A Triple-headed Serpent: A Story of Theodora, Empress of Byzantium Page 21

  Theodora thought, we are indeed horribly, horribly afraid. How may we escape the wrath of God? Where are we to turn? What are we to do?”

  Menas continued: “The great prophet Jeremiah asks the question that is in all our hearts: Will he reserve his anger for ever? Will he keep it to the end?”

  “Lord have mercy,” whispered Theodora.

  “The Lord God is wrathful,” declaimed Menas. “We have transgressed his laws. Behold, says the prophet, thou hast spoken and done evil things as thou couldest. “

  We are none of us guiltless, thought Theodora, least of all myself.

  “Yet we may still hope for deliverance. Thus saith the Lord, Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls. Turn ye again now every one from his evil way, and from the evil of your doings, and dwell in the land that the Lord hath given unto you and to your fathers for ever and ever.”

  “Amen,” said Theodora.

  She knelt several times daily, to plead with the Holy Mother for protection. “Holy Mother, I have sinned,” she confessed. “Men have died because of me. Many, many men. I have caused women to be widows, children to be fatherless. Holy Mother, I am scarlet, I am drenched in blood. Please, Mother of God, intercede for me with the Father and the Son, who has promised redemption, given penitence. I will do more for the poor, I will do good works. I will do His will. Hail, Mary, full of grace …”

  Yet she did not feel redeemed. Fear had such a cruel grip on her heart, she felt, that it had slowed down, so that she had become lethargic and incapable of doing any work.

  The plague continued its relentless spread. It had reached Cappadocia. It was in Cilicia. In Galatia; Phrygia; Paphlagonia. It had attacked Bithynia. In the spring, with the grateful sun and the new leaves, came the first cases of the dreaded sickness on the Asiatic coast of the Bosphorus.

  “Perhaps it will stay there,” said Theodora, with desperate hopefulness. “Please God, may there be a miracle.”

  Narses said, “It is as if we were being besieged by a numberless host of Barbarians, invisible and irresistible, overcoming every possible stronghold, running wild across the countryside, decimating everything.”

  “A horde without a leader,” said Theodora. “No parley, no armistice … one can’t even surrender, and hope to exchange imprisonment or slavery for sudden death.”

  “And this enemy is absolutely silent. No war cries, no trumpets, no drums. No warning whatsoever.”

  “That scares me most of all,” said Theodora. “Narses … this is the black flood.”

  “The what?”

  “The black flood. The darkness, predicted by the sibyl.”

  “Oh, my God. What did she … what did she tell you about it?”

  “It will sweep across countries, from shore to shore.”

  “But you will survive? Despoina, she did say …”

  “Yes,” said Theodora. She would repeat nothing else.

  It began at the docks where the great trading ships sailed into harbour bearing life-sustaining grain, some sick sailors, and rats. The first to die in Constantinople were two sailors and one long-shoreman, just after a ship arrived from Ephesus. The sailors, it was reported, both just seemed to fall into a deep sleep from which they never awoke, but the longshoreman, a huge, powerful fellow, suffered great pain and tore around the streets in screaming delirium before he finally fell down, covered with buboes the size of melons, mortified and black. Their bodies were swiftly carted to the cemeteries outside the city walls; in a Christian country, no bodies would be cremated.

  For one long week, it did not appear as if there were more deaths than usual at any given time in Constantinople.

  “We may yet have a miracle,” said Theodora, “it may just pass us by.”

  But then the silent enemy began to slay hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of its helpless victims. In Constantinople, built like Rome across seven hills, the foot of each hill, where the population was the poorest and most densely packed, was swiftly surrounded by the dead and dying. But soon the plague crept up the flanks and eventually infiltrated even the spacious villas of those accustomed to luxury and preferential treatment. It could not be bought off.

  The rich who had estates in the country hurried out of town, hoping that they would be safer there. Others less affluent who had relatives or friends in outlying places loaded up their goods and chattels and left as well. Some departed the stricken city to take their chances in tents or makeshift shelters hastily erected near streams. There were those who cowered in caves.

  “Zeno, you must take Juliana and Anastasius to Hieron immediately,” said Theodora. “It seems that the more people there are crowded together, the faster the infection runs.”

  “But I have work to do,” objected Zeno. “I can’t just …”

  “Your most important work is to keep my daughter and my grandson from harm,” said Theodora. “The child will most probably succeed to the throne of Byzantium. Take them to Hieron. That is an Imperial order.”

  “I hear, and I obey,” said Zeno.

  Justinian was white with worry and no sleep.

  “Shouldn’t we also depart to Hieron?” asked Theodora. “It’s May. It’s getting hotter by the day.”

  “I will not leave my city,” said Justinian.

  “And I will not leave you.”

  Now people no longer came to church, but rather avoided any place where there might be a crowd.

  “But paganism is making a comeback,” said Narses. “Suddenly there are many worshippers of Mithra who believe that the old gods may have more power than the Christ. And as for Christians, there are any number of salesmen offering splinters of the True Cross to ward off the pestilence. Enough wood to build a forest of True Crosses, one would think. Truly the line between faith and superstition is very thin.”

  Furious prophets stalked the streets, made wild by visions and portents of Armageddon. Scoffers laughed and drank in taverns and died just like the newly converted who had suddenly and publicly repented of their sins.

  It became more and more difficult to bring in food supplies. The business of administration slowed down, struggled on for a while, then ground to a halt. Labourers and artisans laid down their tools. Military action also slowed down. Khosrau had gone home, where he too faced an enemy that could devastate his army without the use of swords or archers, infantry or cavalry or battering rams.

  One morning when Theodora entered Justinian’s rooms, she found him distraught.

  “We have lost Tribonian,” said Justinian desolately. He leaned forward with his elbows on his desk and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Tribonian,” he repeated. “He’s gone.”

  “Oh, my love!”

  “The best legal brain that either the ancient Roman or the Byzantine Empire ever brought forth,” said Justinian. “Gone, in an instant.”

  “Such a loss,” said Theodora. “Such a dreadful loss.” She stood behind him, rubbing his tense shoulders hard. “I know how much you valued him.”

  “It is a catastrophe. And we are helpless.”

  The hospitals in the city, of which Justinian had been so proud, were speedily filled far beyond their capacity. Like life rafts on a stormy ocean weighed down and sinking under the weight of too much suffering humanity, they could not serve their purpose. Physicians, nurses, orderlies strove mightily but themselves fell prey to the grim reaper whose sickle sliced through the population, causing bodies to fall in masses like harvested wheat.

  For the first time since the Nika riots, the Greens and the Blues once again set aside their differences and worked together. Side by side, they helped to remove corpses and dig trenches for the dead, regardless of which faction the dead had supported.

  “Marcus Anicius has died of it,” sobbed Theodora. “He was only sixty, not so old. Not so old at all.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, my dearest,” said Justinian.

  �
�And I haven’t spoken to him for so long … I should have, I meant to … he taught me so much …” Distraught, she clutched at her husband. “And the worst of it is … it’s so terrible, Justinian, so terrible …”

  Justinian held his wife tightly. She was crying hard, in painful, wracking gasps. “There now,” he said, helplessly. “There now.”

  She took a deep breath. “He’s been dead for days. But nobody knew. They only found him now because of the stench …”

  “One of the Anicii? Left to die alone and rot? What are you telling me?”

  “He was living in his rooms in the city, you know, that Comito shared when she was his …”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And he didn’t have many servants there, some slaves and a major-domo, and they’d all fallen sick or maybe they just ran away … but they left him … alone …”

  “Dear Lord,” said Justinian. He took her hand to lead her over to a couch, and as he walked, he staggered slightly.

  “Justinian!” she screamed, grabbing his arms. “Guards!”

  “My dear, don’t fuss … I’m … fine …” He wiped across his face with a shaking hand.

  “No, you are not. You two: take the Emperor to the Sacred Cubicle immediately. If he falls, carry him. And you … Go and call the Chief Physician. At once!”

  “Yes, Despoina.”

  Still feebly protesting, Justinian was escorted to his rooms.

  Theodora had given strict orders that any person who had been near a plague victim was not to report for work or even come near the palace. As a result, the usual dense crowd of guards, officials, supplicants, servants, ushers and hangers-on had thinned dramatically over the two weeks that the plague had reigned. Yet still there were some guards and servants, and the Chief Physician came at once. His eyes were redrimmed from lack of sleep.

  “Is he … is it … will he …”

  “Despoina, the Emperor seems to have the lethargy and fever that precedes the actual infection. We don’t know how it will affect him.”

  “It couldn’t … just pass him over?”

  “The plague is no respecter of persons, I fear. His glands are already swollen, and tender to the touch. See, here, behind his ear … and here …” His strong fingers pressed gently on the areas he indicated and the patient winced. “Tomorrow, buboes will form.”

  “Is there no medication …”

  “Despoina, we can give him extract of willow bark, and poppy juice. But they will only ameliorate the symptoms.”

  “Can’t you … is there nothing … nothing at all you can do?”

  “Despoina, alas, there is no cure. Some people survive. The old, the young, the fragile are quick to succumb. But the Thrice August has a strong constitution. It may be that he can defeat this attack. Pray to the Holy Mother, whom the Emperor reveres.”

  Theodora did so, kneeling for hours in front of the small altar in her rooms. Above her bowed head in a niche the Holy Mother held her small, doomed son, and gave no sign of grace.

  For a day, Justinian lay quietly. But as the physician had predicted, buboes began to form, some behind his ears and a particularly large one in his groin. He grew restless, threw himself about in the great bed and groaned with pain.

  Theodora turned, as always, to the Grand Chamberlain. “Narses, if only Saint Samson still lived … he cured the Emperor when he was very ill, before we were married.”

  “I remember, Despoina. It has been said that the venerable saint appears, sometimes, to those in dire need of succour.”

  “Have flowers and candles placed on his tomb.”

  “At once, Despoina. And Patriarch Menas is saying a special Mass.”

  Theodora slept little, in a small adjacent bedroom usually occupied by one of the eunuchs tasked with the care of the royal wardrobe. Early on the third morning, she was greeted by the sight of Justinian sitting bolt upright, huddled against the ornate headboard behind him, clasping his drawn-up knees. The Chief Physician, gaunt and weary, sat beside the bed on a stool; Narses, two excubitors and two eunuchs stood by.

  Justinian glared at his small wife. He raised his arm and pointed at her with a shaking finger. “You,” he said. “I know you. I know you. You, you are the Satan!”

  Theodora stood aghast, dumb and terrified. Narses moved to her side.

  The eunuch silentiaries backed against the wall, attempting to maintain composure.

  The physician got up and came to her hurriedly. “The Despotes is hallucinating,” he whispered. “Do not regard it.”

  “You are the serpent!” roared Justinian. “I see you! You have three heads!” He kicked aside the piles of silken and woollen bedding and slid to the ground.

  “Protect the Empress!” ordered Narses.

  The excubitors moved forward and crossed their swords in front of Theodora. She stood, trembling, as her husband stomped towards her furiously.

  “I see you.” His voice was a hoarse shout. “One head … is power. One head … is evil. One head … is death! See, how they weave and dart … do you see that? Do you see that?” He gestured to the physician, who had taken hold of his arm, and was trying to guide him back to bed. Narses had his other arm.

  “Despotes …”

  “I will kill the serpent!” he bellowed, surging forward.

  Theodora shrieked.

  “I will stamp … on its head … on its three heads …”

  “Despotes …” The physician and Narses each hung on to an arm. But Justinian, sick though he was, had great strength. He lunged at his terrified wife, hands outstretched like claws, dragging the two men along.

  “Guards!” snapped Narses.

  The excubitors stepped up and took hold of the agitated Emperor. He thrashed and kicked and almost escaped their grip.

  “Get him … to bed,” breathed Theodora. His face was red and distorted with anger and hatred. His eyes were starting from his head. She could not look at him. She did not recognise him.

  “Control him!” shouted Narses.

  The one sturdy excubitor pushed his emperor’s head downward while the other whacked him with a hard punch to the back of the neck. He groaned, his eyes rolling whitely, and sagged. They dragged him back onto the bed.

  Theodora shook so hard that her teeth rattled.

  “Despoina, leave the room,” said the Physician. “When he comes to, we will administer poppy juice, in strong doses. I regret this, Despoina. Just remember, he is extremely ill.”

  She staggered out, escorted by Narses, who called for her ladies to see to her.

  The whisper began to pass along the stricken streets as quickly as the infection, leaping from house to house: Justinian is dead! The Emperor is dead! The Thrice August is no more! Who’ll succeed him? There is no successor. He did not say a name. He couldn’t speak. The daemons came to claim him for Hades … he’s always been a daemon himself, they say he used to flit through walls when he walked the corridors at night … The devil has come to fetch his own …

  Interlude

  It was high summer, and hot. Belisarius was still encamped at Europos. A perspiring messenger, covered in dust, stumbled into his tent.

  “General, I bring sad tidings,” the man announced. “From Constantinople.”

  “Do you have a letter for me?”

  “No written word, Sir. No. The Emperor is beyond writing, Sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The pestilence has taken the great Justinian, Sir. He has expired. I have been a courier for the Empire, Sir, and I took it upon myself to bring the news to you at once, for it is of great import.”

  “Yes, yes, it is, of course, I thank you. But – are you sure?”

  “It is certain that the Emperor was taken ill with the pestilence, Sir. The Chief Physician himself made this known, and a Mass was said by the Patriarch. Nonetheless black buboes appeared on the Emperor’s body, he began to see phantoms, and had to be restrained. Then some of the palace slaves came out with the word that the Emperor
was dead.”

  “You have done well to let me know,” said Belisarius. He went to find his wife. She was resting on a camp cot in their tent, which had its flaps up for air in the somnolent heat.

  “Antonina,” he said.

  “What is it?” Merely by his tone, she recognised something grave, and sat up.

  “Justinian is dead.”

  “Oh, God! Of the plague?”

  “Yes. The plague.

  “Theodora will be devastated.”

  “As are we all.” He sat down next to her, heavy with emotion. “The Empire has lost a leader of great vision. As Procopius once wrote of him, the earth could hardly encompass all he dreamt of.”

  “The Empire of Byzantium had two great men,” said Antonina. “Justinian, and you. Now only you are left.”

  “I’m just a soldier,” said Belisarius. “He was a statesman. Thrice August. A man of deep learning and remarkable vision. He held so many things in his mind at once. No wonder he slept so little.”

  “Did he name a successor?”

  “Not that I have heard, no.”

  “So, you do realise that there will be a constitutional crisis now? With no named successor, and no child to follow him,” she said. “Theodora must be in a frightful state.”

  “I can’t imagine who could follow him. All the possibilities I can think of seem such pygmies, in comparison.”

  “The Cappadocian would have liked to take command,” she said. “He’s not a pygmy, but he’s so dreadful. It’s a good thing he’s very far from Constantinople. Come to think of it, probably far enough that he’s likely to elude the plague.”

  “Justinian’s closest blood relation is his cousin Germanus,” said Belisarius, “but Theodora has always hated him.”

  “Could she not reign alone? She has been co-regent, to all intents and purposes.”

  “No. It would not do. The vassal states would rebel against a female ruler. No Goth or Vandal would be content to be governed by her. We must have a new despotes.”