Theodora (33 page)

Theodora nodded. She understood exactly what he was asking for. She looked up at the priest, revealed. ‘You want me to show you my pain, Thomas?’

‘I want you to give in.’

Theodora gave in. She told him of Menander and Hecebolus and the dreams of her father’s death, of her regrets about her daughter, how she had still not created the relationship she had promised to try to achieve, she told him of her fear and her sorrow. She cried. When she was done, he was satisfied. He told the Emperor she was a good woman, and their test case with the new law was a true penitent. And Theodora told Narses that if and when Justinian ever became Emperor, he had better get that young priest out of the City before the purple
was on her back, or Thomas would be the one in pain. A week later Thomas was on a ship to the Holy Land.

Theodora was preparing to marry Justinian, a man she felt no passion for though she was very fond of him, but still a good man who, through Timothy and Narses and his own connivance, was about to change her life beyond imagining. The priest Thomas knew her well now, but Theodora knew herself better. She didn’t want Thomas’s lovely face – or his knowledge of her past – getting in the way.

Thirty-Three

Permission was granted for Justinian to marry Theodora, the wedding date was set, the City was thrilled with the news, theatregoers were delighted, street traders praised the equality of hope in the City and therefore the Empire, Greens were disgruntled, Blues gloated, and in the newest wing of her mansion that was palatial in appearance if not in fact, Juliana Anicia seethed in well-bred rage. This particular news thrilled Theodora more than she had expected, not least because it was Justinian who shared the information with her, and their slightly shamed, largely gleeful complicity at Juliana’s chagrin was a new step forward for the couple. While Theodora was as aware as the next woman that marriage was a business transaction, she knew they would work better as a team if they were also friends. Sharing pleasure in Juliana Anicia’s pain was something they could easily do together: both felt slighted by the old woman, and – unlike the elaborate wedding plans Theodora was now creating with Narses, all designed to present a coupled and successful Justinian to the City – this joy was consciously present, not some time in the future. Better still, it was theirs, not part of a strategy drawn up by Narses or Timothy or the leader of the Blues, come to ask for another favour. With all too much of her life feeling as if it were part of someone else’s greater plan, Theodora was keen to enjoy the moments that existed solely in themselves. She and her betrothed giggled like nasty children at their own impressions of Juliana’s face when she
heard their happy announcement, felt guilty, straightened their faces, and then giggled again.

Elsewhere in the City other friends were expressing their pleasure for the couple. Comito said she was delighted for her little sister. She said so in meetings at the theatre when Theodora’s name – and newly patrician status – came up, she said so in post-show parties when other singers and actors were happily getting drunk and Comito was holding back, ever careful of the voice. She said so when strangers in the street asked her when she was going to marry a senator herself, and she hurried off to rehearsals not bothering to answer, not answering because she simply didn’t know what to say. Comito now made a very good living from her voice, she had not had to trade in her own body for long, and mostly she preferred to behave as if that part of her youth had simply not existed. Theodora’s public renunciation of her theatrical past, becoming patrician – even this new law that was being passed in order to allow her to marry the Consul – it was wonderful for Theodora, but all it did for Comito was bring up her own past, while simultaneously denying the value of her present. The elder sister had worked hard to craft the respect she’d been granted – a singer not an actress, a lady if not by birth then by demeanour, welcome in many of the most respectable homes. Now Theodora had come home and, as so often in their childhood, had taken both the attention and the glory in one swift move, and what was especially galling was that she had also managed to gain respect. In private, Comito did not say she was happy for her little sister.

Sophia thought it was hilarious. The idea that her old friend, stage companion, and occasional lover – though perhaps she’d have to shut her mouth about that now – was headed for marriage with Justinian made her snort with laughter. Even more insanely funny that, according to the last senator she’d shagged,
and also the general before him, Justinian was now certain to reach the highest office possible. Having seen him at a distance, Sophia thought Justinian seemed far too staid to please Theodora for long, even if he intended to try, and that definitely wasn’t the way of most rulers. But, as she said to anyone who’d listen, usually when she’d had an extra jug of wine, Theodora wasn’t blind to the possibilities of Justinian’s future, even if she was blind to the heavy jowls and portly frame of the Slav – purple was an astonishing colour, it could hide any number of physical failings.

Antonina was delighted. She had become still closer to Theodora recently, and now the word from the Senate was that all the right voices were speaking in praise of Justinian, in closed as well as open rooms. She knew a deeper friendship with Theodora would do her husband the world of good. Belisarius was too honourable for his own career, Antonina would take charge where she had to.

Three pretty voices, each singing a different song of pleasure at Theodora’s unheard-of advance, each crowing horror and laughter when Theodora told them she was preparing to marry a man she had not yet slept with.

‘Fair enough. He’s hardly in your usual league.’ Sophia helped herself to another glass of wine, pushing aside the hovering servant, preferring to serve herself, not through any altruistic concerns, more because the skinny girl was so sparing in her pouring.

‘It’s probably right, isn’t it? You’ve been recreated as a patrician, now they can recreate you as a virgin bride.’ Comito couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from her voice, but she almost managed to make it sound as if she thought it was amusing rather than really very irritating.

It was Antonina who made the most salient point. ‘I don’t
mean to be rude, but there’s a way to go yet. I know everyone’s agreed and all the plans are under way, but really, anything could still happen. Wouldn’t it be safer to get pregnant between now and the wedding? It’s only six weeks away and whatever happens, you do want to be sure to keep his patronage.’

The other two women fell about laughing at this, though Sophia agreed Antonina had a point.

‘I might not become pregnant.’ Theodora did not elaborate. She shared a great deal with her friends, with her sister – though Comito was usually less interested than the others – but she did not want to share this. What she knew about her time in the desert was far too dangerous to reveal. Justinian might believe she was everything he needed in a wife, someone who would please the masses in a way he never could, who could help him create the semblance of, if not a real, union between warring Church factions, who truly understood his belief in the potential of a new, restored Empire, one Church, one state – but no one would allow him to marry a barren woman, and Theodora knew they would be right to take such a stand. Germanus made no secret of his hopes for the purple, no matter that everyone knew Justin himself preferred Justinian for the succession. It would be an entirely different matter if Justinian’s wife were unable to conceive. Theodora had no intention of letting this particular secret become even whispered knowledge. If it were true that she could no longer bear a child, then it would show itself plainly enough with time, there was no need to ruin everything with honesty now.

Antonina continued, ‘You might not become pregnant immediately, none of us are as young as we used to be—’

‘Speak for yourself.’ Sophia sat up, looking every inch the child-woman temptress.

‘How well we paint ourselves is another matter,’ Antonina was not fazed, ‘but you do need to ensure you get him through
the ceremony …’ She smiled now, more coyly than Theodora would have expected. ‘I did not, unlike our sisters here,’ indicating the two women on the divans, ‘have the pleasure of seeing your finest work in the theatre, or elsewhere. But I have heard the stories …’ She leaned in, away from the hungry eyes and ears of the servant. ‘Isn’t there a trick or two you learned back then? Something to make sure he’s yours now and into the future? It’s not as if the Consul has a reputation himself, it wouldn’t take much, would it, to convince him that your marriage can be more than just a strategic move? Maybe you can do some business of your own? You are, you were, after all, highly celebrated in that arena, weren’t you?’

The sister, the old friend, and the new friend were agreed. The celibacy between Theodora and Justinian must end. If she wanted to hold on to him, at least until the wedding, then she was going to have to hold him with more than just her suitability as a regal consort. A world-shattering bedding for the man who seemed to prefer paperwork to people was needed. And soon.

Theodora broached the subject the next day. Sitting with Justinian, quietly together, the two of them on her now-favourite balcony, in a room high on the southern edge of the Palace, away from the bustle of the Imperial buildings, the noise of the City behind them as they looked out to the Sea of Marmara, the eastern world turning yellow then orange then dark red as the sun set behind them. Her speech was shy at first, totally unlike the Theodora he was used to, and Justinian thought something was wrong, that he had failed in some way, behaved badly.

‘I’m sorry, is there a problem?’

‘No. No, not at all … I just, we should … maybe we should …’

Theodora shy and Justinian questioning, it was a first for both of them. Eventually he understood. Eventually, she did too.

As with so many things between Theodora and Justinian, his reaction wasn’t what she’d expected when she carefully rehearsed her words in her own rooms. Justinian was kind, and appreciative, slightly dismissive at first of her suggestion that they should, perhaps, consider spending some more time together, some more time alone together and then, once she clarified what exactly she was offering, he understood her meaning completely and agreed that she should come to his room that night. He would send his servants away. She was right, he said, it was about time.

Theodora dressed carefully, took care to choose the perfect robe that would elegantly acknowledge her past as well as emphasise her present, and her future with him. She did not want to look like a wife yet, nor could she risk reminding him too much of her previous careers. Then again, anything that smacked too much of the reformed Theodora might make it impossible for her to deliver the sexual promise that was meant to tie the quiet, serious Consul to his wedding day promises, at least for a couple of years. Theodora was used to the concept of men straying – before Hecebolus she had often been the woman they strayed to; she agreed with Comito and Sophia that it would be wise to let Justinian know exactly what he was getting with their marriage. An insurance policy of sorts. She chose a green dress to reflect the colour of her eyes, opted for simple jewellery because it would be easier to remove – and because being unadorned now would offer a striking contrast with the highly decorated woman he would meet on their wedding day. She wore soft, thin slippers, her hair was barely
tied, caught up with a fine ivory needle piercing a narrow band of plain leather. When the moment came, her hair would fall just as it should, covering her naked shoulders, reaching to her nearly naked breasts. Her own hair as prop, as symbol, as image. Menander had always dismissed the girls who preferred hair-acting to the real thing. Theodora knew it could come in handy on occasion.

They sat together on the divan for a few minutes, the room cool now the sun had fully set, the cushions soft. Justinian poured her a glass of wine and she noted his lovely hands, the fine long fingers of a scholar, not the farmer he might have been, more the Emperor he could be. He passed her drink, offered her food – tiny chunks of sweet chicken in an almond-paste crust, shredded lamb ripped from the bone and wrapped in fine flatbread, a vine leaf stuffed with spiced grains, another with smoked fish, water, then more wine, then pastry dripping honey and scented with rose oil. He was attentive and she readily ate from his hand, ate what he offered, but Theodora was not thinking about the food, she was thinking about how best to place herself, how best to get this started.

She needn’t have bothered. Justinian knew exactly what he was doing when he kissed her, knew what he was doing when he held her in the places she suddenly realised she wanted to be held, knew what he was doing when a touch across her back sent a tremor into her lower belly. He knew what he was doing when he stopped her letting her hair loose and said he didn’t want her hair hiding her lovely face. In all the years that people and audiences, teachers and lovers had praised her, no one had ever told Theodora she had a lovely face. A brilliant mind certainly, a wicked sense of humour, a disgusting laugh, a skilled body, a startling malleability of both heart and frame, but now, one of his hands on her neck, the other low on her back,
Justinian said she had a lovely face. And Theodora was amazed to find herself believing him, her inner cynic silenced for once, because he looked as if he really meant it – that she had a lovely face.

Then he was leaning over her and lifting her and holding her, and it was useful that she was so narrow, so small really, had always been so small, not Sophia small, but that she never quite had the height to be a real dancer, the frame to be a singer, what she did have, what she had always had, was the perfect body to do this. Her robe was removed and she could not work out how he did it, but he did, he opened the clasp holding the cloth together; the clasp she had meant to undo in two simple actions, Justinian removed in just one. He lifted her to the windowsill, there was soft night air and it was scented with a hundred different trees and the perfumes of the garden and the sea and the City, always the City, and then, close to her face, close to her mouth, to her nose, the air was scented with him. Justinian did not smell of old papers and tired scrolls and warm ink, he smelt like the man she would have him be, like the man she had no idea he could be, and then there was a reason, many reasons, for his hands working her, readying her, preparing her, and then they were fucking, not on the divan where the food was carefully laid out, not on the bed where the sheets were clean and fresh, not even against the far wall where it would be politic and careful, where it would be sensible just in case someone was outside, just in case someone could see beyond the walls to this window, but here they were fucking and rutting, laughing, both of them, in amazed joy at the union, framed in the window, lit by the candles all along the far wall, they were here together. And the part of Theodora’s mind that was still watching, the piece of her that could not believe this was her Justinian, the same man she had chatted to and sat with and
whose sensible, knowledgeable, wise company she had calmly enjoyed for the past months – the part of her mind that was still above her own body, only just hovering above her own skin and bone and blood and flesh – was amazed by his strength, but more stunned by his brazen attitude, it was as if he did not care who might see them. Justinian did not care who might see them. And then there was none of Theodora floating above her own flesh, and then all of her was only her own flesh. His flesh and hers. And then he gave in. And then she gave in. Though perhaps not quite in the way the priest Thomas had intended.