive me.
I listened to my sister introduce herself to Vigilantia; they quickly fell to swapping tales of Justinian and me in our younger years, stories I’m sure we would both have preferred to remain buried. Such was the gift, and curse, of family.
Tasia’s face blanched white as a spotted leopard tore a hare to pieces, the rabbit’s blood blossoming onto the sand like the charioteer’s had earlier. I thought of dismissing my daughter to bed, but soon the carnage would be replaced with dancers and more races. �
�Tasia,” Sittas said, loud enough so Comito turned, too. I’d caught the dimpled young general’s eyes on my sister, but Comito hadn’t appeared to notice. “Do you know the story of Sisyphus? It’s one of my favorite myths from the Golden Age.”
The general relayed the story of the cursed king forced to roll a boulder up a hill for eternity. I’d never cared for the tale and was easily distracted by Justinian’s discussion with Belisarius.
“The new laws will bar Jews and pagans from holding political office or serving in the military,” Justinian said, taking an orange from the basket presented by a slave.
“Oh.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Is that all?”
“Their temples and property shall be confiscated and their meetings forbidden,” he said. “I hope to persuade them to change their ways.”
“Or leave the Empire,” Belisarius added, grasping the hilt of his sword. “Perhaps they could use a little persuasion.” Justinian loved Belisarius like a brother, but I failed to see the man’s allure. The man thirsted for either blood or power, or both. Either way, I didn’t trust him.
“That benefits no one,” I said. “Levy a hearth tax, and leave them to worship in peace.”
Justinian rubbed his chin. “Religious strife has divided the Empire for too long. I cannot reconquer the West if we don’t reconcile these religious differences first. The Empire will be too large to handle such disagreements.”
“What about the Monophysites?” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. It was no secret that I’d been baptized a Monophysite in Egypt. “Shall you target them next?”
Belisarius coughed, and Justinian shifted in his seat. “I have no plans to do so.”
“Not yet,” I said.
“It seems our newly appointed Empress disagrees with your plan, Augustus.” John the Cappadocian leaned back in his seat, peeling an orange and avoiding my eyes. “I cannot recall such a vociferous woman on the throne in all the Empire’s history.”
“I encourage Theodora to speak her mind,” Justinian said, his eyes narrowing, “as I do with all my advisers.”
John leaned toward Tribonium, speaking in a tone just loud enough for everyone in the box to hear. “I didn’t realize a wife was meant to be an adviser.”
I opened my mouth to give him a scolding, but Justinian’s hand covered mine. “You would do well to remember Theodora is your anointed Augusta.” He turned on his throne, giving John the insult of his back. “Belisarius, I’m sending you to Persia. It’s time we trounced the fire-eaters once and for all.”
I smiled to myself. It seemed John was no longer a favorite.
I prayed Justinian would remain in the capital and send Belisarius to the front to fight Persia. Widow’s black didn’t suit me.
“You seem to have the Emperor wrapped around that pretty little finger of yours,” John whispered as he leaned forward to pick up a segment of orange he’d conveniently dropped. “Just like Hecebolus. We’ll see how long that lasts once Justinian realizes the kind of woman you truly are. Empresses are easily unmade—just ask Claudia Octavia or Fausta.”
Both Empresses had been killed by their husbands, one because she’d outlived her usefulness to the Emperor, and the other for possible deceit. I glanced at Justinian, laughing with Belisarius, and tried to imagine his ink-stained fingers signing my death warrant. I shook my head at the impossibility.
Yet surely neither Claudia Octavia nor Fausta believed her husband would have her wrists slit or order her suffocated in her bath.
I dared not turn around to confront John and make a scene, but forced myself to stare at the floor of the Hippodrome and listen to the men discuss preparations for war until the last acrobat finished her final performance.
War abroad, and a possible battle at home to keep my throne. This was a dangerous game I now played.
PART II
Empress
AD 530–548
The throne is a glorious sepulcher.
—ATTRIBUTED TO THEODORA IN
THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE
BY EDWARD GIBBON
Chapter 23
THIRD YEAR OF THE REIGN OF EMPEROR JUSTINIAN
Belisarius passed again under the Golden Gate’s gilded elephants two years later, preening from his victory at the Battle of Dara and lording over the chests of gold he’d dragged back from Persia. Yet he had only crippled the Persians, not struck the deathblow to Kavadh’s Empire, something Emperor Justin might have pointed out if he were still alive. The old Emperor had passed in his sleep months after our coronation, a blessed relief as his blood boiled from infection. Justinian and I ruled alone now.
Yet Belisarius acted as if he were Julius Caesar returning from Gaul. Few people knew that he had been challenged to single combat by the Persian commander before the battle, but like a coward, he’d sent a bath slave named Andreas in his stead. Belisarius was more Achilles than Hector, but Justinian refused to hear a word against him. Instead, he lauded him until the graffiti praising Belisarius on the city walls outnumbered the Emperor’s.
The men closeted themselves to discuss plans for reconquering the Western Empire, starting with the ambitious scheme to retake Rome, although that was still a few years off. I’d spent most of my recent days drafting new legislation allowing women to seek divorce if their husbands beat them or committed adultery, and drawing up plans to adapt an old palace across the Bosphorus into a convent for reformed prostitutes. Today I decided to spend my afternoon in a different sort of reflection.
The Church of Sergius and Bacchus was incomplete, but already I loved the holy building. Every afternoon its net of pillars and columns trapped the last of the fleeting sunlight. One day the walls would be filled with gold mosaics and colorful frescoes, but for now lacy capitals held up plain marble walls carved with Greek inscriptions. It was a strangely delicate church for the two martyred Christian soldiers who were brutally tortured and beheaded. Justinian had dedicated the church after our coronation, but recently a new inscription had been added around the central nave.
May the One True God guard the rule of the unsleeping Augustus and increase the power of the God-crowned Theodora whose mind is bright with piety and whose unending toil lies in ceaseless efforts to nourish the destitute.
There was a soft snort behind me. “Bright with piety? I recall a time when your mind rarely left the gutter.”
Antonina’s cheekbones were sharper than usual, and her hair hung loose to her shoulders. She was dressed in black. Terror seized my throat, making it difficult to breathe. “Is John all right?”
She fell to her knees beside me—my retinue was a respectful distance away, but I could scarcely make out her voice over the rush of blood in my ears. I would never forgive her, or myself, if something had happened to my son.
“John is fine. He got into a tussle after he broke Photius’ new pens the other day—I swear that boy of mine thinks of nothing but sketching and sculpting. John ended up with a scratch on his temple. The mark’s going to leave a scar, but John’s thrilled, of course, even though it’s sort of shaped like a crescent moon. Although that’s nothing compared to—”
I waited for her to finish, but she stared at the altar instead. “Compared to what?”
Her hands fluttered. “Nothing. Plato was right—of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable.”
I didn’t press the issue—my son was safe. “But you’re in mourning.”
“Yes, that.” She sniffed and crossed herself. “The Weasel died.”
“Oh.”
Antonina snorted. “I see you’re overwhelmed with sympathy for my plight.”
“May Timothy the Weasel rest well with God.” I crossed myself, searching her face for signs of grief, but they were well hidden, if they existed at all.
“Unfortunately, his recent investment of ivory went down with the ship. Along with him.”
“Do you need money?” Justinian had recently granted me my own lands in Bithynia, ones rich with
oil presses and vineyards. “Narses can arrange credit with a moneylender for you.”
“For a while,” Antonina said. “What I really need is a new man.”
So much for mourning Timothy the Weasel.
“I wouldn’t mind a rich one, possibly a patrician,” she continued. “Perhaps you could recommend me to an eligible bachelor? I think I’d like a title this time.”
Antonina prattled on about the qualities she preferred in her next husband—essentially an Adonis with a purse deeper than Justinian’s and a little light in the brains category.
My grin stopped Antonina’s tirade about her hypothetical husband’s necessary sexual expertise. She frowned. “You look like you’ve just made a pact with the devil.”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
“Ha.”
I rose from my knees, and she followed suit. “Would you be willing to provide delicate information on whichever man you marry?”
“Delicate information?” The flesh between Antonina’s brows puckered. “I don’t kiss and tell, if that’s what you mean. Unless he’s extraordinary.”
“Political information.”
“You want me to spy for you?” The creases between her brows deepened. “What do you take me for?”
“A practical woman who would enjoy a purse with more money than she could spend in ten lifetimes.”
“It’s hard to refuse when you put it like that.” She straightened her paludamentum. “I’ll tell you whatever you want, influence him however you need. So long as he’s rich.”
“Would Belisarius fit your bill?” Justinian already had plans to send the golden general abroad, but having someone keep an eye on him when he was in Constantinople would be invaluable. A man that talented couldn’t be without ambitions. Possibly dangerous ambitions, considering the number of generals in history who had stolen the purple.
I swear Antonina actually wiped her mouth at the notion. “I bet he’s a lion in bed.”
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