A Triple-headed Serpent: A Story of Theodora, Empress of Byzantium Read online

  Well, he would have to read the letter. He gave a quivering sigh and stretched out the hand on which the ring of St Peter gleamed. He broke the Imperial seal and began to read. What he saw, made him blink.

  Our informants have warned us that the army of Totila is bound for Rome, which they intend to besiege. Unfortunately, at the present time the Imperial army in Italy lacks the numbers to protect the ancient capital. The Roman garrison currently in place will, of course, acquit themselves courageously, but they will not be able to guarantee your safety, Holy Father. We are deeply concerned that you might fall into the hands of the Goths. You would be an extremely important hostage, lending them negotiating power that might significantly weaken our position, should the situation ultimately favour the Goths.

  Therefore, dear Father, we will send a detachment of Imperial Guards to bring you out. We understand that it would be embarrassing for you simply to flee the city. So our plan is this: You should continue with your normal routine. Just as usual. The guards will storm into the city, interrupt whatever you are doing and take you into custody. A fast ship will lie ready on the Tiber to whisk you away via Portus, still in our own hands. It will appear that we have kidnapped you. Thus you will not be subjected to the rigours of a siege, and you will be able to continue with your God-given task.

  It was signed by Theodora, Empress of Byzantium.

  Well, he thought. Well, well. Who would have expected that! It was a reprieve. The prospect of a siege was frightening. He was no longer a young man, not in the best of health, and he wasn’t at all sure that he would survive a famine. The possibility of being taken hostage by the Goths was even more terrifying. The Goth king, Totila, might execute him – or first subject him to torture and then kill him. It was not to be contemplated. Not for a moment. He was grateful to Her Majesty, for thinking of his safety. Most grateful. Of course, it wasn’t purely out of the kindness of her heart, he knew that perfectly well. She would demand reciprocity. Eventually. But that was a problem to be faced in the future. First things first. He had his life to protect.

  For a week or two, his ecclesiastical rounds in Rome went on as usual. Reports of the approach of the Goth besieging force were increasing. People began stockpiling whatever supplies they could find that would not spoil. The commander of the Imperial garrison, one Bessas, skimmed off quantities of corn as it was brought in from Portus, then sold it for increasingly high prices to the rich patricians. The fellow was as crooked as they came, thought Vigilius, but what could he do about it? He was a man of the cloth, not a politician. It was not his responsibility. He continued with his duties, as he had been told. And made sure that he never moved without his money belt from which dangled several bags of gold; the coins were packed in tight cloth rolls so as not to clink and well hidden under his snowy white robes, spotless and stiffly starched by the women who served the Lateran Palace. He crackled with innocence. And he kept his red velvet cloak with its ermine lining and a small satchel ready to hand every day.

  Nearer and nearer marched the horde of Goths, and Vigilius began to despair of ever being rescued. He wondered why General Belisarius had not ridden to the relief of the ancient city. He yearned for word that Imperial troops had sailed up the Tiber from Portus, but at the same time he feared that announcement, for one never knew whether the Imperial couple would keep their word or change their plans completely. The Empress would surely not let him come to harm, he thought, although she might have decided that a more biddable candidate would serve her aims better, in which case his head was going to roll quite literally and a mock kidnapping would provide the perfect opportunity to have him killed.

  One morning he made the customary preparations for a special Mass to pray for the soon to be encircled city, but thoughts born of fear kept intruding on the words and actions of the ritual. As he washed his hands in the ornate silver bowl prior to vesting for the liturgy, he intoned: “Da, Domine, virtutem manibus meis … Give virtue to my hands, O Lord, that being cleansed from all stain I might serve thee with purity of mind and body.” On his shoulder a terrified small devil sat chattering an antiphon in his ear: But save me, Lord, save me, I cannot serve thee if I die.

  Next, he tied on the amice, a piece of linen such as was used to cover the heads of criminals condemned to death. This recalled the humiliation that was put upon Christ. He kissed the cross embroidered on it and his stiff lips said: “Place upon me, O Lord, the helmet of salvation, that I may overcome the assaults of the devil.” But the little chatterer on his shoulder was not impressed, and muttered: Maybe I am indeed condemned to death, this might be very apposite. No, no, let it not happen. Save me, Lord.

  As he slipped his arms into the white alb, the snowy robe of purity, he prayed: “Purify me, O Lord, and cleanse my heart; that, being made white in the Blood of the Lamb, I may come to eternal joy.” And the devil chattered: But not yet, Lord, I don’t wish to come to eternal joy just yet. He tied the cincture of chastity loosely around his waist. Added to the money-belt, it irked his ample middle, but that couldn’t be helped. He would have to bear it.

  Next he draped the maniple over his left arm: the narrow strip of linen that symbolised the acceptance of suffering. “Grant, O Lord,” said his voice, quavering with the fear that also caused his arm to tremble, “that I may so bear the maniple of weeping and sorrow, that I may receive the reward for my labors with rejoicing.” But oh, God, chattered the devil, let me not be tortured by the Goths, oh God oh God not that. I cannot accept that. I have heard that Totila chops off people’s hands, and sometimes skins them alive. Forgive me, Lord, I am but weak and I cannot endure that.

  On went the stole, symbol of immortality, then the long, ornate, sleeveless chasuble, requiring the words: “O Lord, Who said: My yoke is easy and My burden light: grant that I may bear it well and follow after You with thanksgiving. Amen.” Which he found quite impossible to say. My yoke is not easy, shouted the devil. My burden is not light. I cannot bear it. I am not thankful. No! No!

  The Church of St Cecilia in Trastevere was full, crowded not only by the faithful but also by other less dutiful and regular church-goers now turned godfearing by the imminent arrival of the Goths. Since it was November, a pale, winter-bright sun streamed through the windows. The congregation shuffled and sighed and quietened down as incense and the smoke from votive candles mingled in the chilly air and the sonorous Latin liturgy wound on its familiar way; the Pope, who had begun tremulously, gained in confidence and volume as the Mass continued. Shortly before the triumphant conclusion, there was a clattering sound outside, loud voices barking orders, footsteps crunching. The Pope had only a minute to think, oh God, not Goths, let it not be Goths. Then through the heavy arched doors burst a body of Imperial soldiers. They marched up to the altar in their loud irreverent boots. The officer presented the Pope with an impressive-looking document and stood to attention.

  “Orders!” said the officer. “We have orders from the Emperor to escort His Holiness to Constantinople forthwith! At once, Holiness, the ship awaits!”

  “Must obey a royal command, definitely, can’t argue against a royal command,” gabbled the Pope, abandoning the Mass, his church, his flock and his principles, and grabbing his scarlet cloak wrapped around his satchel with alacrity. The soldiers stepped around him in a protective formation, and out they marched. In haste the Vicar of Christ was removed from the city and taken aboard a dromon, sail already bellying out before a cold following wind. The congregation, furiously understanding the enormity of this betrayal, stormed out of the church to watch the ship set off along the Tiber. They hurled rotten vegetables and vituperation at the absconding cleric, who stood at the rail fast diminishing in size, his hands raised, shouting the final blessing into the wind: In nomine Patris et Filii et … Spiritus … sancti …

  Chapter 18: Extraordinary news

  The Pope did not come directly to Constantinople, which clearly demonstrated that he was not truly under constraint. It appeared that he was allowed
to live where he pleased, and the so-called kidnapping had merely been a charade designed to free him from the rigours of the expected siege. He travelled to Sicily, and there he disembarked, showing no inclination to move on to Constantinople.

  Soon after His Holiness’s precipitous exit from Rome, Totila did lock the city into a siege. Again the Goths set up a number of camps outside the extensive walls. Again no supplies were allowed into the city. But this time there was no Belisarius inside the besieged city to send out troublesome sorties.

  “What is Bessas doing?” demanded Justinian. “If he were to co-operate actively with our garrison at Portus, surely they could bring some ships into Rome along the Tiber?”

  “He won’t allow his men to hazard their lives,” said Narses. “And he has no grasp of strategy, veteran or no veteran.”

  “Belisarius reports that he sent five hundred men by sea to reinforce the defences of Portus, under a younger general, but they were ambushed by the Goths. We lost most of those men.”

  “I said it was a mistake for Belisarius to retire to Ravenna,” said Narses. “He has too far to march from there to Rome, and besides, it’s winter, and conditions on the ground must be difficult.”

  His Holiness, comfortably ensconced in Sicily, had an attack of remorse and dispatched a flotilla of corn ships to feed the starving city.

  The military report said: The Goths were aware of the approaching ships and posted an ambush. The garrison at Portus could see the movements of the enemy from their high walls, and set several soldiers to waving garments as a signal to the sailors to go away and land elsewhere. Sadly, Despotes, the crew of the ships misinterpreted these signals and took them for hails of welcome. So they sailed boldly into harbour and were taken and slain by the Goths.

  There was to be no reprieve for the suffering inhabitants of Rome.

  The news from Africa was no better. Areobindus, sent by Justinian to subjugate the rebellious Vandals, and appointed in full command instead of Sergius, who had proved totally useless, had been assassinated. The palace in Carthage had been seized by the rebel Guntarith, and the Emperor’s niece Praejecta, the widow of Areobindus, placed under house arrest. Within a month, however, General Artabanes had killed Guntarith and sent the greatly relieved Praejecta to Constantinople, to await his arrival. He intended, he announced with much fanfare, to marry her.

  Summer came, and the customary exodus from the Imperial Palace to Hieron was due. Theodora felt somewhat oppressed by the thought of all the arrangements that would have to be made, even though she had an entire staff of eunuchs, ladies-in-waiting, administrative officers and slaves whose task it was to organise the expedition. The mere thought tired her.

  “I’m not sure that I want to go, this year,” she said to Justinian.

  “But, my love, you always go,” he said, surprised. “It gets so hot here in the capital. You never fail to come back refreshed. You need some rest. And you should take my niece, Praejecta. She’s had a dreadful time in Africa.”

  “Won’t you come too, just once?”

  “I do come. Often.”

  “No, my love. Not often. You’ve not been there for three years.”

  “That can’t be right,” he said, astonished. “I do come. You’ve forgotten.”

  She did not correct him. But a heavy sadness seeped through her body. He’s the one who has forgotten, she thought. He has forgotten that for so long now he has failed to follow me to Hieron, as he used to do, even if not so very often. He has forgotten that he couldn’t bear a day to go by when we did not spend time together. He has forgotten … how we were.

  She remembered some words from the Gospels that the priest had read at their wedding, held in the Hormisdas Palace, while Justin still lived and they were not yet Emperor and Empress: “Therefore shall a man … cleave unto his wife, and they shall be one flesh.” Cleave unto his wife, she thought. Be one flesh. We understood those words, when we were married at last, after the opposition of the Empress Euphemia disappeared with her death, after Justin removed the barrier set by the law, after Justinian was so ill that we expected him to die and St Sabas saved his life. We became one flesh. We were … conjoined.

  But ever since he almost died of the plague, she thought, it’s been as if he no longer inhabits his body. He hardly eats, he hardly sleeps. He lives in his head. All his plans and projects, his whole empire, great as it is, complex and incomplete though it may be, he holds it all in his head. Right up to its distant, ever-changing perimeters. What it was, what it now is, what he wants it to be. There is no room left there for me. I have a space in his heart, I think. But not in his head. Not any more. He is not truly aware of me.

  She went to Hieron. With her went Comito and her daughter Sophia, and Antonina’s daughter Joannina who now lived with them. Also Justinian’s nephew Justin and Theodora’s grandson Anastasius. She invited Chrysomallo and Indaro, still living in the Hormisdas Palace in a separate wing from her religious refugees.

  Once she had decided to go, Theodora was determined that it should be a festive holiday. After the several past years marked by austerities following on the suffering of the plague, it should be a summer of plenty, of luxury and pampering.

  There would be feasting on light summer delicacies, fruit and pastries, that she hoped would tempt her failing appetite. They would sail out onto the Bosphorus and sup on fresh fish. There would be the best wine from Falerno. They would have musicians performing every night, and singing, and dancing and games. They would visit the local Roman baths. They would attend Mass in the local church. Her ladies would dress her and make her up meticulously, and she would let the people see her often. She would absorb their cheers. They approved of her, because the town had benefited from the regular royal excursions in additional buildings and much expanded business. In Hieron she felt herself a benefactress. She needed to feel like that. She needed approval. She needed to be restored.

  Praejecta, widowed at nineteen, was dark, voluptuously overripe, and given to dramatic recitals. She regaled the company with descriptions of her sufferings in Africa. “Guntarith meant to marry me,” she said, in doleful tones.

  “An offer of marriage is a hardship to you?” asked Chrysomallo.

  “Your first husband must have been a sore disappointment, then,” commented Indaro in her deep voice.

  “You don’t understand! He was a Vandal, and he would have married me perforce! Oh, God, I was so afraid! He was so absolutely awful! And he kept me locked up! But then Artabanes saved me.”

  “By murdering Guntarith at a banquet, after welcoming him with open arms and assuring him of friendship,” said Comito, her full-fleshed arms folded across her bosom.

  Praejecta looked injured. “Are you suggesting that he acted treacherously?” she demanded. “It was a … a ruse, in a situation of war. Artabanes is a most noble man, I can tell you. His father is a Persarmenian prince.”

  “Artabanes killed my husband,” said Comito. “With a stab in the back. At the time he was fighting against Byzantium. He subsequently defected to our army. Not my idea of nobility, nor that of anybody present here.”

  Praejecta’s fine brown eyes filled with tears. “I only know … that he delivered me from … a dreadful fate,” she said tremulously. “I cannot fault him for that.”

  The soft-hearted Justin patted her hand consolingly.

  Sophia’s straight dark brows met as she scowled.

  “You should not be so harsh, Aunt Comito,” said Anastasius. “War is war.”

  Joannina stood leaning her elbows on a stone wall at the edge of the terrace, staring out across the glittering Bosphorus at the thickly wooded opposite shore. Theodora walked out to join her. Why, she is half a head taller than I am, she thought in surprise. I still think of her as a child, but she clearly isn’t one any more. She too leaned her arms on the stone, warmed by the sun and rough to the touch.

  “My dear child,” she said, “what is the matter?”

  Joannina looked away. �
�Nothing,” she said, but her voice caught in a sob.

  “You can talk to me,” said Theodora. “Has anyone been nasty to you?”

  “No.” But the tone was desolate.

  “Then what is it?”

  Silence. Then: “Praejecta,” said Joannina, spitting out the consonants. “It’s Praejecta.”

  “What has she done?”

  “She’s shameless,” said Joannina. “Shameless! She’s going to be married to General Artabanes, as she never tires of telling everybody. But she flirts with any male that comes into sight. And she’s … she’s making Anastasius fall in love with her.”

  “Turned his head, has she?”

  “He can’t take his eyes off her. But we’re betrothed! Have been for years, but we have to wait for my parents to come back before we can marry, and they don’t come!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “And he loves me, or he did, he really did, before she came!”

  “Kissed and cuddled you, did he?”

  “Yes. But now he doesn’t seem to even see me!”

  Theodora looked down at their arms resting next to each other, hers thin and bony, Joannina’s plump and rounded with the sap rising. “Well,” she said, “you’ll have to get his attention.”

  “How?”

  “Sleep with him,” said Theodora.

  Joannina blinked.

  “Praejecta won’t do that,” said Theodora. “She just flirts and teases. If you do and she doesn’t, you’ll have his undivided attention, believe me.” She coughed.

  “Ah,” said Joannina, thoughtfully.