A Triple-headed Serpent: A Story of Theodora, Empress of Byzantium Page 9

  “The architectural elements will have symbolic value,” said Justinian, radiating excitement. “The dome represents the sky, God and the church. It is supposed to look as if it is suspended on a golden chain from heaven.”

  “But it will be huge, and heavy. So how …”

  “We shall create an illusion of weightlessness. Achieved by controlling the light. Now here, you see, the square nave below with its four solid piers represents the earth, with its four directions.”

  “Yes, but, Justinian, this dome looks truly enormous, and there won’t really be a chain. Will the support be strong enough? Will a dome that size not simply be too heavy?” She shuddered at the vision of a grand collapse. That would have, she thought, a symbolic impact that could cause the crown grave harm.

  “No, no. You see there will be side aisles with galleries over them flanking the nave to the north and south,” said Justinian, his pointing finger stained with ink from producing constant screeds.

  “Yes, so?”

  “There will be massive vaults over the side aisles, carried at both levels by monolithic marble columns. They will serve as buttresses to receive the thrust of the great dome and its supporting arches.” His hands demonstrated.

  “Helping to bear the load,” she said, nodding.

  “Now here, you see, the arches at the east and west are to be extended and buttressed by very large half domes, while the half domes in turn will be carried on smaller semi-domed extrusions. The load will be spread.”

  “But Justinian, how on earth will the builders be able to translate these drawings – they look so complicated – into actual structures of the correct dimensions and proportions?”

  “Pegs and string, mostly,” said Justinian, grinning.

  “What? How?”

  “The structure is based on geometric shapes. Points and lines. You drive the pegs in at specific points indicated on the plans, and you create the lines with string.”

  “Ingenious,” said Theodora, still deeply anxious about the prospect of a spectacular disaster.

  It was a shock when Anthemius died during the first year of building, but the plans were very detailed and Isidorus was confident that he would succeed in overseeing their completion. Justinian went often to the site to confer with the master mathematician, but he particularly loved to watch the artisans at work. His dream was being constructed, brick by brick; later it would be sheathed on the inside with polychrome marbles and gold mosaic. Justinian was set on building a church that would be the wonder of the world.

  Occasionally Theodora would go to the site with him, but she would wait in the carriage while he negotiated the piles of building materials: royal purple porphyry from Egypt, green marble from Thessaly, black stone from the Bosphorus region, and yellow stone from Syria. Looking at the Emperor and his engineer poring over plans at the foot of one of the massive piers, the two of them appearing tiny beside the huge structure they were creating together, Theodora thought how typical it was of this man she had married: that he should envisage something so vast and so extraordinary, entailing so much risk.

  And how typical it also was that he was capable of inspiring so many men to labour unceasingly to achieve his dream. He had divided the builders into two groups of five thousand who competed against each other, working on opposite sides of the huge edifice. They were organised into teams under master builders with particular tasks. There were bonuses for the first to reach specific targets. But most of all they strove for the unfeigned delight of the Thrice August and his bone-crushing handshake when he came to cheer their progress, thanking each team leader, not minding that they were rank with sweat and grey with dust.

  But while Justinian was building the greatest church in Christendom, the worshippers of Christ were still locked in strife. On the one hand the Chalcedonians insisted on the dual nature of Christ, while on the other the Monophysites held to their conviction that the godhead in nature was one. The efforts Justinian had put into achieving a reconciliation had not borne fruit.

  Persecution of the Monophysites was once again widespread. The adherents of this creed were imprisoned, tortured and burned. The renewed inquisition distressed Theodora immensely.

  “I thought we had come to an understanding,” she said to Narses. “I can’t bear the thought of such violence being let loose on people who in fact believe as I do.”

  “Politically, the Emperor has a dilemma,” explained Narses. “He must try to be in concord with the Holy See. If he has the support of the Pope and the government of the Orthodox Catholic Church, it will be so much easier to evict the Goths from Rome.”

  “Belisarius is not anywhere near Rome,” said Theodora.

  “Not yet. First, we must have a foothold in Sicily and Dalmatia. But Rome must be retaken, if the ancient Empire is to be reborn. And when the time comes, we will need to have a strong bond with the Pope. So you understand, Despoina, the Emperor must be seen to be staunchly Orthodox.”

  To the palace came one Z’ura, a holy man who had spent years atop a pillar near Amida. He was forced down by Chalcedonian zealots. At once he set off for Constantinople, accompanied by ten trusted disciples, in order to protest the state of religious affairs. As a much revered living saint, he had the right of parrhêsia: he could speak truth to power and he would not be punished for it.

  The wizened stylite strode into the richly decorated Triclinium of the Nineteen Couches. An exceptionally small man, he was as bony and bodiless as a week-old chick denuded of its down. Yet he was completely untroubled by the curious stares of the crowd of onlookers or the regal appearance of the Emperor and Empress on their elevated throne chairs. He took up a belligerent stance in front of the dais, not even bowing, much less prostrating himself, skinny arms folded across his scrawny chest, and glowered at the royal couple.

  “Justinian,” he said, his voice harsh as if his throat was full of sand. A subdued mutter greeted this insolence. “You are persecuting true believers. God is not pleased.”

  “I am responsible for my subjects,” said Justinian, “and that includes their immortal souls. I cannot allow them to hold heretical beliefs.”

  “And who are you to decide what is heretical? Christ incarnate had one nature and it was divine. It is the Chalcedonian creed that is heretical. It is false!”

  “The Council of Chalcedon was not false,” objected Justinian. “It stated the accepted belief of the Holy See in Rome, upheld by the Pope!”

  “The Council of Chalcedon contradicted the Council of Ephesus, and it violated the first ecumenical council convened by Constantine the Great himself,” insisted the saint. “If all the clergy are to be Chalcedonians, as they are in your empire right now, you will force Monophysites to refuse the sacraments, thus risking eternal damnation. I tell you: God is not pleased!”

  Hardly, thought Theodora, the kind of statement that should be thrown in the face of the Thrice-August Emperor, God’s Vice-regent here on earth. She tensed, fearing an explosion.

  “Who are you to say what pleases God?” demanded Justinian.

  “God speaks to me! I tell you, Chalcedon is anathema! Not only to me and my followers, but to God and to the saints and to the very angels in heaven!”

  Furiously, Justinian came to his feet. He roared: “Those opposing the Chalcedonian creed will feel the full might of our wrath! They will be punished! They will be put to death!”

  “Already you have spilled the blood of the faithful,” ranted Z’ura. “You will pay for it!” He pointed a bony, accusing finger at the Emperor. “Hear me, Justinian, Emperor of Byzantium, you will pay for it when the Day of Judgement dawns!”

  “If you are correct,” said Justinian, clenching a furious fist, “if you are correct and we are wrong, let God show us a sign to prove it! A sign!”

  “True believers require no sign,” responded Z’ura. “Yet hear me: God will send a portent that you, Justinian, will not fail to recognise!”

  “I will speak to you no more!” growled the
Emperor, stomping down from his dais and thrusting aside aghast bystanders as he left the hall. Theodora rose too and followed her irate husband, hurrying to catch up with him. He stalked all the way back to his sacred cubicle and sat down heavily on an ornate chair.

  “Calm down, my love,” said Theodora. “Let me send for a herbal draught. You should not …”

  “Don’t tell me what I should or should not do!” roared Justinian, beside himself. “I am the Emperor! I am Thrice August! Nobody can give me orders, woman!” He was bright red with fury. His chest heaved. He clutched the arms of his chair and breathed loudly through his nose with distended nostrils.

  Theodora stood helpless. “Leave us,” she said, to hovering servants. “The Emperor needs some peace and quiet. Out.”

  Justinian fumed, grinding his teeth. “If he hadn’t had the right of parrhêsia, I would have … I would have …”

  “You can’t act against him,” warned Theodora. “He may speak whatever he wants.”

  Justinian lowered his head and stared angrily at his splayed feet in their scarlet boots. He was silent for some counts. Then he said: “I will … I will take some rest.” For the tireless ruler who seldom slept much, even at night, this was unheard of.

  “Yes, my love,” said Theodora. “Lie down. I’ll sit here with you. Just … just rest a while.”

  He kicked off his boots and threw himself down on the scarlet brocade cover.

  For a while there was no sound except his angry breathing. Theodora sat tensely in her chair, saying nothing. Then he suddenly sat up straight, hands to his face. “What is this?” His voice sounded strangled. “Theodora? What is this?”

  “Justinian?” She got up to look at him closely. “Oh, dear Lord!” She put out her hands to touch his face.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know! It’s … it’s … red welts. You’re covered in red welts!”

  “My arms, too,” he said in a shaking voice. He lifted his arms to her, and indeed they were covered in angry red wheals, especially on the soft inner skin, in the fold of the elbow. “It itches,” he said. “It burns.”

  “Your poor face,” said Theodora, “your eyes are swollen! It is the sign, Justinian! God has sent a sign!”

  “Go and fetch the saint,” said Justinian. “I can’t … can’t … breathe …” He fell back onto the bed, chest heaving.

  Theodora rushed out and soon returned, drawing Z’ura into the room behind her by the hand. He stood next to the royal bed, staring intently at the distressed Emperor.

  “God does not sleep,” he said. “God is not pleased.”

  “What must I do?” panted Justinian, desperately.

  “Make your peace with God,” said Z’ura.

  “I’m sorry,” whimpered Justinian. “God forgive me.”

  “You must stop the persecution,” said Z’ura sternly.

  “I will give orders.” Justinian fought for breath.

  “We will try,” said Theodora, “to achieve a reconciliation in the church. We will strive for unity. We will call the holy fathers holding different beliefs to confer once more. They will help us achieve unity.”

  ”A noble aim,” allowed the saint. “Well, then. Let us pray.”

  Theodora knelt.

  The saint intoned loudly in his grating voice: “Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered … I acknowledged my sin unto thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid. I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin. Selah.”

  “Lord have mercy,” said Theodora.

  “Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance. Selah.”

  “Lord have mercy,” said Theodora.

  “I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go … Be ye not as the horse, or as the mule, which have no understanding: whose mouth must be held in with bit and bridle, lest they come near unto thee.”

  “Lord have mercy,” said Theodora.

  “Many sorrows shall be to the wicked: but he that trusteth in the Lord, mercy shall compass him about. Be glad in the Lord, and rejoice, ye righteous: and shout for joy, all ye that are upright in heart.”

  “Amen,” said Theodora and Justinian.

  “Heal thy servant, Lord. Let thy angels calm his unquiet soul.”

  “Amen,” said Theodora and Justinian.

  “Let him rest now,” said Z’ura. “He will be healed.”

  Soon the horrid affliction had indeed disappeared. Theodora rewarded Z’ura well, endowing a monastery in the suburb of Sykae where he could preach and counsel disciples. It became the nucleus of a Monophysite refugee community.

  “I too must make an endowment, to give thanks for deliverance,” said Justinian. “I truly thought my last hour had come. It is terrifying, not to be able to breathe. So, I think I should do something for the sick.”

  “A new hospital?”

  “Yes. And I have the perfect place for it. The little villa where you lived, when we met, has come onto the market. It is centrally situated. And the grounds are extensive. We’ll build a big, modern hospital there, named for Saint Panteleimon. I’ve planned it all.”

  “Oh, yes, my love! And we’ll find the very best staff for it!”

  “There’s a physician, name of Aetios, newly arrived from Alexandria, who comes very well recommended. I’ll appoint him as head.”

  Theodora was now convinced that the Lord had indeed given a sign, not only that Z’ura should be allowed to speak his mind, but also that the religious controversy should be resolved. She advised her husband: “Send for Father Severus. We need him to help us find the way forward. When I studied with him in Alexandria, he kept insisting that we try to find a way to reconcile the warring elements in the Church.”

  So persuasive was Justinian’s letter that Father Severus, deposed Monophysite Patriarch of Antioch, undertook a perilous journey from his exile in Alexandria to come to Constantinople in the middle of winter. Just after he had left, word came that the Patriarch of Alexandria, Father Timothy, had died. Theodora was distraught.

  “He was so good to me,” she wept. “So kind. I’ll always remember the day when he confirmed me. He never judged me. He knew … he knew … I … had been a … kept woman, but he … he said … he thought I had suffered. And then he blessed me … and his hands were so …”

  “Don’t upset yourself, dearest,” said Justinian, rendered helpless by his wife’s grief. He patted her shoulder awkwardly.

  “… so gentle,” wept Theodora, recalling the grace of the holy father’s touch tracing a cross on her forehead, sweet balm after the vicious abuse from Hecebolus.

  When Father Severus came ashore, a smaller man than she remembered, hunched in his thick woollen cloak and red-nosed with a streaming cold, she rushed into his somewhat startled embrace.

  “There, there, child,” he said. “Mother Sophia sends her warm regards.”

  “Sister Margaret?” asked Theodora. She thought that the little nun who had befriended her when she took refuge with the nuns in Alexandria had probably died long since.

  “Quite well, quite well,” he told her. “Her memory has left her, except for the names of her plants. She remembers those. I am sure she would have sent her love also, had she still been compos mentis. Ah well, we all grow old.”

  The truth of this observation was soon emphasised when the Patriarch of Constantinople also suddenly passed away. He had been of the Chalcedonian persuasion, but never fanatically so, and Theodora mourned him too, since he was the clergyman who had crowned her and Justinian in the Sacred Palace and subsequently consecrated them in the Church of the Holy Wisdom.

  Father Severus was installed in a suite of rooms in the Sacred Palace, and Theodora spent hours conferring with him about the necessity for greater unity in the Church. She reported the frightening episode with Z’ura.

  “Justinian has withdrawn from the contro
versy, to some degree,” she said. “We have an opportunity now, Holy Father, to strengthen the official Monophysite presence in this city. The achievement of conciliation should not simply mean that the Chalcedonians sweep all before them.”

  “Agreed, agreed,” said Severus. “Should be a proper conciliation, not a repression of one set of beliefs. Who will be appointed Patriarch of Constantinople now? Epiphanius was never an unbending Dyophysite. Not easy to replace.”

  “Father Anthimus would be appropriate, I believe,” said Theodora.

  “The Bishop of Trapezus? But he supports Chalcedon!”

  “I have reason to believe that Father Anthimus is secretly a Monophysite,” said Theodora.

  Severus looked astounded. “How certain can we be of that?”

  “I have been corresponding with the bishop,” said Theodora. “I have a letter.” She produced it. “Read it, Father.”

  Severus took the missive in his gnarled hand and held it as far from his eyes as possible, peering at the looped writing. “I confess the following belief,” he read aloud, “that Christ is perfect God and perfect man, at once consubstantial with the Father and with us; the Divinity and the humanity continuing in Him without mixture or separation, confusion or change. My dear, this is wonderful, wonderful!”

  “Indeed it is,” said Theodora, glowing. “And see, below – exactly what you used to say when I was your student.”

  He read further: “I believe in Christ the Redeemer as ‘The one Incarnate Nature of God the Word’, according to the formulation of Saint Cyril of Alexandria.” He looked at Theodora with delight. “This is the man who should be Patriarch!”

  “Then we are agreed,” said Theodora.

  Father Anthimus was duly installed as the new Patriarch of the See of Constantinople, second only to the Holy See in Rome itself.

  “And,” rejoiced Theodora, “we have a new patriarch in Alexandria who is also a staunch Monophysite! Truly, Father Severus, God has blessed our cause!”

  “The good Father Theodosius will do well there,” said Severus. “He is a man of peace. A man almost saintly enough to follow in the footsteps of our beloved Timothy.”