The Purple Shroud: A Novel of Empress Theodora (38 page)

The man asked his question again. Bouzes shook his head, unwilling or unable to answer and he was forced down on to a stool. The man asking questions spoke to him softly now, quietly, offered a towel to wipe his face. He asked after Bouzes’ feet – five weeks in a cell that was ankle-deep in sea water had done its damage. Bouzes stuttered out an answer, it was not enough, did not satisfy and the questioner nodded to his accomplice. The pulpy rotten feet were lifted, one at a time, the flesh on the toes especially swollen and split, blood
and pus spilling from the putrid flesh, with here and there a glimpse of startlingly white bone. The freshly filled bucket was brought closer and it was only when it came near him that Bouzes, partially blinded from all this time in the darkness of his cell, felt the heat of the boiling water. One foot was held into the water, then the other, the man asked his questions over the broken screams, the servant pushed the feet down, sitting on Bouzes’ knees, sitting on his lap as if they were a pair, a couple. No one smiled at the incongruity of the image.

Bouzes passed out, and was laid down on the floor, on a clean blanket. The servant washed him as ordered, wiping away the piss and shit of fear, wiping away the blood, new and dried. He carefully wrapped Bouzes in a clean robe, warm and soft, and then the questioner brought him round with a strong herbal tincture, offering a salve for the feet, a rinse for his ripped lips, fresh water, water to drink not drown in. He spoke kindly and quietly and now Bouzes answered his questions. Every one, just as the questioner wanted him to, giving the story that was required. A scribe was brought, who wrote down the answers, then Bouzes signed the paper with a hand he willed still, showing a strength no one in the room had expected of him.

Theodora watched from her bench seat against the far wall, watched from the shadows. She rose, took the paper from Peter Barsymes’ hand, and left. Bouzes was taken away to a warm and dry cell, and still his flesh continued to rot.

A day later, based on the full extent of Bouzes’ information, Justinian signed the edict confiscating to the Empire a large part of Belisarius’ private wealth. Theodora had been suggesting this for years; now it would be a useful income for the
plague-stricken Palace. Belisarius was removed from his post as adviser on military matters in the east, and his own retinue of soldiers, those committed specifically to him and not purely to Rome, were disbanded, doled out to other Roman armies where plague had lessened their number.

Antonina was in Theodora’s rooms within hours of receiving the news.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I am protecting my husband, who protects Rome.’

‘Belisarius is no threat to Justinian.’

Theodora stared at her friend. ‘Don’t be stupid Antonina, of course he is.’

‘He could have taken the purple in Ravenna, Witigis offered it to him.’

‘Yes, and he rightly refused. Now he can show us again what a good Roman he is by sharing his vast wealth with the City. You’ve managed to garner a good deal from your war travels, haven’t you? He can help further by sharing his soldiers with those armies that desperately need them.’

‘It will look like an attack on a good man.’

‘I don’t think so. I think, if you make a fuss, it will look as if the two of you who have so much – health, wealth, a full family where others are bereft – are out of touch with the people. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make this work to your advantage, especially as your general will be sent to Italy now, not Persia which you so despise. We’ve taken his wealth, not yours, his men, not yours. Belisarius needs you far more now, Antonina. You should thank me.’

Theodora stood then, and there was no more to be said. Antonina bowed to kiss her mistress’s foot, and left the room, inwardly screaming in frustration.

*

Armeneus watched her go. ‘Oh dear.’

‘She’ll get over it. She has Belisarius where she wants him, he needs her now.’

‘You really think they are that ambitious?’

Theodora nodded. ‘I do.’

‘So why have you stayed friends with her for this long?’

‘She makes me laugh. And it’s safer, keeping him at a distance, keeping her close. Antonina is never going to give up her young men, and because she likes having me as a confidante it’s easier to discover her secrets, their secrets. Secrets are always useful.’

‘She won’t forgive you in a hurry.’

‘I think she will, it’s almost time to consider their daughter’s betrothal. Joannina and Anastasius would make a good pairing, don’t you think?’

Armeneus grinned. ‘You have it all worked out, don’t you?’

But Theodora wasn’t smiling. ‘I wish I did. I’m just making it up as we go along, hoping for the best. I was always a better improviser than an actress.’

A
utumn became cooler, sharper, the Mese filled up with people and stalls, soldiers and even more beggars than before. Those who gave alms, those sharing some of their bread dole, did so more generously than they had seven or eight months earlier, all too aware that the blind beggar, his pockmarked arm outstretched, might have been any one of them. Eventually there was another summer, one with warm days and cool breezes at night and no stink of death. Justinian’s speech improved, his trembling hand came more under his own control, his wife stopped insisting on twice-daily sessions of body and voice work, and the August and Augusta spent more time in their own offices, dealing with their own matters. Dealing with the same matter, differently – the Church.

The anti-Chalcedonians in the East were calling louder than ever for self-determination and Justinian went to work with advisers and priests from both sides, hoping to finally create a workable union of the faithful. It was clear the differences were not merely about the preference for chanting over song, language over litany; they were about government.

‘Western Romans might be content under Western Goth kings,’ Justinian said, ‘though we would prefer them serving
us,’ he added to the nods and smiles of the civil servants and theologians at his table, ‘but in the east it is all Rome can do to keep one people talking to another. They call for their own languages of state, their own rulers, and their own practice of the faith. If we can only bring the various branches of faith together, all Rome might yet be one, eternally.’

The men set to work.

Theodora meanwhile met with Jacob Baradaeus. The priest was keen to head back to his parishioners in Syria, in the Levant, and as far south as Egypt.

‘If you preach to them, what will you say of us?’ she asked.

‘I’ll tell them Rome understands their desires, but that Rome is cumbersome, it will take time. And that the state must stop its persecution of those who believe as we do if it would rather a union than another fight.’

‘Syria is tired too, Jacob, and Egypt, the Levant. It’s not only Constantinople that’s grown old with disease.’

‘No, Mistress,’ he agreed, ‘but it’s only Rome that wishes to oversee every other part of the world. The rest would just get on with their lives. Rome wants us to get on within Rome.’

Some concessions were given, Theodora made them on behalf of her husband, and she was present when Baradaeus was quietly ordained Bishop of Edessa.

‘Will he bring them to our beliefs?’ Justinian asked his wife.

‘Perhaps not,’ answered Theodora, turning from the window where she’d been looking out to sea, watching Baradaeus’ ship move slowly into the strong winds of the Bosphorus, ‘but he may stop them agitating against us even more. Will your edict bring them together?’

Justinian looked at the mound of papers before him on his desk, at the notes and suggestions offered, forced on him sometimes, by the priests and scholars he consulted. He lifted his
hands uncertainly. ‘I think they’d unite against even more distinct teachings. If I can get the Pope Vigilius and our patriarch Menas to agree, if I can write the damn thing well enough.’

It was winter, and very cold. Theodora pointed to the fireplace and the servant added more wood; she brought a warmed wool cloak to place around her husband’s shoulders.

‘Then while you exhaust yourself on this, I’ll get on with the one union we can enforce.’

‘You’d have me related to that woman yet?’

‘And me related to that man?’ Theodora laughed. ‘Anastasius is a good boy, he’s twelve, old enough to betroth. And Antonina and Belisarius’ daughter – don’t look like that,’ she interrupted herself, seeing Justinian’s raised eyebrow, ‘you only have to look at Joannina to see she is Belisarius’ girl, no matter where else his mother has been … anyway, they like each other.’

‘Too much, Narses thinks.’

‘He’s said so to me too. Is there anything that escapes the old eunuch?’

Justinian shook his head.

‘Apparently they think they’re in love,’ Theodora went on, ‘so we betroth them to each other now, and plan for marriage in a few years’ time.

‘You could marry them sooner.’

‘We could, but Belisarius is returning to Italy soon, he’ll want to witness his daughter’s marriage. Knowing him, he probably plans to bring her the spoils of Naples for her dowry.’

‘If he returns the whole of Italy to Rome, he can give her whatever he wants. Besides, she’ll have to share her dowry with her husband,’ he smiled.

The betrothal went ahead, both families standing by their children, whose hands were clasped and united in a lightly
tied cloth of purple silk as they were blessed by several priests and toasted with good wine. A feast was to follow.

Although Belisarius was no longer the golden boy in the Palace, his men still loved him, and Justinian needed him to do well on this next campaign to Italy, even if, as Antonina hissed crossly to Theodora while they watched the blessing, ‘He has to pay for all his own soldiers, and Chief of the Imperial Grooms is hardly a fitting title for someone entrusted with such an important task.’

Theodora smiled sweetly and ignored her friend’s complaint, whispering, ‘You know Antonina, if you really want me to support your husband, maybe you should start supporting him yourself. You are still screwing Theodosius, aren’t you?’

Her friend had no reply, and mother and grandmother stood side by side, watching their offspring promise to become one.

As they walked the slow ceremonial route back to the Palace for the post-betrothal banquet, Theodora called Sophia to her: ‘And shall we start planning your betrothal, little one?’

Sophia frowned. ‘It depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Who you suggest for me. I’ll take whoever you wish, obviously,’ she added politely and seriously, her fair curls bobbing as she nodded in deference.

‘Obviously,’ repeated Theodora.

‘But it would be nice if I approved of him too. I don’t just want anyone Narses thinks is appropriate.’

‘Narses is skilled in diplomacy, he would be a useful adviser on this matter.’

‘The eunuch is not as kind to me as he is to you,’ said Sophia.

Theodora smiled, knowing Narses had often berated the child for not bowing in the right place, smiling at the correct people. ‘He wasn’t always kind to me, Sophia, and he is a stickler for protocol.’

‘In that case he should be more polite to the niece of the Empress.’

‘Yes, he should,’ Theodora said, knowing he never would. She waved to the people who were crowded around the edge of the Augustaion, and then with a gentle nudge encouraged Sophia to walk on towards the Chalke.

‘I know you’ll find me a husband at some point, and I’ll be grateful for it, I’m sure you’ll do your best for me …’ Theodora gasped out a laugh at the girl’s audacity and Sophia finished her train of thought, ‘but I can’t say I’d like it until I know who you have in mind.’

Sophia fell back a little to allow Theodora to enter the huge doors before her, then caught up with her aunt. At only eleven she already reached Theodora’s shoulder so it took little effort for her to look the Empress in the eye, and Sophia had no problem doing so. She had her mother’s clear-minded ambition and a great deal of the passion Theodora had been forced to tone down as a child. It was the passion Theodora had adored in her friend Sophia, and even when the child’s version bordered on rudeness – as it often did, no matter how Comito tried to rein her in – the Empress liked young Sophia’s attitude. It was everything that had stood Theodora in good stead herself, but in a far more useful form – that of a Palace princess with a huge future ahead of her, rather than a child actress-whore, scavenging hope.

They passed into the main corridor leading to the central halls. ‘Perhaps I should ask if you have anyone in mind?’ said Theodora.

‘The general Germanus has a son.’

‘He does, yes, Justin.’ Theodora’s face gave nothing away but the girl could tell from her aunt’s tone that her answer was not welcome.

‘You don’t like him?’

‘I barely know the boy.’

‘You didn’t like his mother.’

‘Who told you that?’

Sophia spoke more slowly now, picking her words carefully, ‘Antonina told Joannina.’

‘What, exactly?’

Theodora was seated now, servants hurrying to bring jugs of wine, wide silver platters loaded with bite-sized morsels of grilled meat and cheese, fruits stuffed with nuts and covered in honey, flatbreads to mop up the juices. Foods chosen for those who’d spent all morning in church and must be both tired and hungry.

Sophia arranged herself on the raised dais, carefully sitting by her aunt’s feet, the better to be head-height with those who prostrated themselves before the Empress. She looked around the room, to where Antonina was proudly walking her newly betrothed daughter from one high-ranking woman to another, while Anastasius was seated much more quietly on a silk couch beside Ana.

‘Joannina’s mother,’ began Sophia, speaking quietly, ‘said Justin’s mother …’

‘Pasara?’ Theodora asked.

‘Yes. Joannina’s mother said she had been very rude to you and we were all damn lucky that things had gone in my uncle Justinian’s favour back then. She said Pasara deserved …’

Theodora held up a finger to silence the girl. ‘That’s plenty, thank you. Joannina’s mother should know better than to share old gossip about a dead woman.’