The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (34 page)

“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.

B
elisarius 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.

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.”

“He could probably sire at least another ten mites on you.”

She grimaced as if she’d bitten rotten cheese. “No more children—the last one almost killed me. Still might. But I’ll be a blushing bride as soon as you arrange it.”

“Belisarius is Orthodox. You’ll have to be baptized a Christian.”

Antonina gave a sly smile, fingering the cross around her neck. “I did that years ago.”

I almost didn’t hear. “I have to tell Justinian about John. I don’t want Belisarius raising my son.”

And I missed John. It killed me every time I saw a boy his age with a
dirty face or hair desperately in need of a trim. He was my flesh and blood, but he would no longer recognize me if I passed him on the
Mese
. I would always wonder if I had made the right choice by leaving him.

“I doubt Belisarius will be around much,” Antonina said.

“It doesn’t matter. I should have told Justinian long ago.” It was true; yet I could never muster the courage to tell Justinian I’d lied to him, to watch his trust in me crack and splinter.

To lose his love and be sent away, or worse.

Antonina’s lip twitched. “What about Tasia? I hear you and Justinian have started fishing for eligible young men for her betrothal. I daresay the pool will dry up if Justinian divorces you before she’s married.”

Again the choice between my son and daughter. Yet Antonina had a point, and John was doing well with her, thriving even. Telling Justinian the truth would jeopardize Tasia’s future, and my son might gain nothing. In fact, he could lose much if Justinian chose to divorce me. “Fine. I’ll arrange some sort of event at the palace so you can come to court.”

I kept secrets from Justinian, and now Belisarius would play father to my son.

I’d likely lose my head if either of them ever found out. Or worse.

J
ohn the Cappadocian was a fiscal genius, so much so he could make money disappear straight into his own accounts.

“He’s stealing from you.” I stood before Justinian, arms akimbo as I prepared to do battle against his finance minister. It was long past midnight, but we were both still working. An army of flickering oil lamps lit Justinian’s offices, so many that slaves had already had to refill them several times.

Justinian sighed. “John is pivotal to the success of my restoration of the Empire.”

“You’re not going to have an Empire to restore if you don’t curb his excesses.” In order to save more money for our foreign wars, the Cappadocian had cut the government subsidies for the imperial post, crucial to the farmers who relied on the public transportation for their crops and were now forced to carry them on their backs to Constantinople’s markets, some from as far as Chalcedon. There were reports of unburied dead on the road, and many farmers refused to return to their fields, hoping for salvation in the city. Food was getting scarce. It wasn’t
only the plebs who despised the Cappadocian—the patricians were livid at the new tax rates that threatened to bleed them dry.