The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (33 page)

T
he sacred days leading to Easter are supposed to be a solitary time when it’s forbidden to visit or even greet friends. Justinian fasted for two full days during Lent and lived on wild herbs dressed with vinegar and oil the rest of the season, but he forbade me to forgo food in the dwindling hope that I might become pregnant. We spent many of the silent days before that holy Sunday in prayer and contemplation at the Hagia Sophia, the Church of Holy Wisdom. Justinian would be crowned tomorrow, and I would strive to be an obedient and helpful wife, a proper consort to the Emperor.

God help me.

We prayed until tiny pins burrowed into my legs; yet I continued my prayers. I both dreaded and feared to reach so high. It only meant I had farther to fall.

I startled when Justinian cleared his throat next to me. His voice was low, but it jarred my ears after so long a silence. “I’ve recalled John the Cappadocian to court.”

God couldn’t even wait until the crown rested on my husband’s
head to test my obedience. I managed to keep my face calm, arching an eyebrow instead. “Really?”

Justinian continued to watch me. “I need him if I’m to finance my plans for the city. The man can squeeze money from a stone.”

“One of his many talents, along with his debauchery and drunkenness.”

Now Justinian arched an eyebrow.

“Surely you’ve heard the rumors,” I said. “And you do know he’s a pagan, don’t you?” I was unsure if the rumors were true, but I didn’t relish the prospect of the Cappadocian back at court. He’d been abruptly silent since the night of his dismissal, although I’d half expected him to continue his suit after I’d left him at the Palace of Hormisdas.

Justinian lifted my fingers to his lips. “If you were any other woman, I’d have John banished to Gibraltar.”

“Is that an option?”

“You’ll keep him in check.” Justinian helped me to my feet. My legs were so stiff I almost stumbled. “And I have something else for you.”

I shook my head, my veil skimming my shoulders. “No, thank you. Your gifts today leave much to be desired.”

He pulled me to him to whisper in my ear. “Augusta Theodora has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“What?”

He grinned and brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder. “I’m not the only one being crowned tomorrow.”

I couldn’t speak. There had been thirty imperial wives since Constantine; but none had been given the purple with her husband, and only nine had gone on to become Empress with the title of Augusta. Justinian was giving me mine.

“I don’t deserve such an honor.”

His hands were heavy on my shoulders. “Of course you do. Where else can I get such honest counsel? Someone whose tongue doesn’t slip with lies?”

Mary, help me.
From the way he studied me, I feared for a moment he might unspool the secrets from my mind.

“Say yes, Theodora. Wear the purple and sit by my side.” His eyes bored into mine, and he squeezed my hand as if he feared I might disappear. “For me.”

Yet again, the promise of the future dangled before me. Anointed by the Patriarch, chosen by God, the Augusta was untouchable. Regardless of her sins.

Perhaps the Virgin moved my heart, knowing how I longed for my son. Mayhap she sought to use me to further the cause of religious reconciliation in the realm.

Or perhaps I simply relished the thought of such power, my name recorded for all eternity.

“I promise to prove myself worthy.”

The purple in exchange for accepting the recall of the Cappadocian. It seemed a fair trade.

.   .   .

A lone man lifted a frail hand as our sedan passed the gates of the Sacred Palace on our way to the Hagia Sophia. The Emperor.

Too ill to attend, Justin would not be present at our coronation, but the entire Senate and council stood in attendance, dressed in stiffly pressed white tunicas and their hair pomaded. I remained in the shadows of the narthex as Justinian passed through the massive bronze doors reserved for the Emperor and the Patriarch. Six priests flanked Constantinople’s city father, all seven holy men holding white candles so pure that no trace of smoke marred the sacred air. A table set before the altar held seven more candles, a terracotta jug of holy oil, and a plain basket of seven loaves of bread to symbolize the prosperity of Justinian’s future reign and the seven sacraments. Patriarch
Epiphianos opened his gilded codex of the Gospels and recited Psalms, ending with an entreaty to Justinian. I didn’t hear a word over the blood drumming in my ears.

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.”