Theodora: Empress of Byzantium (Mark Magowan Books) (23 page)

Theodora must have rejoiced in her body more now than at any other time. Early on, her body had been inseparable from her theater career and her need to survive and rise socially. Later, an heir to the
throne would be demanded of it. But right now was the time for pleasure. Standing on the roof terraces or the balustrades of the palace of Hormisdas, we can imagine that she often gazed at the sea, which calmed her. Then a herald—the blast of a trumpet—a roll of the drums—would signal that her lord had arrived, and she would quiver. If public protocol at court required that she stand like a statue, she was ready to be sculpted by her Pygmalion. But when it was just the two of them, she knew better than he the private protocol of their bodies.

It was not only the couple in the palace of Hormisdas who felt entirely secure; at the Hippodrome, the Blue faction also felt secure. Both Justinian and Theodora had been “members of the Blue Faction from of old.”
¹⁴
Justinian guaranteed impunity for the radical fringes of the faction, who could be useful in destabilizing the capital, thus helping him to prove that the elderly imperial couple was no longer capable of ruling the empire, that a strong man like him was needed at the helm. The Blues’ abuse and their provocative acts were unusual: “barbaric,” ethnic, and untraditional. The Blue radicals broke away from the conservative image of the Roman citizen:

for they did not touch the moustache or the beard at all, but they wished always to have the hair of these grow out very long, as the Persians do. But the hair of their heads they cut off in front back to the temples, leaving the part behind to hang down to a very great length in a senseless fashion … indeed for this reason they used to call this the “Hunnic” fashion. … Also their cloaks and their drawers and especially their shoes as regards both name and fashion, were classed as “Hunnic.”
¹⁵

We modern observers can easily relate to this mode of protest. Urban violence was also part of it: “They carried weapons.”
¹⁶
Robbery and murder went unpunished, and among the young extremists “men who had previously never taken an interest in these affairs … were now drawn to it.”
¹⁷
The magistrates refused to investigate. They knew that in the end they would have to face the protector of these extremist fringes—powerful, fearsome Justinian—and so they adopted an attitude
of indifference. Justinian wasted no pity on the Blues’ victims—especially if the Blues involved were from senatorial families and might be crucial in his ascent to the throne. Even in the ivory diptych that celebrated his consulship in 521, he had only one word—
ego
, “I”—when addressing the “elders” of the Senate.

Lupicina-Euphemia died in 523 or 524. After the proper display of grief and compunction, Justinian brought Emperor Justin the draft of a law that he had prepared earlier, and the emperor approved it (perhaps under duress). Explicitly designed to meet the needs of the two lovers, the law (“On Marriage,”
Justinian Code
V 4, 23) covered any “reformed” actress who led an “honorable” life. Such a woman was granted leave to appeal to the emperor to marry a man of high rank, and even without an appeal marriage was permitted if the “repentant” actress had been previously awarded an honorific title. In addition, children born to actresses before their “repentance” could also marry freely.

Since Theodora was the first actress to be awarded the honorific title “patrician” (not as a public recognition of her acting talents, but because of a private sentimental relationship), Justinian could marry her without appealing to the emperor. Maybe the passage of the law was a reward for the patience with which she had endured Lupicina-Euphemia’s hostility; undoubtedly, it was a pledge for the future. It was important not only personally but anthropologically. For with it Theodora was finally approved, ratified, and accepted. The promulgation of the law marked her consecration, her transformation from unworthy to worthy, from infamous to illustrious. Finally she could step out from the hallways and stairwells, the antechambers, the vestibules, the backstage shadows. She achieved full freedom of movement on a new stage: not the theater stage, but the power stage; this was her
own
“gift from God.” In 524, Theodora was reaching the midpoint of her life—which was to be a short one, by modern standards—and she began the second half sturdily protected both personally and legally by Justinian’s specific design.

The law “On Marriage” had a larger significance: it reflected the social mobility of the empire in late antiquity, when the throne and the imperial purple were accessible to certain illiterate farmers, slaves, and
former actresses. While the emancipation was initially conceived only for Theodora, it liberated other actresses, promoting social dynamism. Of course, Christian repentance was essential: the acting profession continued to be considered evil, and therefore in need of redemption. But without the real case of Theodora on the one hand, and Christian influence on the other, the established powers would never have extended these rights.

Ten centuries before the law “On Marriage,” the
Lex Canuleia
(Canuleia Law) had permitted marriages between patricians and plebeians, launching a lively period for the first Rome. But the emancipation and social dynamism promoted by “On Marriage” is more of a historical irony; the radical transformation of actresses’ status happened, paradoxically, just as antiquity was drawing to an end.

As the Middle Ages approached, the culture was growing more distrustful of the body, of bathing, of entertainment. Soon, public works such as the baths and the theater were seen as “creations of the devil” just like pagan temples, and they began to serve as quarries for construction material for other buildings: not urban, secular structures but churches and religious strongholds—spiritual and material fortresses for a transformed world.

So because of “On Marriage,” Theodora and a few women in her circle were practically the only ones able to combine a theater career and even sexual promiscuity with Christian reformation and social dynamism. Theodora’s daughter, born of the kind of relationship the law defined as “a mother’s mistake,” was given in marriage—opportunistically, not exactly “freely”—to a scion of a leading Constantinople family. Theodora’s older sister, the actress Comito, married one of Justinian’s closest collaborators, General Sittas, in 528 or 529. Since she was not a “patrician” at the time, she may have filed an appeal with the Serene Imperial Highnesses: by that time Justinian and Theodora were already on the throne and were busy strengthening their circles with good marriages.

Theodora’s former colleagues also benefited. We know that one woman named Indaro and two women both named Chrysomallo, former dancers and actresses, were admitted to the palace, where they
dealt with politics “instead of the phallus and the life in the theater.”
¹⁸
The daughter of one Chrysomallo married a young dignitary, though she caused a scandal among the conformists. We will examine her case later, and look at Theodora’s “right arm,” the controversial Antonina.

Although “On Marriage” freed a class of marginalized and segregated women, the innovation was short-lived. It foreshadowed a historical paradox of society under Justinian and Theodora: it was supposed to be a restoration—epic, dynamic, totalizing—but it was only an “unstable synthesis.” The precariousness undermining the society was also visible in the military conquests and even in the pictorial style of the age. Indeed, the art of the time has been described as merging two very different styles
¹⁹
: it drew on classical naturalistic ideals and yet it had abstract, early-medieval elements.

Meanwhile, Theodora had achieved her goal. The law guaranteed her legal and institutional security. Now her life took on a different narrative tempo. The
fortissimo
orchestral passages were now balanced by pauses and
pianissimo
moments. The tempo was no longer an urgent
presto
but a majestic
andante.
She was absorbed but not overwhelmed by life at court. Her private time gave way to the general, public time of the palace, and a time for court ceremony definitively supplanted the time for theatrical spectacle. Before, walls might have seemed constricting to her: she had lived under the open sky in the amphitheaters, on the stone seats of the Hippodrome, in the infinite spaces of the Levant. Now she was surrounded by frescoed walls and coffered ceilings. Her feet glided across mosaic floors and polychrome marbles. The palace of Hormisdas protected her like an oyster protects its pearl. Finally, she too was “sheltered from the public eye.”

Theodora had gained recognition—she had earned a new beginning. It was another one of her transformations, and her body was also transformed. Whereas she could once show herself to “everyone,” naked on the stage, now she showed herself—only after her regular beauty sessions, when her body was carefully draped in clothing—to just the few men and women she had chosen to be part of her entourage.

Her marvelous robes were adorned with embellishments: the
tablion
(a rectangular decoration embroidered in gold on her garments) and the buckles decorated with pearls and precious stones that fastened the
stola
over her right shoulder. Her dressing required time and attention from assistants, handmaids, pages. When she spoke to them, we can presume that she slowed down her speech and her gestures and her commands. As time went on, everything became more concentrated, more intense. As the days passed, the young mistress of reversal was learning to embody a spirit of continuity.

The lovers were making arrangements for their wedding. The priests of the church of the Holy Wisdom (Hagia Sophia), perhaps even the patriarch himself, were teaching them the catechism, based on the precepts of Christian faith consolidated over the centuries. They did not discuss whether the nature of Jesus Christ was single or double, although Theodora (Justinian already knew) was likely eager to discuss this topic. The priests most likely did remind her of the basics of Christian and imperial motherhood. Theodora was sensitive to the subject: she wanted to—she knew that she had to—give Justinian an heir, but there had not yet been a pregnancy, despite the lovers’ passion, the physicians’ checkups, and the prayers of the devout. And there had been one troubling event.

In about 524, Justinian had fallen ill. Many have conjectured that he was weakened by orchitis, an inflammation of the testicles. With time, and maybe also with the help of a legendary healer, Saint Samson,
²⁰
he recovered his famous energy, but even the doctors of the time knew that sterility often follows orchitis contracted in adulthood. Justinian was already past forty.

The two lovers understood that only a miracle could give them an heir. They were challenging destiny, but not for the first time. Theodora, once an expert in contraceptives, now discreetly ordered a search for fertility-inducing amulets and concoctions: blood from a rabbit, goose fat, even turpentine. People in the imperial entourage whispered suggestions. Others consulted stars and horoscopes. Still others shook their heads, convinced that it was God’s punishment for Justinian’s erotic and legislative hubris, his excessive lust for innovation.

Justinian recovered his health and then his anger, raging about the authorities having punished his favorite radical fringe of Blues while he was ill. (Perhaps old Justin had had a last gasp of pride.) Justinian went after the city’s director of public safety, who was forced to seek ecclesiastical sanctuary.

But if Justinian had intended to make the instability work for him, he failed. There was now even greater friction between the new centralized power that he personified—which leaned ever more toward absolute individualism—and the long-established magistracies that had their roots in ancient Rome. Justinian was trying to eliminate this with his network of informers. In the meantime, a small anti-Justinian opposition group had formed, gaining some influence over his imperial uncle. Theodora noted it and brought it to Justinian’s attention.

That group did not prevent the two patricians, Justinian and Theodora, from finally crowning their spectacular—and, to some, scandalous—affair with their wedding. It probably happened in 525; the month and day are unknown, as is the location of the ceremony. Was it in the ancient church of the Holy Wisdom, which was smaller than it is today? Or in a sumptuous hall of the palace? Did Patriarch Epiphanios officiate? The scanty documentation indicates that it was an understated ceremony, kept deliberately discreet to avoid opposition from more traditional quarters, or to avoid irritating Justin, who in his old age was becoming increasingly isolated and jealous of Justinian’s power. The splendors of Justinian’s consulship in 521 were not repeated; but this ceremony had a deeper meaning and it affected people far beyond the couple and their guests.

Theodora wore a veil on her head; rings were exchanged; blessings were spoken; wine was drunk from a single chalice; a reciprocal pledge was made (fig. 22). But all of this perhaps did not suffice for a couple with such lofty feelings. They must have also pledged beyond themselves: the entire world was the pledge with which they entered into their covenant. The formula that sanctioned their union also pledged the entire world that they would change together: from the desert
villages of the Euphrates River to the vineyards of Cyprus; from the ports of North Africa to the pine forests sloping down to the Adriatic near Durrës; eastward to the first Rome, and farther east to the Pillars of Hercules (today’s Strait of Gibraltar) and the great wide ocean.

22. Gold marriage ring, 6th century.