The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (43 page)

“Good. Go through John’s daughter, Euphemia.” I sometimes doubted John had sired the girl at all—such a sweet apple couldn’t have fallen so far from such a twisted, poisonous tree. “She visits the public baths once a month to hand out bread tokens to the infirm and elderly,” I said.

“A regular saint.” Antonina pulled a sour face. “Probably still a virgin, too. Does she go to the baths alone?”

“Usually with Macedonia. They’re rather close.”

“Do you think Euphemia’s old enough to influence her father? I’d need him to meet with me. Privately.”

“She’s eighteen,” I said. “Old enough to think she knows everything and young enough to understand very little.”

Antonina rose. “That’s one of the benefits of being old hags now—we really do know everything.”

Old. I had turned forty in March. Fortunately, Macedonia had given my slaves an excellent hair tonic recipe of lead oxide and slaked lime. The stuff smelled worse than a latrina, but the strands of gray had disappeared as if by magic.

“Convince her you need her father’s help—a palace insider—to topple Justinian once and for all. Tempt her with the thought of all the poor people she could help with her father on the throne.”

“Leave everything to me. You just worry about how much of John’s wealth you’re going to send my way.” She gave a wicked smile. “His estates in Prusa are particularly lovely.” She sauntered off, and I sat back to wait, eager to serve the Cappadocian’s head to Justinian on a gilded platter.

.   .   .

It had taken my lust for revenge and the love for my remaining family to pull me from the abyss of grief for my son. Reconciled with Justinian, I invited Tasia to the palace, pulling her away from the peace of her seaside villa across the Bosphorus. I needed to be close to her, to drink up her happiness with her husband, Paulus, and her son, and know that at least I had done something right in this life in seeing her happily settled.

My grandson, Athanasius, was at the age of missing teeth with a rabid fascination for reptiles and a healthy disgust for girls. I quizzed him on his Latin version of the
Song of Ilium
when Macedonia entered with a letter that smelled like a bouquet of roses, its seal still intact.

“A messenger just arrived with this,” she said. “He said it was urgent.”

Tasia peered at the seal from over her needlework, an intricate camel and lion design for one of Paulus’ tunicas. I took pride in the fact that she was quite talented with a needle and thread, although she certainly hadn’t learned the skill from me. “How is Auntie Nina these days?” she asked.

“Up to her old tricks, as usual.” I smiled and broke the wax seal. I hoped Antonina had been up to a few new tricks as well.

Narses answered my summons immediately.

“John the Cappadocian is on his way to Belisarius’ villa at Rufinianae,” I said. “Take a contingent of imperial guards with you, but don’t let him see you. Arrest the traitor the instant he mentions Justinian’s throne.”

Narses gave a frightening grin and snapped his fingers at several of the guards stationed at the door.

I’d have John in my clutches in mere hours. Revenge would be sweet.

“What’s going on, Mother?” Tasia set down her sewing as I sent a messenger to fetch Justinian.

“John the Cappadocian is about to walk into a trap.”

“What do you mean?”

I explained the plot to her, but she only pursed her lips, reminding me of my mother. “It seems to me you and John the Cappadocian are mirror images of each other.” She bowed as Justinian entered and gifted my husband with a sunny smile as she collected her son.

“You don’t need to leave,” Justinian said, kissing her on the forehead. “I’ve only come to spend time with my girls and this young man.” He ruffled Athanasius’ hair, and the boy beamed, clutching the
Song of Ilium
to his chest.

“We’ll join you for dinner,” Tasia said. “Mother received important news—we’d only be in the way right now.”

More like the cross fire.

Athanasius gave Justinian a solemn bow. He was the closest male relative Justinian possessed—one day this little man might wear the purple. I opened my arms to him and squeezed him tight.

“Have your mother come to dinner early, all right? I promise I’ll have the Emperor teach you how to spar before the soup is served. Perhaps I’ll even join in.”

Athanasius’ eyes grew round, but Tasia steered him away by the shoulder. “The Empress excels at sparring,” I heard her say once they were almost outside. “She’s made it her life work.”

Justinian wrapped his arm around my waist. “What news deprives me of my daughter and grandson?”

His words made it difficult to swallow. For a moment I wondered again what would have happened if I’d told him of my son, if he might have accepted John as easily as he’d done Tasia. I wouldn’t think of that now.

“John the Cappadocian is about to betray you.”

He sighed. “Enough, Theodora. You’ve suspected John and Belisarius for years and all for naught.”

“I set him up.” Not waiting for him to protest, I explained the entire plot I’d set into motion. It took an eternity for him to respond.

“And Antonina offered to help you out of the goodness of her heart?”

“More like the goodness of her pocketbook.”

“And John is headed to Rufinianae now?”

“As we speak.”

Justinian stood perfectly still. “Then we shall wait for Narses to return with him—if he does betray me, that is.”

I would bet my favorite racehorse that John the Cappadocian wouldn’t bat an eye at Antonina’s request, but I bit my tongue.

Justinian patted my shoulder, not looking at me. “Send for me the instant Narses returns.”

I had almost worn a trench in the silk carpet when Narses appeared, a storm worthy of Zeus on his face.

“What happened?” I asked. “Where’s John?”

“We waited until he intimated his wish for the throne, then sprang to arrest him. His own guard protected him as he fled.” Narses glowered and held out a creamy piece of vellum. “We found this left behind.”

The letter was written in a hurried hand, but the remnants of Justinian’s imperial seal still clung to the crumpled page. My own husband had circumvented me to protect the man who sought to destroy me. I sat down, hard, and balled the paper in my fist before throwing it
into the fire and watching the parchment writhe until the flames consumed it.

“John fled to the monastery of Saint Conon,” Narses said. “He’s claimed sanctuary.”

Saint Conon was the same monastery the criminals had sought before the Nika riots. Laughter rose in the back of my throat—Narses looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

“John is a pagan,” I said. “Sanctuary doesn’t apply to infidels. Drag him from the altar if you have to. I want him dead by daybreak.”

“Do not follow that order.”

Justinian strode into the room, his purple
chalmys
billowing behind him. “Bring John to me.”

“So you can pardon him as you wished with Hypatius?” I sharpened my voice. “John is a traitor who has plotted your overthrow. He must die.”

Justinian ignored me. “Bring John here, Narses. See that he’s not harmed.”

My temples throbbed, but I clenched my teeth until Narses was out of earshot. “You are a fool.”

“And you are obsessed with this vendetta.” Justinian’s face thundered with rage. “I will not have more blood on my hands. John has served me faithfully for more than a decade—”

“He’s a debauched, lying thief!”

Justinian grasped me hard by the shoulders. It was the only time he had ever laid a hand on me in anger, but I leapt back, scorched.

He held up his hands. “I will not order John’s death, and neither shall you.” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve gone too far this time, Theodora—you cannot fault a man for trying to grasp the treasure you’ve dangled before him.”

“The same treasure Belisarius recently resisted.”

Justinian gave a hollow laugh. “And yet you faulted him for even that at the time. John is only a man—infallible and imperfect.”

“As are you.”

Justinian tensed. “Perhaps, but I am God’s anointed king here on earth.”

“Only because I saved your crown.”

It was the first time I’d held Nika over Justinian’s head. I almost wished I could take the words back.

“And that is why I shall not punish you for going against my wishes in this.” His voice was the same as the one he used in his throne room—imperious and haughty. “I’ve trusted you, and you’ve betrayed that very same trust.”

I had betrayed him, but not in this. My husband had forgiven Hypatius, Belisarius, and now the Cappadocian, but I’d betrayed him by revealing John the Cappadocian for the traitor he truly was?

It took every shred of my willpower not to slap him. “I shall take my leave of you then—you may send my messages to my palace in Hieron. I shan’t trouble you anymore.” I turned on my heel and stormed from the room, waiting for my husband to call me back.

There was only silence.

T
he glare from the waves made me squint under the shade of my silk awning, the languid smell of salt and decay floating in the heat. Earlier in the day a slave had claimed to have caught sight of Porphyry, the legendary whale that occasionally overturned boats in the Sea of Marmara to feed on hapless sailors. There were a few people I wouldn’t mind feeding to the giant beast, my husband included.

Only the narrow strait of the Bosphorus separated Justinian and me, and the distance wasn’t so great that he couldn’t send for me. All day long vessels skipped over the waves like water bugs, plying the blue garland of water between the two continents and bringing me news of Belisarius’ latest foray into Persia. And yet there was still no word from my husband.

I was adrift here in Hieron, occupying my hours counting fishing boats bobbing past coastal caves as I trekked to the thermal baths and stalked the small palace grounds. I recommended the sea breezes and Hieron’s healing waters to patricians who came to my palace to beg favors, some of whom clustered outside my tent even now. They helped me keep
up the charade that things were as they should be when in truth my world had spiraled out of control long ago.

I kicked off my calfskin slippers and walked into the sea foam, the warm sand slipping between my toes.

“Would you like me to walk with you, Augusta?” Macedonia fanned herself, looking like a wilted rose in the sun.

“I’m fine.” I dismissed her with a flick of my wrist, suddenly annoyed at all the damp slaves and courtiers awaiting my every whim. “You may all return to the palace.”

I meandered the lonely stretch of beach with only my thoughts to keep me company. A black and yellow snakebird impaled a silver fish with its beak and took flight, the fish writhing in vain for freedom as the bird soared in careless circles toward the clouds.

The beach was long and my legs were tired when I finally returned to my tent, only to find that a messenger in imperial livery waited outside. Justinian had finally come to his senses. I had to force myself not to run and snatch the purple vellum from the boy’s hands.

I spared a glance at the opposite shore as I broke Justinian’s seal, glad to know I’d soon be returning. There was nothing in Hieron for me.

The silver ink mocked me. No salutation. No apology. No invitation to return to the palace.

I was still furious with Justinian, but I’d be a liar to claim I didn’t miss him. Life without my husband had gone gray, one day blending into the next. I needed him.

“Is there no other message?” I turned to ask the servant, but he had already gone, not even instructed to remain for a reply. I gave a mangled curse and crumpled the paper in my fist before hurtling it into the sea. The little ball bobbed in the waves, staining them with a cloud of purple. The irony of John’s new name did not escape me—the man who had reached for the Emperor’s crown would now be known by the Emperor’s title. Exiled, but still alive, he had escaped relatively unscathed yet again.

I didn’t have long to ponder Justinian’s lenient sentence or his neglect at asking for my return to the Sacred Palace. A sedan carried by four of the finest-looking slaves I’d ever seen lumbered into view, complete with a full cadre of female attendants. Antonina descended from her litter and gave such a wail that the slaves scattered. She collapsed at my feet in a puddle of silks, her hair wild and her normally flawless complexion splotchy as a freshly plucked hen.