The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (44 page)

I waved everyone away and helped her to a stool under my tent. Her performance was worthy of a tragic death, but I knew better. “I take it all is not well, Antonina?”

She took a deep breath, but more tears poured down her cheeks. “Photius betrayed me.”

Antonina’s eldest son had campaigned in Carthage and Ravenna with Belisarius, but he remained in the capital now as his stepfather fought in Persia once more. He had been sketching the sails of
dromons
last I saw him.

“The ungrateful cur told Belisarius of my affair with Theodosius in front of all his generals!” She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders heaved with less-than-silent sobs. Antonina had always excelled at tragedy.

“How did Photius find out?”

“I don’t know.” The blubbering began afresh. “Someone must be spying on me.”

More like someone had finally decided not to turn a blind eye.

I patted her on the shoulder. “Darling, you had to know Belisarius would find out sooner or later.” I’d gambled on the former and was truly shocked the scandal hadn’t broken until now.

Antonina’s face emerged from her hands, the red blotches darker than before. “But my own flesh and blood betrayed me! He only wants to ensure I don’t disinherit him in favor of Theodosius.”

Photius had learned the art of manipulation from one of the masters, but now likely wasn’t the best time to point out that Antonina’s own son had outsmarted her. She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve, leaving a line of snot like a slug’s trail on the lemon silk.

“And now Belisarius has threatened to cast you off?” I offered a linen towel to dry her face.

“Belisarius says he loves me. Exceedingly. He swore vengeance on Theodosius instead.” Her chin trembled. “I don’t even know where he is—Photius captured Theodosius and has him hidden somewhere.” She laughed, a deranged sight as the tears started anew. I doubted she’d shed half so many tears for her first husband, and poor Timothy the Weasel had had to die for those. Theodosius still lived, although he might wish for death after Photius finished with him.

“And Theodosius’ wealth?”

“Confiscated.” She blew her nose so loudly that a flock of seabirds scattered from the shore. “I curse the day I conceived the ungrateful whelp! Belisarius has me under surveillance while he fights the Persians, but I can’t live without Theodosius.” She fell to her knees and grasped my hands between her damp ones. “Help me, Theodora.”

This drama was worthy of Sophocles. “Your husband is one of the most powerful men in the Empire. I don’t know what I can do.”

She clutched my hands, her eyes wild. “Please. I helped you take down John the Cappadocian. You’re my only hope.”

I hesitated, then beckoned for one of the courtiers who’d slunk back outside my tent. I really needed Narses, but he was back in the
Sacred Palace with Justinian. The youth who came forward, Areobindus, was a recent addition to my court, recommended by Macedonia. He had the body of an ancient god with chiseled features that reminded me of busts of a young Alexander the Great. “Go to Narses. Tell him I want Photius brought to me.”

Areobindus repeated the message and walked off, his tunica pushed by the breeze to reveal the outline of his legs. Antonina licked her lips. “I see why you keep that one around. He reminds me of Theodosius.” She sniffed, and her lip trembled again.

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “I’ll find Theodosius for you.”

I only hoped he was still in one piece.

.   .   .

Photius proved difficult to find, and meanwhile Belisarius decided not to pursue the Persians past the river Tigris. Rumor had it Antonina’s infidelity had completely unmanned her husband, but I knew from Narses that he was negotiating a truce.

Yet that was practically all I knew, still cut off here in Hieron. I watched with great fascination as Areobindus sliced a ripe peach to break my fast, the juices dripping down his long fingers. There was a steady patter of rain outside, but my room smelled like an orchard on a sunny day. Antonina had returned to her Rufinianae estate, and Macedonia had left after asking permission to revisit the monastery in Chalcedon. I was lonely here in Hieron.

“Would you like me to taste it first?” Areobindus asked. A single dark curl fell onto his forehead as he set the peach before me. I resisted the urge to push the hair back.

“No, thank you.” I enjoyed the burst of summer on my tongue as a slave delivered several letters on a golden tray. I’d received nary a word from Justinian since his brief message about John and refused to take up my pen to write to him, although the other night I’d written him a long and plaintive letter begging him to take me back. I’d woken
the next morning with it plastered under my face and promptly relegated it to the flame of an oil lamp.

I searched for Justinian’s seal in vain and set aside a letter from Antonina with a sigh. I didn’t have to open it to know what it said. Belisarius had stepped up the surveillance of his wife, so she rarely left their villa across the Bosphorus. There had been a steady stream of missives since her last visit, all imploring me to find Theodosius before her heart withered and died. I knew how she felt, but instead, I suggested she take up weaving or beekeeping. Anything to get her mind off Theodosius.

The rest of the letters were tedious, save one message from Tasia to tell me she wished to apprentice Athanasius to a monastery so he could study theology. I’d prefer to arrange the boy’s betrothal, finding him a suitable girl who might wear my crown after Justinian and I were cold in our tombs. Yet there was plenty of time for that—Justinian wasn’t yet sixty and I was only forty. There was also Comito’s daughter, Sophia, who might bring the Empire its next Emperor by marriage. All this needed to be discussed with Justinian, but that was difficult as I was no longer on speaking terms with my husband.

The letter from Antonina still waited after I’d returned from the thermal baths and my prayers at chapel that night. The light rain had grown to a thunderstorm, but then it died as night fell. The moon was full as a ripe melon, and its white light spilled into my room. I sighed and took the letter to bed.

The crisp paper sliced my thumb as I opened it. I pressed the cut to my lips and tasted blood as I read the single line.

I sent for Areobindus and woke two slaves sleeping at my door. Yawning, they dressed me in a black stola and wrapped my hair under a dark silk scarf.

Areobindus arrived fully dressed, looking as if he’d been waiting for my summons. I murmured instructions in his ear, unaware of my hand on his arm until I felt the guards’ eyes on me. Antonina’s message had best be true or she’d receive more than an earful.

We slipped across the Bosphorus like thieves, the water still as black glass as the oars of our little boat floated up and down like lazy dragonfly wings. A plain curtained litter waited on the other side. I didn’t care for anyone to report back to Justinian that I’d reentered the city.

The streets were deserted and the Rufinianae house and grounds dark, but Antonina met me in the atrium, silent save for the occasional drip of water from the roof into the
impluvium
. She waved me inside with one hand, the other holding a sputtering oil lamp that scarcely cast any light. However, it was enough to make out that the dark stain up her bodice was no shadow. She motioned to Areobindus. “He stays.”

Antonina could have undone me long ago—she wasn’t about to have me murdered. Areobindus fell back at my nod, but his stormy expression told me he wasn’t pleased.

“Follow me.”

We traipsed silently through the dark maze of rooms and out the kitchens, then back into the clean night air. I followed Antonina’s haloed outline beyond the towered well house to a storehouse tucked behind a modest grove of olive trees, its doorway so low I had to duck. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the black of the room, but the aromas of pepper, cardamom, and cloves mingled with those of a fall day’s damp earth and decay. I had no idea why Antonina had dragged me here. Perhaps her mind had finally come unhinged.

A larger oil lamp sputtered to life in Antonina’s hands. Then I saw her.

The edges of the room came into focus so I could make out a woman against the far wall, chin on her chest as if she were sleeping. Or dead. Then I caught the scent of her musk perfume.

“Macedonia?” Her right eye was swollen shut and her lip torn, her
hands and feet bound with thin ropes that had cut into her skin and now melded into the bloody flesh. A black stain stretched from her brow to her nose. I struggled to help her stand but discovered too late the length of rope along her neck, tied tight to an amphora of wine as tall as I was. I whirled on Antonina. “What have you done to her?”

Antonina spat at Macedonia. The fob of spittle lodged on my friend’s tangled copper hair, once so beautiful. “Less than she deserved. The woman is a traitor.”

“She has been faithful to me for more than twenty years!”

Macedonia moaned, and a fresh trickle of blood slipped from her lips, black ink on her pale skin. Her good eye opened but lolled about its socket. This woman had saved my life countless times. Without her I’d likely still be on the stage, or worse, a pox-ridden whore found dead in an alley one morning. Macedonia would never betray me.

“I’m getting you out of here.” I worked the rope around her neck, but it was slick with fresh blood. Macedonia groaned again, an animal moan that made my flesh prickle. I finally worked the rope free, ignoring the sticky wetness on my palms. “Can you walk?”

“No, she can’t walk,” Antonina said. “She can’t talk either.”

“What do you mean, she can’t talk?”

“I cut out her tongue.”

Antonina let out a little yelp of surprise as I slammed her into a bag of onions and tried to claw at her face. She managed to shove me off to scramble to Macedonia, but my fingernails had skin and blood under them.

“She’s a traitor.” Antonina yanked a handful of Macedonia’s matted bronze curls and kicked her outstretched thigh, but the half-conscious woman barely flinched. “She told Photius about Theodosius and me so she could get a cut of his inheritance!”

“She only spoke the truth!” My eyes fell on a rusty scythe hanging on the far wall—I could certainly make it there before Antonina realized what I intended.

I heard the tears in Antonina’s next words before I saw them gleaming in her eyes. “She had our son killed.”

“What?”

“Macedonia has been spying for John the Cappadocian ever since she returned from Antioch after the earthquake,” Antonina said. “They’ve been lovers all these years. You gave our son to her, and she had him killed, all on the Cappadocian’s orders.”

“I don’t believe it. How could she possibly know about John?” The awful realization blossomed in my mind. “When did you tell her? It was in Bithynia, wasn’t it? I asked you if you’d told her, and you said no.” My fingernails bit into my palms. “You lied to me.”

Tears poured down Antonina’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Theodora. I’d take it back if I could, all of it. I’d had too much wine that afternoon in the hot springs, and it just tumbled out. I never thought she’d turn traitor and use the information against you. Against us.”

“It’s you who’s the traitor, not Macedonia.” Lunging toward the far wall, I yanked down the scythe and whirled on Antonina.

“You want to kill me?” Her voice was hysterical. “Go ahead! But I think you should hear the truth before you run me through.”

“I don’t want to hear another word from your filthy, lying mouth,” I said, the scythe trembling in my hands.

“Why do you think Macedonia is so close to Euphemia? She’s the girl’s mother.” Antonina jerked her head toward Macedonia. “I imagine she and the Cappadocian kept their relationship secret so she could continue to spy on you.”

I could scarcely breathe. I’d always wondered what caused the abrupt end of John’s pursuit of me. The dates matched—Euphemia would have been born while Macedonia was in Antioch, before the earthquake and while the Cappadocian had been exiled before I married Justinian. Euphemia’s pert little nose, her mannerisms—they were familiar because they were Macedonia’s.

I didn’t realize I had sat down until the splinters from the crate dug into my
legs. The scythe dangled from my hands. I stared at Macedonia as my mind fought to make sense of Antonina’s words. “Are you sure?”

Macedonia moaned and Antonina took a hesitant step toward her, then tugged her ropes tighter when she realized I wasn’t going to stab her. “Photius kindly gave her permission to take whatever she liked from his mother’s house. I caught her sneaking out of my villa, making off with a hefty bag of jewels. After a little persuasion, she told me she was headed for Cyzicus.”

John of Cappadocia had been banished to Cyzicus.

I’d send spies there to torture John the Cappadocian, Justinian be damned. I sank into the earth beside Macedonia, my eyes clamped shut as I pressed my fist into my mouth and tasted the film of dirt.

I would kill Macedonia, dragging out her endless torture until she begged for death’s mercy. Let her watch her own lifeblood leak away as an ox-hide whip scourged her back. Such a death would be generous for so much evil. I drew a ragged breath into my lungs and forced my eyes open.

I expected to see her grinning while I hoped to see her crying with remorse, but instead, Macedonia’s finger trailed haphazardly in the earth, a frothy foam of pink on her lips in the lamplight. There was a pattern to her design in the dirt. Words.

I heaved her to her feet, almost choking the last bit of life out of her before letting her fall back to the ground. “Who’s not dead?”

An eternity passed before her finger moved again.

“Of course the Cappadocian is still alive.” Antonina gave an impatient sigh. The scythe dragged on the ground behind her.

Macedonia’s hand was ice in mine.

“My son. Do you mean my son?”

Her eye focused for a moment, and I shuddered at the naked hatred there. I’d surpassed her, abandoned her, and banished her patron, the father of her only child. She nodded.