A Triple-headed Serpent: A Story of Theodora, Empress of Byzantium Page 2

  They had to be executed. So they were. And I saw them taken away like flotsam, drifting out to sea on an ebbing tide, the would-be emperor nothing more than food for nibbling fish.

  No, no easy task to unseat a reigning emperor. Justinian has reasserted his right to the throne and his power in utterly convincing terms.

  And yet he has been weakened. The formerly unthinkable has been thought, and almost turned to deed: there nearly was another emperor. The populace desired another emperor. So did the great landowners and the nobility, who have never truly accepted a peasant and a former actress and courtesan on the throne. Everybody has considered this possibility: there could be another emperor.

  Perhaps this end may yet be striven for, though possibly by other means.

  We must be vigilant.

  Chapter 1: A particular question

  Theodora sat on the terrace of the Hormisdas Palace, a wedding gift from Justinian. Since the Emperor and Empress had other quarters, it currently housed her friends from her acting days who had fallen on hard times – Chrysomallo and Indaro – and many Monophysite religious refugees. It was cold, but she was well muffled in a fur-lined cloak, with her small feet on a foot warmer filled with coals. She always loved to sit here, but now even more so, since the view was out across the Sea of Marmara with the houses of the rich dotted on a slope to the side and there were no blackened ruins to remind her of the convulsion the city had just gone through. No smell of smoke on the clean and salty air. Just heaving water the colour of pewter with white foam glistening where the waves broke on the shore, a vaulted sky white with cloud cover and one black cormorant perched on a rock, drying its wings.

  A month and a half had passed since the rioting had ended. The Greens and the Blues, the two semi-military factions that held so much power in the capital, had joined forces in the recent insurrection, but their militant ambitions had been eradicated by the slaughter of thirty thousand rebels in the Hippodrome. A dull calm had settled on the stricken city. But Theodora was still in a state of shock. She had not yet been able to gather her strength to follow her customary routine and to pursue her usual goals. She sat like an invalid, unaware of the outside world, turned inward, nursing her injured spirit.

  She felt as if she had been dealt a grievous wound by some powerful, half-tamed creature that she had mistakenly come to trust; a creature she had fed and tended, sheltered and loved. A creature that had turned on her in rage and violence beyond any expectation or understanding and had left her devastated. She felt completely sundered from the people – her people, for whom she had, by her lights, tried to do so much. She did not want to go out and see what had become of her many charitable institutions. She did not want to take part in the regular ceremonial processions in which she had delighted before. She did not want to set one small foot out into the ravaged streets of her beautiful city.

  Justinian and Narses were baffled. In their view, the insurrection was over, the ringleaders dealt with, calm and order restored. They were looking forward. She could not explain to them that when she walked out into the streets of her city, or rode in state, she sensed at her back and shoulder the massed spectres of the rebels who had bled and died in the Hippodrome, the silently accusing ranks of the fallen: thousands upon thousands of men – husbands and fathers, lovers and brothers and sons, cut down by the swords of the mercenaries who had fallen upon the uprising because of her words, because of her speech rejecting flight. A horde of phantoms marched behind her, their feet striking no echo on the hard roads: a presence voiceless yet overwhelming, hostile and relentless. She found it unendurable.

  Quick, firm footsteps on the flagstones heralded the arrival of Justinian, looking to share his usual frugal lunch with his beloved wife. He put his hands on her shoulders, leaned down and kissed the top of her shining black hair. “Come away, my love,” he said, “It’s much too cold out here.”

  They both ate sparingly, and drank only a small amount of wine. His round peasant face was flushed and he was filled with energy. “Only forty-five days since it was burned down, and the rebuilding of the Church of the Holy Wisdom has already begun,” he told her. “Most of the rubble in the city has been cleared away. We are returning to normal.” He spooned up vegetable soup.

  He had not, she saw, been shattered by the recent insurrection as she had been. Already his mind was focused on the future, a future he was certain of being able to direct and control. She cleared her throat and forced her voice to achieve a level tone.

  “Who has done the design?” she asked.

  “I am fortunate,” said Justinian, “in having two men of genius to work on this project. Anthemius – he’s difficult, but brilliant – and Isidorus, who’s practical besides being extraordinarily inventive.”

  She frowned. “Are they not university men? My sister used to have them to dinner.”

  “Yes, they are. They both know mathematics, and physics, and engineering. But I’ve hired them as architects. They’re not afraid to try new things. This will be a building such as the world has never seen.” He took a bite of fresh bread with his strong white teeth. “In a way, the destruction has served a good purpose. Constantinople can now be magnificently rebuilt.”

  She nodded, saying nothing. His enthusiasm had not kindled hers as it usually did. He put a large hand over her small one. “You are very quiet, my love.”

  “I am still … somewhat … staggered by what happened,” she said. “It was so dreadful. I can’t believe that the people … that they … have come to hate us so much. We meant to do so much good, for the city, for the Empire …”

  “Mistakes were made,” he said. “And mobs have no judgement. They become animals, truly. The slaughter in the Hippodrome was drastic, but it was necessary, to restore order and retain the throne.”

  “They were all traitors, weren’t they? Cheering the usurper! I fail to see how they could have dreamed of accepting Hypatius,” she said. “A complete nonentity, and a coward to boot.”

  “Well, he’s gone for ever, and so is Pompeius. Nothing more to fear from them. And now that we have stabilised society, we can continue to reign with assurance.”

  “Yes. But I feel that there is a wound in the civitas.” She used the Latin term from St Augustine, rather than the Greek they usually spoke, like most of the population. “We have been sundered from our people. It is not good.”

  “We will carry out our great projects. Then they will understand that we have their interests at heart.”

  “Justinian. We have always striven for the greater good. That’s true, isn’t it? What did we do to deserve such … such …”

  “You must look forward, my love. There is no use in looking back. There is much work to be done. It will heal,” he said, “in time.”

  Theodora confided in Narses, as she so often did. “The Emperor tells me we must look forward, and of course he is right. But I … I don’t know. I just feel … I need … Oh, I wish my mother was still alive! I need to talk to her.” Despite her effort to remain calm and controlled, two tears slipped down her cheeks.

  Narses looked anguished, as always when she was miserable.

  “One has heard,” he offered, “of an exceptional sibyl. It is reported that she has remarkable insights. Perhaps, Despoina, it might help to talk to her.”

  “A fortune-teller, do you mean? The Empress of Byzantium can hardly consult a common gypsy!”

  “More of a clairvoyant, and not a gypsy. One is told that she is of aristocratic descent. She is reported to have given many clients valuable advice.”

  “She’ll recognise me at once, and then she’ll simply tell me whatever she thinks I wish to hear. And demand a fortune for doing so.”

  “She will not recognise you, Despoina.”

  “Even in a veil …”

  “Despoina,” said Narses, “she is blind.”

  “Oh. Well, then … But she can’t be brought to the palace. And I can’t be seen to go to her … rooms. Everyone will …” />
  “I can arrange a neutral venue, and you can be discreetly transported to it,” said Narses.

  “Well … perhaps … What will you tell her? About me?”

  “Merely that you are a lady of standing in society, who has a desire to consult her about the best route to the future.”

  Theodora sighed deeply. “Very well, then. Arrange it. I’ll go.”

  “Despoina,” said Narses, “do not allow your ladies to apply your attar of roses. Nor any unguent containing myrrh. It will betray you as a very rich person. One would not want to provide clues.”

  Theodora walked alone through an archway into a small room that was shuttered against the daylight and peering eyes. An oil lamp made a dusty gold patch in the resultant gloom. The sibyl was seated at a round table, her hands folded on the linen cloth that covered it. She lifted her head with its braided crown of white hair and tilted it alertly.

  “Ah,” she said. “Good day.”

  Such hearing she must have, thought Theodora. I have stepped very softly on thick carpet. Surely she could hear a canary breathe. There was the scent of incense in the air, and burning oil from the slightly smoky lamp.

  “Good day,” said Theodora. “I give you no name. Call me Kyria. What should I call you?”

  “I am Alicia, Kyria. You should please be seated, and give me your hands. That is how I work.”

  “So I have been told,” said Theodora, doing as she was instructed, with some trepidation.

  The woman’s touch was cool. The milky pearls that were her eyes seemed to be directed over Theodora’s shoulder, perceiving images invisible to ordinary sight. She turned Theodora’s hands palms up and moved her fingers across them, then gave a slight shiver.

  “Kyria, your life has been an extraordinary journey. A journey of extremes. You have experienced the heights and depths of fortune. Much travail and pain, and also great joy.”

  Theodora made an indeterminate sound, having decided not to offer responses that might provide clues to her real identity.

  Then the woman said: “Three. A number of supreme importance in your life. For instance … You are one of three.”

  “Sisters,” said Theodora inadvertently.

  “Ah. Yes. One of three. Also … You have been … previously … possessed by three.”

  Three men, thought Theodora, but she did not assent. Before Justinian. Yes, three. The champion charioteer who had taken her virginity had never possessed her. But after that she had indeed been a courtesan, kept by three men in turn. “Ummm,” she murmured.

  “Then there are three others who have recently been important in your life. In the position of … servants, perhaps? No, officials, I think.”

  Eudaemon, Tribonian and Cappadocian John, thought Theodora. All sacked at the demand of the rioting mob. “What of them?” she asked.

  “One of them is treacherous. Powerful and treacherous. If you do not rid yourself of him soon, it will come to a showdown between the two of you.”

  Cappadocian John, thought Theodora immediately. He’s the one. “And who will triumph?” she asked.

  “The one with the stronger will.”

  Oh, typical, thought Theodora. She’s just like the old gypsies who used to hang around the Hippodrome. She expresses her statements in such a way that she must be right, whatever happens.

  “He will do battle by devious and underhand means. You should be prepared.”

  “I hear,” said Theodora. “I’ll keep a close watch.”

  There was a pause.

  Then the woman said: “Why did you come to see me, Kyria? Everyone has a particular question in mind.”

  “What about … children? What do you see?”

  She stroked the palms of Theodora’s upturned hands. “Again, three … vaguely. But only one is clear.”

  “Shall I have a son?” demanded Theodora, voicing her deepest desire.

  The sibyl frowned. She took Theodora’s hands in a firm clasp. “Kyria is strong, with vibrant life,” she said. “I feel it … it is not too late. It is possible … possible … but it is not clear.”

  “Oh, anyone could say it is possible,” said Theodora furiously. “You’re just being vague and evasive. Tell me something that is not general knowledge, something you could not just guess.”

  The woman continued: “Recently there has been great drama, and much blood. Yes, of course the entire city lived through this, I know it and you know it. But, Kyria, it has distressed you particularly. At the present time, you feel lost. Lost and … devastated. That is why, really, you have come to me.”

  Theodora struggled against tears. She said nothing, biting back a flood of words she was tempted to spill to a sympathetic ear. She swallowed. “Yes,” she whispered. “I didn’t realise … I didn’t mean …” Her words during the insurrection, aimed at strengthening the resolve of Justinian, counselling against flight, had not been intended to be transformed into swords that cut down thirty thousand men. Yet that had happened. And now she could not sleep. “What can I do?”

  “If there has been sin, let the heart repent. A broken and contrite heart, the Lord will not despise.”

  “I didn’t … intend …” But what did you expect? asked her accusing conscience. You convinced the Emperor to take a stand, to put down the rebellion. How did you imagine he was going to do that? Without bloodshed? “It was so … extreme,” she said, shivering at the dreadful image of the Hippodrome painted red with blood. She had not seen it, but the word had spread throughout the cowed and shattered city.

  “Whatever your transgressions, Kyria, the greatness of His compassion will blot them out.”

  “Can it be so great?” whispered Theodora.

  “The greatness of His compassion knows no bounds. Only repent, and live to serve the Christ.”

  Wise words, thought Theodora, even if one did not need to be a clairvoyant to speak them. Comforting words. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much. You have …”

  “Wait!” The sibyl tightened her hold on Theodora’s hands. Her blind eyes seemed to be fixed on some fearful sight. Despite her age and apparent frailty she had strong fingers. One could take her for a blacksmith, thought Theodora, with so hard a grip.

  “What is it?”

  “Darkness,” she said.

  “Darkness?”

  “A terrible wave of darkness will come upon the world,” she said, with an expression of total horror. “It will sweep across entire countries from shore to shore. It will bring death and destruction … there will be lamentations and tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth. People will fall like grain before the sickle of the Grim Reaper … thousands … upon thousands …”

  “Will it reach Constantinople? Will I die?”

  “Yes … yes, it will reach the very heart of the Empire. Alas and alack! The city will be walled about by the bodies of the dead!”

  Surely not, thought Theodora. She’s dishing up drama to impress me. “Will I die?” she asked again.

  “No, no … not in the black flood. You will survive it, Kyria, because you will be supported and carried through by one who loves you very much. One who adores you.”

  “Well, that’s a comfort, at least,” said Theodora.

  The sibyl shivered violently, then seemed to come to herself. She expelled a long sigh, letting go of Theodora’s hands. Her grip had been painful, and Theodora rubbed her hands and wrists.

  “Well, then,” said Theodora, thinking that the woman would doubtless expect extra gold for that last performance. “What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing, Kyria. It has been arranged.”

  On the way home in a modest sedan chair behind closed curtains, Theodora pondered the woman’s words. Where she had been specific, she had been right. One might almost suspect, thought Theodora, that she had been primed. She wouldn’t put it past Narses to have done exactly that. What the woman had said had been both comforting and frightening, if one took the final vision seriously. But no, thought Theodora, recallin
g the old crones she had seen as a child in the streets near the Hippodrome, who had chewed on soap and screeched spurious prophecies of disaster while foaming at the mouth, thus earning donations from passing men temporarily frightened into repentance. No, she did not believe any of that.

  At the palace, Narses enquired solicitously: “Was the interview of any help, Despoina?”

  “She told me very little that was specific,” said Theodora. “Warned me against the treachery of an official … one of three, she said.”

  “Cappadocian John,” said Narses immediately. “The man will bear watching, certainly. And?”

  “At first she was comforting. Made me feel a great deal better. But then she seemed to have some kind of vision. A wave of darkness, she said, that will sweep across countries, from shore to shore.”

  “Darkness? What did she mean?”

  “She was not explicit. These women seldom are. Stormy weather, perhaps,” said Theodora, reluctant to repeat the dire predictions of death.

  “Did she say how it would affect you personally, Despoina?”

  “She said I wouldn’t die, I would be carried through by one who adores me. If it happens, naturally, that will be Justinian.”

  Narses was silent.

  “Obvious, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the interpretation that springs to mind,” said Narses. He cleared his throat. “So, she does not seem to have brought much cheer.”

  “She was rather given to doom and gloom. And yet I do feel better, having spoken to her. She said it is possible that I may yet have a son. And she has shown me the way forward. I must find more ways to serve Christ.”

  “Not dwell on what is over,” agreed Narses. “Take positive action.”

  “Yes, I have been pondering how we can reach out to our people … We must do something public. Not chariot races, not just yet. The Hippodrome is still closed down. But …”

  A thoughtful frown creased his simian face. “A procession through the streets, perhaps, stopping at some churches that have remained undamaged,” he suggested. “A litany of penitence.”