The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (36 page)

“Fellow Romans, I have only myself to blame for the crimes you have committed against me.” Justinian’s voice was clear, carried by the wind to the thousands gathered before us. “As such, there shall be no
arrests so long as you return to your houses and peace returns to the Queen of Cities. Go home, and may God shower his blessings upon us all.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the crowd erupted, hurling curses at him.

“Go hang yourself on a cross!”

“Donkey! Liar!”

With the hilt of his sword Belisarius beat back one man who was attempting to scale the imperial box and finally stabbed him through the ribs. There was a wet squelch as he withdrew the sword and wiped the shining blood on his tunica.

These were no sheep.

It was Justinian’s power to draw people to him, eye to eye. He couldn’t possibly convince a faceless mob of his right to rule. And he knew it.

A rush of blood filled my ears as we retreated, protected by a flotilla of Belisarius’ soldiers as we fled the battlefield to the safety of our palace, quiet as a tomb.

“I’ll order my soldiers to kill Hypatius,” Belisarius said.

Fool—another rebel would only take his place. I tasted the copper of blood as I bit my tongue. I would stay in the shadows. For now.

Justinian’s pacing was sure to wear a trench in the silk rug. “There would be ten men to replace him.”

“And the troops may not act,” Sittas said. “Roman guards are fickle when it comes to revolts.” Caligula and Galba had learned that the hard way, their guards’ swords the last thing they saw in this life.

Silence cloaked the room.

“Or we do as Zeno did.” Justinian looked out the windows as he spoke, hands clasped behind his back, the city still ablaze.

My heart stopped beating. Emperor Zeno had fled Constantinople in disguise in the face of revolt, but he recovered his throne through the
ineptitude of his replacement. The Senate flung open the gates of the city and almost begged him to take back his throne. That was unlikely to happen in our situation.

“I’ve contacts in Cappadocia and Antioch,” John the Cappadocian said. I shot him a filthy glare—it was his fault we were in this mess to begin with.

The men bickered over possible destinations for the soon-to-be-deposed Emperor and his court—Dalmatia, Illyria, or Justinian’s birthplace of Tauresium. They had already decided.

I stepped from the shadows and cleared my throat, feeling as if I were taking the stage at the Kynêgion again. “Some believe a woman ought not to assert herself against men, but the present crisis does not permit otherwise.” The strength of my voice surprised me. “The present time is inopportune for flight, although it may bring safety. While we all must die one day, it is unendurable for an Emperor to become a fugitive. I hope to never be separated from this purple, and would rather die before others stop addressing me as Empress.” I looked to Justinian and gestured toward the window with its view of the Sea of Marmara. “There is no difficulty if you wish to save yourself. We have much money, and there is the sea, the boats.”

I looked about the golden atrium with its exquisite mosaics and golden frescoes, the empty thrones framed by purple silk curtains.

Purple. My purple.

I addressed Justinian alone now, my voice scarcely a whisper. “However, consider whether after you have reached that safety if you would gladly exchange it for death.” I touched his purple
chalmys
draped over his throne. “As for myself, I believe the imperial purple is a good burial shroud.”

The council didn’t speak. John the Cappadocian glared, and the others appeared dumbstruck. My tongue was heavy with the acrid taste of fear. Justinian’s skin was cold when he clasped my hand and
squeezed it. I held my breath to hear what he would say, but his eyes sparked with life. “Then we stay. And fight.”

The room erupted, but he bent to whisper in my ear. “I should have expected as much from you.”

I managed a smile, recalling his words from long ago. “Someone once told me it’s far better to dare mighty things and fail mightily than to never dare at all.”

And we might fail mightily. But we wouldn’t disappear to Dalmatia, branded cowards and failures with our tails between our legs.

One of Narses’ eunuchs interrupted the melee with a poorly folded parchment missing its customary wax seal. The messenger whispered something in Narses’ ear that made him smile, a fearsome sight. “It’s from Hypatius. He was dragged from under his bed by the rebels and crowned with a gold necklace on the Emperor’s throne in the Kathisma.” He scanned the message. “But he requests an audience with the Augustus.”

Justinian glanced at the paper but didn’t touch it. “He’s scared.”

“Or he might be planning an attack from within,” Belisarius said. “Enter the palace with the mob and murder all of us.”

Justinian rubbed his face with one hand, black flecks of stubble on his cheeks. This revolt had aged him years instead of days. “Tell Hypatius you were unable to deliver the message—the Augusti had already fled.”

My heart stalled. Of course I would follow Justinian if he changed his mind about fleeing, but he was only the nephew of a swineherd without the purple. And I was just a reformed whore.

“Take your eunuchs to the Hippodrome with gold from the Treasury,” he continued to Narses. “Distribute the coins to the Blues with a warning to beware their new alliance. Remind them Hypatius’ blood is Green—he’ll favor that faction if he ascends the throne.” A wry smile curled his lips. “Although he’s not going to have a chance at my throne.” He
turned to Belisarius, his voice so quiet I could scarcely hear him. “Lead your corps through Deadman’s Gate in the Hippodrome—a surprise attack should rout the rebels.”

Belisarius and his men marched like a funeral procession as they left to carry out their orders. Justinian and I waited, ears straining and both of us jumping at the occasional crash of yet another collapsing building. This might be the last time we were alone together, the final moment of quiet before we were paraded before a mob to our deaths. Words wouldn’t come, but I laid my head on his shoulder.

“I love you, Theodora,” he said. “No matter what happens, my life has been full because of you.”

I could only nod, my throat too tight to answer.

An hour passed until the wind carried the first screams of death to us and a blood-spattered imperial guard stormed through the door. A sword dripping with red hung from his hand. My knees gave way, but I managed to hold my head high, waiting for him to draw the blade against us. Instead, he used it to salute Justinian.

“General Belisarius sends word from the Hippodrome, Augustus,” he said. “The Blues stormed from the Hippodrome after the Greens crowned Hypatius. The enemy was subdued by the imperial forces, and the General holds Hypatius to await the judgment of the Emperor.”

We had won. Against all odds, we had triumphed. I could breathe again.

“I’ll deal with Hypatius myself,” Justinian said. The guard snapped his heels together and beat his fist into his chest armor once before retreating the way he’d come. Justinian crushed me to him. “You are truly a gift from God, Theodora. You saved my crown today.”

“I told you I’d earn my purple.” We embraced, my ear upon his steady heartbeat. I could have stayed there forever, but we had to face the reality of what we’d done. What I’d done.

We retraced our steps down the same imperial passageway we’d retreated down earlier in the night, emerging into the Kathisma to a
sea of blood and bodies and the fetid smell of death. The entire floor of the Hippodrome and much of the stands were piled with corpses, the survivors already stripping the dead rebels of their shoes and emptying their pockets. There had been no clash of true battle—Belisarius’ troops were professional soldiers girded with armor and equipped with broadswords and bronze shields. The rebels in the Hippodrome were craftsmen, farmers, and fishermen armed with stones and sticks. Now their bodies lay mounded upon the arena floor like freshly turned earth. One man lay at the foot of our box, arms flung wide over several corpses and legs curled into the mass of soft bodies beneath him. Lavender intestines poured from a gaping hole in his abdomen. Then his arm twitched, pulled by an invisible string. I vomited over the side of the Kathisma onto the body of another rebel.

Belisarius led a bound man to our box as I wiped my mouth. I hardly recognized Hypatius with the dried blood crusted into his snowy hair and the bruises blossoming up his jaw. Belisarius shoved him to his knees.

“You have betrayed us,” Justinian said. “Just as we thought you might.”

Hypatius crawled on hands and knees to kiss the hem of Justinian’s
chalmys.
“I beg you for my life and that of my family. I sent a message to the palace to swear my fealty to your crown.”

Justinian wore a mask worthy of any actor in the Kynêgion. “If you were so loyal, surely you might have stood up against the mob.”

“They were deaf when I declared my loyalty to you,” Hypatius sobbed, tears running down the deep creases in his cheeks. “The mob pulled me from under my bed—my wife tried to stop them, but she is only an old woman.” He bowed his head to the floor, his body trembling. “Please spare me, Augustus. I am innocent!”

Justinian’s mask slipped. He had known Hypatius well—they had run in similar political circles since Old Justin had become Emperor and promoted his nephew, despite Hypatius’ being almost seventy.

“God has instructed us to be merciful in all things,” Justinian said.

I laid a gentle hand on his arm. My voice was soft but didn’t waver. “But not in this.”

Hypatius looked at me with wide eyes glassy with fear. I had just saved my husband’s throne. I hated what I had to do, but I couldn’t allow Justinian to free the rebel figurehead only to face him in the future. This revolt had to be snuffed out so it couldn’t blaze again.

“A traitor can never be trusted. Your new laws require the execution of all those who plot against the Emperor.” I gestured to the carnage. “This cannot happen again.”

Hypatius struggled to stand, but Belisarius slammed him back to his knees. “But I am innocent!”

Justinian’s jaw tightened, but he motioned to the imperial guards. “Hold this man. His property shall be confiscated and his titles stripped from his family. He shall be executed at Sykae tomorrow and his body thrown to the sea.”

A traitor’s death.

I forced myself to remain impassive. Hypatius struggled against the guards, screaming his innocence. I didn’t wish his family punished—after a suitable period his wealth would be returned to his widow and children. I laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered this in his ear. He looked at me with wet eyes, then sagged against his captors and let them lead him away without further struggle.

John of Cappadocia had been wrong. Emperors were not easily unmade.

And neither were Empresses.

W
e walked through the rubble of our city the next day, swathed in heavy wool robes to ward off the winter chill. Slaves had begun to clear away the charred columns of the palace vestibule, but bits of ash still danced like gray moths in the cold air, and we had to watch our step to avoid glowing embers. The Senate continued to smolder, a black stub of a tooth, and behind it a greasy plume of smoke billowed into the cloudless sky—all that remained of the Hippodrome rebels. Nineteen senators had joined Hypatius on the execution platform that morning, and the Hippodrome would remain closed until Justinian decided otherwise. The ruins of our city looked as I imagined Rome had when the Vandals sacked it.

If only Justinian had listened to me before this all started and fired John the Cappadocian. Instead, John had already been reinstated, and he set upon the patricians to tap their fortunes for the state as penance for supporting the Nika uprising. I wished I’d found a way to sacrifice him to the crowd.

“This may be a blessing in disguise,” Justinian said, picking his way over charred timbers. Frost clung to the pillars of the Hagia
Sophia, white lace over black as dark as pitch. His footsteps disturbed the gray ash to reveal the subdued sheen of the marble mosaic below.

I rubbed my eyes—I hadn’t slept as the giant funeral pyre burned in the Hippodrome and Sunday’s unholy night slipped into a new week. Instead, I’d prayed until my knees were bruised and my legs went numb. “How could this”—I gestured to the charred skeletons of the city’s greatest treasures—“be a blessing?”

“A fresh start. Penance for our sins.” He glanced at me, then into the vast expanse of gray above us. “My sins. We can fill the city with monuments to last to eternity, all for the glory of God.” The clouds of our breath intermingled as Justinian helped me over a fallen pillar near the church’s altar.

“The world would never forget us.” I’d rather be remembered for our monuments than for yesterday’s bloodshed.

“I can guarantee they’ll never forget you, not after last night. Witness this moment for God,” he called to the shivering slaves. “If I complete this temple, I will give thirty thousand gold pieces to the poor and helpless. This church shall stand for all eternity as a monument to the glory of God and the Empire. A crown for the Queen of Cities!” Justinian took a pickax from a slave and swung it to the ground, spewing fragments of snow and marble.