Theodora (38 page)

Finally, Theodora realised she would have to look elsewhere for companionship, and then the call came for her to visit Justin. The old Emperor had always been kind to her, especially surprising given his commitment to his wife, even more surprising given his disapproval of Theodora’s religious mentor. He’d had time for the girl while Euphemia was alive, and these days he had even more. Justin realised he now had all the permission in the world to do exactly, and only, what he wanted; he also had very little time left to enjoy that freedom. As the old man became more frail, he took to asking Theodora to visit him more often.

Theodora had been trained from her youth to be a good listener and, with the classes Narses had arranged for her, she had become a better conversationalist. Both her husband and his uncle had been supportive of the idea of her new lessons, not
that either man dared tell Theodora directly that they had been party to a discussion about her intellect and education – they happily left those delicate matters to the eunuch. Now she was developing an interest in matters Justin had himself learned to care about a great deal, the questions his own wife had been too frightened to discuss once he had become Emperor. Nervous of making the kind of mistake that would remind people of her past, Euphemia had been happy to offer her views to all and sundry, and regularly did, but never to her own husband. Theodora, though, had learned in Menander’s training that mistakes were simply steps from which to move forward. Euphemia had been scared that her accent or her phrasing or a misinterpretation of foreign protocol would point up her slave origins, betray her as a product of her past, Theodora had no doubt that everyone knew her history, and the very few who hadn’t known about her before were hearing it now.

She was the talk of the town. There were those in the taverns who railed against her promotion, who spat at her name in the bars, blessed themselves against catching her corruption when they stood in the same church, cited her husband’s passing illness as another example of her dangerous ways. These detractors were few, but very loud. In some ways worse though, were her fellow performers who, so proud of her elevation, thought nothing of embellishing her story to give themselves roles in her past, more often than not as sexual partners. The whore-Empress had a known history: how simple then for a young man making a name for himself on the stage to cite himself as one of her early conquests and gain the kind of notoriety that went down very well indeed with the Hippodrome crowd – even better when his routine was about how well she herself went down.

Theodora had nothing to hide and everything to learn, and
to gain. Justin’s militarily biased views on the history of the Empire, the various uses of the Latin she was coming to know better and the formal old Greek she was perfecting were all very useful, but far more interesting were his opinions on the elegant and intensely rigid court manners of the Sassanids compared to the rough Huns, the singing Celts in favour of the passionate Vandals. He knew them all, as often as not because he had spent time with these people, had met them when discussing treaties or borders, had faced them both in battle and in troubled peace. Now, childlessly facing his own death, Justin was anxious to pass on what he knew, he had shared this knowledge with Justinian over time but he wanted to make sure his opinions did not stay solely with Justinian. Especially knowing how eager Justinian was to empty the coffers Justin himself had filled all these years, he was keen to encourage Theodora to understand his thinking, for later, when he was no longer here.

Gratifyingly, Theodora did not just want to listen, she also asked questions. Where other people – analysts and students of military strategy – asked Justin what he and other soldiers had done, Theodora asked how he felt. Facts were all very well, but there were plenty of scholars both in the present and the future who would be able to provide Justinian with any number of facts for any number of scenarios. What really mattered in the moment, when pressing and difficult choices needed to be made, was the heart. How it felt to deal with this huge problem or that private joy, how it felt to know that every action, however small, would eventually be made public, be seen by all. Soon, Justin would die, and then the one man who had been in Justinian’s position, who knew how it actually felt to command, to lead, would be gone, no longer able to offer his counsel.

And so Theodora dutifully spent hours by Justin’s bedside. Even the most censorious of Palace staff had to admit they were impressed by the little whore’s behaviour with the old man. It
was good of her to humour him, especially now that she didn’t have to, now that she and Justinian had the crown. What they didn’t know was that now his censorious wife was out of the way, Justin was more relaxed than he had been in years. The old Emperor had a wicked sense of humour and, when he was detailing some of his less salubrious exploits in the army, admitting in a painful but animated croak that he, not his nephew, had been behind the deposition and execution of Vitalian, or whispering through pain and exhaustion his favourite story of the Greek whore and the dolphin – not a story he’d ever shared with Justinian – he also had a really very dirty laugh.

Thirty-Eight

The old man lay on the narrow bed. Those who had begun readying the body for the lying in state, for the funeral, hurried from the room. Justinian and Theodora, who had come to see their uncle, wanted an empty space and quiet. They did not want the bustle of funeral preparations, they did not need to see Justin in the clothes of his coffin, they simply wanted to spend some time, to say their prayers, in the presence of the old man’s body. Both believed that his spirit had already departed.

Theodora was sure, contrary to all teachings, that Justin’s spirit had probably gone some days before. She had been sitting with him when the pain became too great, when it was obvious he would not return this time, and he had whispered to her, as she held his hand, the papery skin dry and thin, the words gurgling in his throat against the fluid that was drowning him, ‘I am worried to see Euphemia.’

She knew exactly what he meant, they had been talking more often of what was to come, what might be waiting for him, the truth of his wife as she was now: would her soul include all her temporal emotions and feelings, or would he merely find a form of her? Theodora had promised Justin that Euphemia would be gentle, though she was sure the old man knew she was offering the kind of soft truths given to the dying by anyone other than the most honest of priests.

She held his hand and spoke quietly. ‘You are the Emperor, your choices were bigger than mere family allegiances, your
decisions have been for the City and more, for Rome. Justinian will do well, I promise. You trained him, and he has me as his support.’

In kindness to the old man who was in such extreme pain, fighting his own drowning on dry land, she deflected his fears from his dead wife’s ire to the genuinely capable nephew. Euphemia had been fond of Germanus, had a certain respect for the Emperor Anastasius’ relatives, but she’d loved Justinian. Justin knew it too, and he understood that Theodora was making it safe for him, easing his concerns with her quiet avoidance. He smiled and closed his eyes, his bony fingers moving restlessly in her hand. Even as she reassured him, Theodora was sure she could feel him leaving, his spirit moving away. Justin fell asleep that evening, and did not wake again.

Beside the thin corpse, Justinian prayed for the repose of his uncle’s soul and for the strength to take on his work, to be the good son, to live up to the trust Justin had shown in him. He prayed to be a good Emperor.

Theodora knelt beside her husband and prayed, yet again, to be a good wife, to support Justinian, to be the perfect consort. She did not pray to be a good Empress. Empress was just another job, many people had been involved in getting her that appointment: her choice now was to be Justinian’s partner, and it was for that role that she prayed.

They were quiet with the body, and quiet when they left, walking slowly back to the rooms that had not truly felt theirs while Justin was alive, rooms that would still take time to become theirs, now he had really gone.

Later, after the funeral, Justinian lay on his bed, Theodora stroking his forehead with a cloth infused in camomile and lavender.

Eventually, he spoke aloud, ‘It’s over.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m old to consider myself an orphan, I know, but I feel it now, I feel them gone.’

‘They were your family, it makes sense.’

Justinian cried a little, and Theodora continued to stroke his forehead. After a while they both slept for a short time and when she woke, Justinian was staring at her in the gloom of the semi-dark room, the sun nearly set, no candles yet lit.

‘What is it?’

‘It is just me now, isn’t it?’

‘In the purple?’

‘With you beside me.’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘With me beside you.’

He smiled then, and she smiled back, and a thrill of fear and excitement, astonishment and joy ran from one to the other. Grief was still present, grief for his uncle-father and for her friend, but it was not the only emotion, not at all.

A week later Justinian and Theodora, August and Augusta, walked the short distance from their state rooms, through the private tunnel to emerge into the Kathisma, the royal box of the Hippodrome, the box now draped in purple and gold and fresh greenery for their first presentation to the public. The capacity crowd of a hundred thousand were already in their seats. Most of them had been there since the early morning, many more stood crammed together on the top tiers, by the gates, outside the stands. The Imperial couple were in the heavy purple silk of Emperor and Empress, a small retinue behind them. Narses was already seated with Belisarius and Antonina, Comito and Sittas close by. Hypatia was keeping an eye on Ana and Mariam. Germanus was there, of course, as were Hypatius, Pompeius, Probus, and the ranks of senators,
citizens and soldiers. Sophia was not seated, she was part of the troupe picked to entertain the crowd while they waited for the August to arrive.

The performances had begun two hours earlier. Coming closer to the doors of the Kathisma, Theodora knew exactly the temperature of the Hippodrome, could smell the heat in the arena, the sweet-acid perfume of the people’s keen anticipation. She held Justinian’s hand, feeling the new Imperial ring on her finger, with her own regal inscription, saw herself lifted on to her father’s shoulders, carried out into the centre of the performance space, saw three little girls with flowers in their hair begging for kindness, saw the owl on her obelisk bringing her home.

Just before the doors were opened for them and Justinian walked out on to the Kathisma, he turned to her and whispered, ‘I saw you once, years ago, at a dinner. You were a child and you stopped your little sister from being punished, you were the keeper and she the bear. You were magnificent. As you are now.’

She thought she might weep at the enormity of it all, and she heard Menander reminding her to take her time, to make them wait, to make them want her.

Justinian walked forward, a step ahead, the cry went up from the crowd, calling Emperor, calling August, and then he turned, holding out his hand for his partner, and the people called Theodora.

Bibliography

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Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

It goes without saying that this is a work of fiction – but I’ll say it anyway. While Theodora was a very real person, like most women of history, her story has been hidden, watered down and in some cases (Procopius!) certainly exaggerated; all of which makes her ripe for fiction. And while I’ve done my best to offer a real setting – historically, geographically, politically – what personally excites me is the story and so there are inevitably moments where historical accuracy has been sacrificed for plot or pace or character. I’m a novelist, not a historian, and this book makes no claims to be the one true story – just a story.

There are many people who have helped with this new leap in my work, from those in Ravenna who proudly showed off their Eighth Wonder of the World, to those in London who made all the right noises when I first gave them my Theodora précis. Specifically, I also owe great thanks to: Antonia Hodgson, Zoe Gullen, Beth Humphries and everyone at Virago and Little, Brown, along with my agents Stephanie Cabot and Lucinda Prain, all wonderfully enthusiastic Theodorans. Chiara de Stefani and Nevio Galeati, Paolo Pingani, Giancarlo Daissè, Federica Angelini, Mariacristina Savioli of the Gialla Luno Nero Notte, Ravenna, who gave me the mosaics and a great time. Rehan Kularatne, who would make a splendid RA guide. Manda Scott, who made ‘writing history’ a little less scary. Shelley Silas, who
has had to live with Theodora for far too long now. And the Board, as ever. A special thank you to Brooks of SE24 who showed me the magic garden and then said of the Theodora on his mantelpiece, ‘Ask her questions, she will give you answers.’ Maybe some of those answers are here.