The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (39 page)

Justinian cleared his throat. “We need to address the issue of the supplies you sent to the front. They were less than adequate.”

That was a colossal understatement. “The grain was moldy and the water spoiled,” I said. “Your poor preparation caused the deaths of more than five hundred men.”

John had the decency to look troubled. “An unfortunate oversight.”

“Is it not your job to oversee the purchase of supplies for the imperial troops?”

John gifted me with a placating smile. “It is impossible for me to inspect every weapon, every greave, and each barrel of biscuits. Belisarius should have checked the grain before setting sail.” He paused, then added as if in afterthought, “Augusta.”

The man had gall.

“And yet you require the same impossibility from Belisarius?” I asked.

John shrugged. “Were not they his men who died?”

I leaned forward from my throne, my tone murderous. “I should have let the mob have you at Nika.”

A smile flickered over his face so fast I might have imagined it. He bowed his head. “And I should have told the Emperor the truth of our relationship long ago.”

My fingernails dug into the arms of my throne. “What do you mean?”

“Our affair before you left for Pentapolis. And our son, the one you’ve hidden all these years. The boy you named after me.”

Time seemed to slow as I stared at the Cappadocian, a smug look on his face. He knew. I didn’t know how, but somehow this lying, shifty bastard had discovered my secret. And he was going to ruin me with these lies.

Justinian seemed more shocked than me, his brow furrowed in disbelief. I remembered Emperor Justin’s warning all those years ago.

Justinian has always been fiercely loyal to those he loves, at least until he feels betrayed.

I panicked, words jumping from my mouth before I could stop them. “You’re mad.”

“Theodora.”

“How dare you use my name.” I wanted nothing more than to cut out John’s tongue, to lock him in a cell below the palace and make him beg for forgiveness as the whip flayed the skin from his back.

“Augusta.” John tutted under his breath. “Do you deny leaving with me after the
skolion
hosted by Emperor Justin?”

“No, but—”

“That I pursued you after you returned from Egypt, but you kept our son secret so you could pursue other, more illustrious”—his eyes flicked to Justinian—“more powerful, men?”

“That’s a lie!” I leapt from my throne, my fingers itching to claw the Cappadocian’s face, my entire body trembling with fury and terror. Justinian might cast me off if I didn’t control myself, or worse, divorce me. I’d lose the one man in this world who ever truly loved me. Somehow I managed not to fall to my knees and beg Justinian to believe me, but instead sneered at the Cappadocian. “He’s deranged, trying to denounce me with these lies.”

“Enough.” Justinian’s tone was frigid, his face paler than usual. “I don’t know where this slander came from, John, but you shall swear the imperial oath so we can be sure that your incompetence at Carthage won’t happen again. And that you shall not speak another ill word against your anointed Augusta.”

I watched with little satisfaction as John the Cappadocian bent to his knees. I’d have kicked him in the face if Justinian hadn’t been here, or more likely, run him through with a sword.

John’s gaze on me was as cold and dark as a winter’s night. “I swear on the One True God that I shall faithfully serve our divinely chosen Augusti, Justinian and Theodora—”

The man’s words were the now-common verse, created after Nika, and recited by all those given a position by the crown. Special adviser to Justinian, the Cappadocian had been spared making the oath. Until now.

“If I should fail them,” John continued, “may I suffer forevermore—”

God could take care of forever—I’d just hasten John’s appearance to the fires of Gehenna.

“May I suffer the burdens of Job, the leprosy of Simon, and the fate of
Lot’s wife, and may I undergo the full punishment allowed by the mercy of the Augusti and Almighty God.”

Except in John’s case there would be no mercy.

.   .   .

“Who did you tell?”

“No one, I swear!”

My fingernails dug into Antonina’s soft flesh as I searched her brown eyes for traces of deceit. She shook me off with a glare and rubbed the angry red welts on her arm. “Welcome back to you, too,” she muttered, stalking to her window. “Gods, Theodora, do you really think I’d tell anyone after all these years? What would I gain from doing something so stupid?”

I’d already racked my mind for that answer and come up empty. Antonina had almost as much to lose as I did if Justinian and Belisarius discovered that John the Cappadocian had spoken the truth.

“I don’t know,” I said, collapsing into a chair across from her rumpled bed. I hadn’t managed much sleep in the weeks since the scene with John the Cappadocian, instead lying awake in my cold bed while listening to Justinian pace the corridors. Finally, we’d received word that Belisarius’ ships had docked. Once dawn broke, I’d slipped away to Antonina’s villa—passing Belisarius’ entourage on the
Mese
—and promptly evicted a naked Theodosius from the morning light streaming onto her bed.

“But he knows, Antonina,” I said. “He told Justinian everything.”

“Did Justinian believe him?”

“No. I don’t know.” I picked a loose thread on the arm of the chair, almost glad I didn’t know Justinian’s mind. “I don’t think so.”

She pulled me to my feet. “Justinian is a good man, Theodora, and he loves you more than he probably should. He’s not going to listen to John’s blather.”

“He might.” I swallowed a sob, feeling the terror I’d held at bay creeping in. “I can’t lose him, Antonina. I just can’t.”

“You’re not going to.” She shook my shoulders once, none too gently. “Listen to me. The Cappadocian has no proof. And even if he did, do you honestly think Justinian wouldn’t forgive you?”

“I don’t know.” I drew a ragged breath and forced myself to think rationally, no mean feat for my exhaustion-riddled mind. I ran a shaky hand over my hair, straightening my silk veil. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Did you ever doubt it?”

I snorted and managed a weak smile. “Thank you for bringing me to my senses.”

“Don’t mention it. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m rather fond of you.” She kissed both my cheeks. “Actually, I’m more fond of the snarky, sarcastic Empress. I could do without the waterlogged wife who kicks handsome young studs from my bed before the sun has had a chance to rise.”

“The sun’s been up for hours.”

She glanced at the window and shrugged. “Perhaps. But I still plan to pull my godson back into bed once you leave.”

Which she planned to do quite soon, judging from the way she was ushering me toward the door.

“Just don’t get caught.” I hugged her, inhaling the scent of a rose garden in full bloom. “And I’m rather fond of you, too.”

“I know, darling.”

I passed Theodosius on my way out and heard the door shut, followed by Antonina’s lusty squeal. I hadn’t wanted to suspect her of telling the Cappadocian, but she was the only person I could think of who might have spilled my secret.

So now the question remained: If not Antonina, then who?

.   .   .

Cheers heralded Belisarius’ triumph long before the horns blared in the newly reopened Hippodrome. The entire city had turned out for a celebration to rival that of Octavian when he conquered Egypt. Imperial wine flowed through the streets, and clay bread tokens stamped
with the image of Michael the Archangel had been distributed to each household in the city. We’d hired every fire-eater, puppeteer, and actress in the capital and surrounding countryside to entertain the waiting masses. The dull roar of the crowd grew to wild screams as the Vandal treasure poured through the gates of the Hippodrome.

An unarmed regiment of Belisarius’ men marched onto the track with wreaths upon their heads, followed by slaves bearing painted frescoes of the vanquished cities of Hippo and Carthage. Baskets of gold ingots stacked an arm’s length high whetted the crowd’s appetite, along with a train of gold and silver, trunks and litters containing the metals in every form imaginable—goblets, crowns, diadems, necklaces. Then came one of the greatest treasures on earth—the silver menorah from the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, seized by the Vandals during the sack of Rome almost eighty years earlier.

Followed by his family and dressed in imperial purple, Gelimer shuffled behind his lost treasure, hands and feet bound in heavy silver chains. His shoulders slumped like Atlas as the crowd hurled vulgarities at him.

“Canis!”

“
Fur!
You deserve to hang!”

“Prospice tibi—ut Gallia, tu quoque in tres partes dividareis!”

I cringed at the last one—Gelimer might be a dog and a thief, but I had no wish to watch him divided into three parts. Cleopatra had the right idea—I’d welcome death rather than face such humiliation.

The crowd chanted Belisarius’ name as he entered the arena on a gilded chariot drawn by four perfectly matched chestnut stallions, a mirror of the bronze Triumphal Quadriga at the entrance of the Hippodrome. The gleaming laurel wreath on his brow matched his gold armor, too close to a crown for my liking. He frowned each time the ancient slave at his side whispered in his ear; occasionally he even tried to brush him away. I had insisted on following the old tradition of keeping a slave in his chariot to whisper the adage, “You are merely a man.”
Unfortunately, it seemed likely Belisarius might forget that piece of advice with everyone hollering his name.

Familiar faces soon followed—Sittas, Antonina, and Procopius of Caesaria, a beady-eyed historian with a face like a monkey who accompanied Belisarius to record the victory for all posterity. John the Cappadocian was there as well, despite my prayers that he be impaled by a Vandal sword.

The Cappadocian passed me on his way to join the line of advisers behind Justinian. He smiled, but his hand was tight on my arm. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”

I smiled as if he had just complimented me on the embroidery on my new stola, glad Antonina had chosen that moment to distract Justinian. I’d sent her a message last night outlining my plan to her. “The Sunken Palace,” I said to John. “Tonight.”

He released my arm, and I had to force myself not to rub the spot where his hand had been. I refused to give the man the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled me. I still wasn’t sleeping well and had yet to determine how he’d discovered John. I planned to make him pay, and soon.

Belisarius leapt from his chariot and prodded Gelimer with his sword into the Kathisma. The crowd fell silent. The Vandal king fell to his knees, lanky ropes of filthy hair hiding his eyes. The man’s life hung in the balance, but Justinian planned to exile him to estates in Galatia since the Vandals wanted nothing to do with their cowardly former king.

Justinian stepped forward and wrapped Gelimer’s purple
chalmys
around his fist. His voice boomed into the silent stands. “Gelimer, usurper of our African kingdom of Carthage, you have been bested by mighty Rome and the Emperor whom God anointed with the true purple. You are neither imperial nor Roman.” With that he yanked the purple robe from Gelimer’s shoulders and spat at the ground before him.

The former king raised his head and dared look Justinian in the face. “‘Vanity of vanities,’” he said. “‘All is vanity.’”

The line from Ecclesiates was a reminder of failure, but he was the failure, not us. Perhaps Gelimer needed to spend some time chained beneath the palace before he moved to Galatia to enjoy his retirement.

Justinian looked at Belisarius—the general still stood straight as a granite pillar, his massive silver general’s belt gleaming brightly. It took him a moment to realize why the Emperor was staring at him, but then he slowly joined Gelimer on his knees. His helmet shielded his face so I could only guess at his humiliation. Both Antonina and Narses had informed me of all the Vandal gold he’d managed to siphon into his own accounts; the obscene wealth he had confiscated would buy his loyalty for now.

At least I hoped so.

.   .   .

The damp air made my arms prickle with gooseflesh as I left the last light of dusk behind me. The Sunken Palace wasn’t a palace at all, but an unfinished cistern tucked almost under the Hagia Sophia. Slaves bowed as I descended the stairs into the cavern and emerged into a dark forest of mismatched marble columns lit by sputtering oil torches. Dust and the sound of chisels filled the air. My leather boots did little to keep out the ankle-high water.

I almost forgot why I was here as I gaped at the upside-down colossal head of Medusa, a column stretching from her neck to the ceiling.

The cistern’s columns had all been commandeered from pagan temples throughout the Empire. Two contained the witch’s head, one left upside down and the other sideways to ward off the evil eye. I waded into the water that lapped at her hair and touched the cool granite of her face. Carp swam lazily at my feet, unconcerned with the gorgon or Empress in their pond.

A slave hammered a column etched with a Hen’s Eye and swirls of
what appeared to be tears, or peacock feathers, pouring down the stone. The man’s mouth formed a perfect O to see me, and he dropped his chisel, his hair covered in white dust like finely milled flour as he struggled to bow.

I continued through the maze of columns alone when someone touched my arm, almost a caress.

The Cappadocian held up his hands and motioned me to be silent. Suddenly I wished I hadn’t left my guards at the entrance, although they probably wouldn’t have made a difference. John was a trusted member of Justinian’s inner circle and would likely have to pull a knife on me before they’d move against him. I trembled to think what Justinian would think if he discovered that I’d come here alone to meet the Cappadocian.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“That’s hardly how you should greet your faithful servant, don’t you think?”

“You’ve never served me. You’re a lying, conniving fraud, and I don’t know where you came up with those lies—”