Theodora: Empress of Byzantium (Mark Magowan Books) (32 page)

Sometimes, words were written instead of spoken. Imperial officials filled parchment or papyrus rolls with deeds of confiscation or of donation—voluntary, forced, or forged. These ruses brought the enemy’s houses, land, gold, gems, and coins to the public coffers of the empire, or sometimes into Theodora’s personal treasury (several sources have mentioned a private treasury of hers, complete with its own managers
¹⁰
). According to the critics who saw the emperor and empress as demons of destruction, these were signs of ruthless cruelty, of a diabolical, savage nature. Other, more indulgent observers see them as proof of the great financial demands of an empire bent on the difficult project of restoration. Still others see them as the mark of a sinister, empty culture that gave legal cover to naked extortion.

Just as her power was never codified into law, so Theodora’s face never appeared on the coins issued by Constantinople’s legendary mint. The coins read simply
IUSTINIANUS
, or sometimes
IUSTINIANUS, SALUS ET GLORIA ROMANORUM
(Justinian, Salvation and Glory of Romans; [
fig. 24
]). And yet the emperor and the empress were as close to each other as two faces of the same coin, the coin of power.

After the Nika rebellion, the power of these two was the product of reciprocal favors and efforts. And a superior joint tolerance was called for. If in the course of Theodora’s correspondence with foreign
ambassadors—something that no previous empress had ever done—she wrote that Justinian “does nothing without my advice,”
¹¹
only the exotic foreign courts were scandalized. In Justinian’s view, these details did not diminish his
ego
. As a matter of fact, he felt supported by authoritative sources of religious wisdom, for in a Christian marriage “everything between man and woman must be shared” and the woman must “respect God first of all, then her husband,” to whom “she can offer advice” as he makes the final decision.
¹²
Thus Justinian and Theodora must have seen themselves as a model couple for the seventh eon, the Christian eon.

In the text of one law, Justinian spoke of Theodora as “given by God,” alluding to the etymology
theou dôron
, “gift of God.” The auspicious name that Acacius chose for his daughter had become a reality, sanctioned by imperial words. By mentioning Theodora, or simply referring to her as an inspiration, Justinian gave individuality and specificity to his general, even abstract political vision. He made exceptions for her alone, while armies and subjects continued to be no more to him than abstract masses and numbers, tiny tiles in a mosaic that he was continuously rearranging.

Theodora acted differently from him. Each of her activities had a precise personal and psychological reference point: someone who was beholden to her, who was loyal to her, some strategic figure that she used to achieve her goals. Never openly stated, her goals nevertheless were, and still are, recognizable in her many achievements throughout the years and on many continents. She was shrewdly silent about her objectives, allowing each one of her devotees to believe that his mission was the most important.

The former actress was a master of timing and she knew how to judge an audience’s reaction; she had not lost those skills even after ten or more years away from the stage. She understood that after the Nika rebellion certain signals were required, both in the fire-blackened city and elsewhere. It was crucial to display the splendor and initiative of that imperial majesty for which Hypatius and Pompeius—and the
Hippodrome crowd—had been sacrificed. Spectacular, theatrical productions were needed. And so she proceeded to create them.

She put her mark on the city, quite literally, with statues of herself. One was erected near the baths of Zeuxippus, which were rebuilt after the 532 fires; another rose atop a porphyry column at the Arcadianae, a thermal bath complex that was the most enchanting leisure spot in the capital, with gentle breezes and dappled light reflecting off the water. So attractive was the place that it was written that “those who stroll there can even converse with people sailing by.” But most attractive of all was the statue: “The statue is indeed beautiful, but still inferior to the beauty of the empress; for to express her loveliness in words or to portray it in a statue would be, for a mere human being, altogether impossible.”
¹³
The site is unrecognizable now, and the statue is long gone, just like Theodora’s beauty itself. We can only imagine the harmonious effect of the dark porphyry against the white marble and the blue-green of the sea.

Even more theatrical, perhaps, was Theodora’s legendary voyage to Bithynia, which took place possibly in the spring of 533. On light boats, she and her retinue crossed her beloved Bosphorus toward the pine forests that cast their reflections in the water on the Asian side. Once across, she went to the thermal baths of Pythium in Bithynia (near modern-day Yalova, Turkey). It may be that a court physician had sent her to the pleasant bathing resort, which was famous for its curative natural hot springs. Perhaps she hoped the waters would help her to conceive an heir; it would have been a welcome sign of divine favor in the wake of Saint Sabas’s refusal to pray for her (531) and the bloodshed of the Nika massacre (532).

For the empress, the journey was an occasion to display imperial pomp. Justinian had surprised the crowds with his lavish consular games in 521; now his consort celebrated
her
victory in the Nika by traveling with a retinue of at least four thousand and endless furnishings.
¹⁴

Everything that the empress might want, she took with her: jewels, precious garments, and gold cups studded with diamonds. Costly
litters carried her noble body, and embroidered curtains protected her from all discomfort. She even brought along giraffes and elephants: her journey was an itinerant show, a palace-away-from-home. John the Cappadocian (restored to the office of prefect of the praetorian guard in the autumn after the Nika revolt) was in no position to criticize the expense, since he owed his life to Theodora.

Her litter was a far cry from the carts on which she must have traveled through the Levant years before, but, even so, she saw how bad the roads were, perhaps because of the Cappadocian’s underinvestment. She wished to meet her subjects, and as they knelt before her she promised them better roads. She had new palaces and other structures built near the baths, as well as an aqueduct. She exhorted everyone to have faith in and hope for the good of the empire.

She even visited the monasteries of Mount Olympus beyond Prusa (present-day Ulu Dã, beyond Bursa). Later in the Byzantine era the monasteries became a favorite retreat for intellectuals who could not stand life at court. When Theodora visited them, the simple monks and hermits spoke words of Christian wisdom and experience. But this was not the only religious aspect of her journey.

It wasn’t enough to dazzle everyone along her route: Theodora also worked for the Monophysite cause that she cared so deeply about. Monophysitism was the first card that she played in her power game with Justinian.

In fact, some believe that a religious operative, the Monophysite John, bishop of Tella, was part of her huge entourage in Bithynia. Born in 483 in Tella (Constantina, Syria; now Vitansehir, in eastern Turkey) he was a tireless Monophysite supporter who had come to the capital under the empress’s tutelage. In Bithynia, he preached his version of Christianity and was very popular: he got thousands and thousands of converts, which was particularly meaningful since Bithynia, historically tied to Constantinople, had none of the nationalistic elements that helped Monophysitism spread in Syria and in Egypt.

This was Theodora Augusta’s first journey outside the city in the ten years or so since she had entered the palace of Hormisdas as Justinian’s concubine. Although she might have seemed to be an exterminating
angel in the Hippodrome, she was now billing herself as the Angel of Goodness, who cared about her subjects. After the destructive Nika events, the masterful staging of this spectacle restored majesty, dignity, and philanthropy as imperial prerogatives.

The renewed sacrality and majestic power she projected gave fresh impetus to the Monophysite issue. When she got home to the palace, Theodora and Justinian may have spent just as much time discussing theological issues and ecumenical policy as testing the reproductive efficacy of her cure at Pythium. Maybe even more time, because the journey to Bithynia was only one piece in a preexisting strategy that Theodora set in motion after January 532.

In the summer of 532, nearly fifteen years after the reconciliation between the Roman papacy and the empire of Constantinople, a knotty, unresolved issue was officially reintroduced. A meeting was arranged in the capital between six Orthodox and six Monophysite luminaries to address the issue of the nature or natures of Jesus Christ, the Incarnate Word.

The Monophysite leaders were invited to the imperial palace and admitted to the emperor’s presence. The Augusta positioned herself as the perfect hostess rather than as an interested party. They held long sessions on theological matters, some attended by the emperor. Justinian engaged in learned disquisitions with the Monophysites and came away convinced that any discrepancy was a problem of terminology more than substance. Neither side doubted the human element of Christ; the only disagreement—the theological split that ended up as a geopolitical division—was about the number of His natures.

At the end of the sessions, Justinian promulgated an edict to defuse the problems. It was March 15, 533. First, he avoided the customary references to past ecumenical councils (including the Fourth Chalcedonian Council, which the Monophysites vigorously opposed). The edict affirmed the condemnation of Nestorius on the one hand, while on the other it attacked extreme Monophysitism, which denied “the consubstantiality of Jesus Christ and the Father in the Godhead, and of Jesus and us in humanhood.”
¹⁵
At the time, Justinian could not do or
give any more than this. The positions he established, however, were conducive to opening a dialogue with Monophysite luminaries such as Severus, Theodora’s theological beacon, who had been deposed as patriarch of Antioch in 518 (when Justinian had come to power) for professing similar theories.

So a dialogue began and persecutions ended. The colony of Monophysites in the capital was growing so much that a Monophysite monastery (known as the “Monastery of the Syrians”) was soon founded in the suburb of Sykae, beyond the Golden Horn. Theodora was repaying her debt to the Levantine “saints.” And the emperor, who had been raised with pro-Roman, Dyophysite beliefs, seemed paradoxically to be acting according to the
Edict of the Union
, the proMonophysite tract of 482 that had launched the long schism with the Roman papacy (from 484 to 519).

Giving in to Theodora’s political pressure and perhaps her emotional appeal, he conceded everything he could concede without breaking with Rome. The reconciliation with Rome was essential not only because of his religious beliefs, but also because of the Church of Rome’s support for his military plan to recapture the West, starting with the “barbaric” Vandal kingdom.

The Vandals (who held North Africa from the Pillars of Hercules at Gibraltar to the Syrtes, adjacent to Hecebolus’s Pentapolis) were Arians, so they denied the divine consubstantiality of Christ with the Father, which was a central tenet of faith for both Monophysites and Dyophysites. What is more, the Vandals had swooped down on the Mediterranean as invaders, not in answer to an imperial invitation. Instead of formally recognizing the primacy of Constantinople, they challenged it: their kings boldly wore purple. They considered themselves an autonomous, self-legitimated power, like the Persian empire, but without its ancient prestige. They did not work for reconciliation, as had Theodoric, the Ostrogoth king in Italy. On the contrary, they repressed the Roman and Orthodox Catholic elements in their kingdom.

Justinian refused to accept the Vandal kingdom as a concrete political force, and it certainly did not fit into his theoretical framework for
the restoration. The empire of Constantinople needed safe transport for its men and supplies, but the Vandal fleet ruled the western Mediterranean. (In 455, those “barbarians” had used their fleet to come to Rome and sack it; the ancient Roman supremacy in the Mediterranean was now only a memory.) Might the Vandals try to attack “the happy cargo” on the unparalleled food-supply ships transporting grain from Alexandria to the second Rome? And once Italy was completely unified, how could it be safe if it was still under threat from Vandals in the Strait of Sicily or in the Tyrrhenian Sea?

Back in 530 Justinian had been given a pretext for going to war. But he was kept from attacking by domestic developments and conflicts, and by a turning point in the war on the Persian front, which culminated in the Endless Peace signed by the two great empires of the Ecumene in September 532. (Although the “endless” peace was to last less than a decade.) The costly peace in the East, though a drain on the imperial coffers, did now guarantee him freedom of movement on the western front. But John the Cappadocian strongly opposed the plan, and the military chiefs were skeptical.