The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (15 page)

Comito looked ready to lunge, but Antonina cleared her throat as Tasia whimpered and held her chubby arms out to me. “Ladies, perhaps another time would be better suited for you to maim each other?”

“I’m going to pick up my daughter,” I said to Comito. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to stab me while I’m holding her.”

“You kept her?” Comito looked at me as if I’d gone mad. I was getting sorely tired of everyone looking at me that way.

“Of course I kept her,” I said. “How could I not?”

Antonina tweaked Tasia’s nose. “Theodora here is a regular saint.”

Comito sniffed, but the scowl she threw me was full of malice. “You’ve always been selfish. I hope he casts you off and makes you into an even greater laughingstock than you’ve made me.”

“He won’t get a chance to cast me off. I’m not going to see him again.”

“Really?” Comito’s jaw hung limp. “You swear you’ll leave him alone?”

“If it would make you happy and keep you from trying to stab me, yes, I swear.” It wasn’t as if the man would offer to be my patron anyway. “I didn’t even know who he was until it was too late.”

“Good.” She flounced out the door, not bothering to shut it behind her. The hallway was full of eyes—the other actors and troopers had heard it all. Comito might get her wish—I was well on my way to becoming a laughingstock.

“Don’t say a word.” I shot Antonina a warning look and gave Tasia a peck on the cheek. She gurgled and grabbed a fistful of my hair.

“Not a word,” Antonina said. “Although I’m quite convinced the Kynêgion would sell out if we performed your life story on the stage.”

That evening I managed a fat senator who stunk of fish and garlic and pinched my breasts at his release. I cursed myself for going with Hecebolus the night after Justin’s party, for letting desire get the best of me.

I’d never make that mistake again.

S
pring wilted under an angry sun so hot not even
Leda and the Swan
could draw a full house. Hilarion called us onstage one afternoon, mopping his shiny forehead despite the canvas cover stretched over the roof. Something slithered down the back of my neck, but my hand only came away with sweat.

“I’ve canceled the rest of the shows for the month.” Hilarion held his hands up at the collective groan. “It’s hotter than Hades, and we’re hemorrhaging money with all the empty seats. We’ll reopen on the New Year.”

It was only July, almost two months until the New Year on the first of September. I did the calculations in my head. My meager savings wouldn’t last half that long.

Most of the other troopers clustered by the entrance arch, fanning themselves with their hands. Chrysomallo waved me over. “Come have a drink with us at the Boar’s Eye, Theodora.”

Drowning my worries in wine didn’t sound terribly appealing. “Thanks, but I’m going home to Tasia.”

“Suit yourself.” She fingered the tangled mess of gaudy ivory birds clipped to her ears. “What will you do until September?”

I bit my lip. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

.   .   .

I awoke the next morning to women wailing in the street and black banners fluttering over every church and balcony in the city, as if night had draped itself over the city.

“Emperor Anastasius is dead.” Antonina closed the door behind her, the mahogany tips of her hair poking out from under a black veil of mourning.

I crossed myself and shifted on my pallet, careful not to wake Tasia. “May God rest his soul.” I yawned. “How did he die?”

“The official story says he was called to God in his sleep, but who knows if that’s true.” She stripped off the veil and her stola, and stretched out naked on her pallet. My mother snored from the corner, whether deep in sleep or in a fog of poppy juice, I wasn’t sure. Probably both.

“I wonder who will wear the purple next.” All I knew was that Anastasius had been almost ninety, and he had earned the nickname Dicorus from his mismatched eyes, one green and one blue. Like so many Emperors, he had no sons, although he did have a nephew. “Hypatius?”

“They say he’s in Antioch right now—he’ll never make it back in time.” Antonina rolled to her stomach, head on her folded arms. “And old Dicorus never named him heir. It should be interesting at the Hippodrome today.”

“The Hippodrome?” Tasia gurgled and grabbed a fistful of my hair. I rubbed my nose to hers and earned a gummy smile.

“The Patriarch will name the new Emperor there today.” Antonina yawned. “Timothy asked me to go, but I’m exhausted. I’ll watch Tasia if you want.”

I had nothing better to do. It wasn’t every day I got to see history being made.

.   .   .

The Hippodrome was a hot swarm of too many bodies packed under the glare of the sun. Bread and fruit vendors jostled amongst the crowd, but there wasn’t enough to go around, adding rumbling stomachs to the volatile mix. People placed bets on which man would walk away with the eagle scepter and muttered as they waited for the Patriarch to emerge from the Sacred Palace onto the balcony of the Kathisma. Men called out to me—to Leda—but I ignored them. More than one heated debate ended in blows, one man losing a few teeth and another almost getting his eye gouged out near my vantage point. If the Patriarch didn’t hurry, he’d end up with a riot on his hands.

Morning stretched into afternoon. The Blues and Greens hurled insults at each other across the arena, growing bolder as the hours ticked by. The heat saturated everything, so searing I wished I could strip down to my girdle. Unfortunately, that sort of behavior would probably get me into trouble here.

The crowd around me roared and jumped to its feet when the senators filed into their marble seats below the Kathisma. A familiar black-robed figure emerged on the balcony from the Sacred Palace as rows of Excubitor guards marched onto the floor of the Hippodrome, the bosses on their shields glaring at us like bronze eyes.

The crowd’s roar dulled to a low rumble and finally, to silence when the Patriarch held up his hands. “Good people of Constantinople,” he said, “it is my great honor to stand before you as God’s mouthpiece to proclaim the new Emperor of the Roman Empire. I put forth
illustris
John.”

For a moment I feared he might have referred to the Cappadocian and that I might have turned down a night with the future Emperor, but the imperial guards on the balcony lifted a slight old man on their
shields—not John the Cappadocian—as the people in the stands bowed their heads.

A cry went up from the Blues. “Down with John! We’d sooner see a demon on the throne!”

They launched half-eaten apples and peach pits at the Kathisma, but then their voices began to chant, one word in unison—a name.

“Theocritus! Theocritus!” A beefy man—apparently Theocritus—was pushed from the crowd toward the Kathisma, dressed in the red uniform of the imperial bodyguards stationed at the Sacred Palace.

The Greens tried to drown out the Blues with a cry of their own. “John! John! John!”

I scarcely noticed as someone slipped next to me until his breath tickled my ear.

“Exciting, isn’t it?”

Hecebolus.

I ignored him, but it was difficult with the sudden heat of his leg against mine. I tried to move away, but the ragged pleb next to me bared his teeth when I stepped on his foot.

“Who shall it be?” Hecebolus crossed his arms before him, a lazy smile on his face, as if he were bored with the proceedings. “The ancient
illustris
or the imperial sodomite who sleeps with Anastasius’ chamberlain? Or perhaps someone else entirely?”

“As if you would know,” I said. Problem was, he looked as though he might. “John, of course. He’s a politician—he probably bribed the Senate.”

“But Theocritus procured a rather large loan a few days ago, five silver coins for each Excubitor guard.” He stared at the stage, but then his eyes flicked to me. “He asked one of your friends to distribute it for him.”

“Not you?” Hecebolus was most certainly not my friend.

“No, not I.” I swear he almost smiled. “Flavius Justinus. General Justin.”

The uniformed Excubitors on the floor formed a shimmering bronze phalanx around the base of the Egyptian obelisk, pounding their swords against their shields until the noise reached the deafening crescendo of a thunderclap. The Patriarch held up his hands again, but the crowd ignored him.

A giant of a man stepped from the front line, his crown of white hair marking him amongst his men. Even from here I could make out his massive ears. Justin, general of the Excubitor guards.

He carried no sword or shield as he addressed the Patriarch, his strong voice quelling the entire arena. “Most esteemed Patriarch, the Excubitors would put forth their choice for Emperor, if they may.”

The Patriarch’s shoulders relaxed. I had guessed wrong—the Excubitors, the only troops in the city, would throw their weight behind Theocritus since he was a soldier, and make the decision. The Patriarch’s voice was stronger this time. “And who have the Excubitors chosen, General?”

Justin tilted his chin up toward the Patriarch. “Me.”

The soldiers pounded their shields again, and the Patriarch turned the color of parchment. “That is not possible,” he said, his voice thin as a reed. “There are already two candidates.”

Justin stared straight at the Kathisma balcony. “You’ll have to tell that to my men.”

The very men who would choose the next Emperor. Justin was no fool. I wondered how long he’d been planning this.

The Patriarch pulled at his collar, then motioned to the cluster of white-haired and egg-bald men seated below him. “The Senate must decide the matter.”

More than one senator cast wary glances as the front line of Excubitors drew their swords and started to advance toward the Kathisma. A steady trickle of pragmatic citizens made its way to the exits. During Anastasius’ reign, the Greens had massacred three thousand Blues in the Hippodrome with stones and daggers concealed in baskets of
fruit, and the history of the Empire tended to be even more bloody when the throne changed hands. I turned to leave, but Hecebolus caught my hand.

“Stay. Things are about to get interesting.”

I tried to ignore the feel of his thumb as it brushed my wrist, glad for the heat of the sun already warming my cheeks.

The Senate decided quickly.

A man with the belly of a pregnant mare stood amongst the senators, and silence blanketed the Hippodrome. “We, the chosen senators of this Empire, do hereby support General Flavius Justinus as the successor of Anastasius. Justin is acceptable to the Excubitors and both parties. He may not be the perfect candidate for the throne, but he is old and moderate.”

Meaning if he didn’t work out as planned, at least he’d be dead in a few years.

Below me, Theocritus silently exited, ostensibly to pack his valuables and exile himself to some pleasant island in the Aegean. John quickly followed suit.

The Patriarch wiped his face with a plain white
mappa
. “It is God’s wish that General Flavius Justinus serve the Empire as Anastasius’ heir.”

The Excubitors beat their feet upon the ground, and the crowd joined the noise with raucous cheers. Justin was hoisted high on their shields and carried up the stairs to the Kathisma, where he was deposited on the eagle throne and draped with a heavy gold chain. People started to leave, the show over.

“Exactly as I anticipated.” Hecebolus guided me by the elbow toward Deadman’s Gate.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re a regular oracle. You should set up shop in the market.”

“I’ve bigger fish to catch.” His hand slipped to the small of my back. “And anyway, civil unrest is bad for business. Justin traveled
from Vederiana to Constantinople with only the cloak on his back and a bag of twice-baked bread to become a military man like Vespasian, Titus, and Constantine. He earned the support of his men long ago.”

I knew little about Roman military history outside Caesar’s crossing the Rubicon and Constantine’s famous dream to mark the sign of the cross on his men’s shields before the Battle of Milvian Bridge, but I recognized the names of some of our most successful Emperors.

“Justin will be a decent Emperor,” Hecebolus said. “Uninspiring but safe.”

“Unless someone manages to slip a blade between his ribs between now and his coronation.”

“They’ll have to move quickly—he’s to be crowned tomorrow.”

I raised an eyebrow. “He’s not wasting any time.”

“The old man would have preferred today, but his wife wanted time to arrange a proper ceremony.”

A coronation full of the Empire’s richest patricians. And I was without work for another two months. “And I assume you heard this from our new Emperor himself?”

He smiled. “What makes you think I have Justin’s ear?”

“Who else might have promised Theocritus all that silver? And then delivered it to Justin instead?”

Hecebolus kept his expression hooded, but there was a smile in his dark eyes as he pushed a grubby old man from my side. Several more men hollered for Leda, but I pretended not to hear. “I’m only a merchant, not a politician.” Hecebolus shrugged. “Justin promised a higher return rate.”

“And once he wears the purple, you’ll receive another token of his appreciation, perhaps an imperial monopoly on your purple dye?”