The Purple Shroud: A Novel of Empress Theodora (11 page)

In the Palace, talks went on late into the night. At their final meeting, both Eudaemon and Tribonian insisted it was not possible to recant now: the condemned men had been tried and sentenced, the law on this was clear. Had there been some sign of intervention, a thunderbolt, a comet perhaps, then maybe they could all agree – as the Green and Blue leaders claimed – that God had intervened; there were times when it was expedient to accommodate the people’s fondness for signs and symbols. Unfortunately there were no signs. The hangman had simply made a mistake in calculating weight, haste had created its usual chaos, and to pretend otherwise would give the faction leaders the upper hand. Public feeling was already running too high, the Palace had to take control, and quickly. The majority of Justinian’s counsellors were adamant: the Emperor wanted a return to the glories of old and now was the time to show the strength of old.

‘It’s the only way, sir,’ said the Prefect Eudaemon.

‘It’s the Roman way, sir,’ said the Pagan lawyer Tribonian.

With the volume increasing in the council chamber and the calls for aggression louder, Narses stood up. ‘Gentlemen, please, I’d like to suggest another possibility: that we consider clemency at this time.’

‘Clemency?’ Mundus frowned. ‘Not like you. Getting soft in your old age?’

‘Finally realising he’s a eunuch,’ Belisarius muttered, not quite under his breath, but not openly either.

Narses nodded to the generals, both ready to get their men out on the streets at a moment’s notice, and went on, ‘I understand your enthusiasm for the fight. You’ve both done so well for us in distant lands, it’s only natural you’d want to show your prowess on our own streets, but yes, I believe clemency will help. It will encourage the people to see the August as less removed, more interested in their concerns.’

‘They know he’s interested in their concerns,’ interrupted Sittas.

‘They have done,’ Narses replied smoothly; ‘but just now, they seem to think he cares only for the greater Empire, and it’s not Italians or Syrians or Egyptians we have rioting on our streets, it’s the people of the City fighting out there. So, if the Emperor chooses to show kindness to his citizens, those closest to his heart, it won’t do him any harm.’

Justinian nodded. He took Narses’ views seriously and had no appetite for bringing war closer to home. The younger generals weren’t so easily persuaded.

‘August,’ Belisarius said, ‘Narses may call it clemency, but there’s every chance the people will see it as spineless.’

Mundus stepped in. ‘We believe it’s a simple matter to stamp out any hint of riot before it even begins. If the monks can’t be persuaded to hand over the condemned men, we would choose to storm the Church of St Lawrence, capture the prisoners, carry out the execution there and then, and be done with it.’

‘The longer this drags on, the more chance there is for greater disruption.’ Belisarius spoke quietly, seriously, for once not flashing his lovely smile, and it was clear most of the soldiers around the table agreed with him.

Theodora whispered to her husband, ‘Even if your generals are right, this isn’t the time to allow Belisarius to head a show of Rome’s strength. You want him to be your emblem…’

‘Not stand for myself?’ Justinian interrupted her, his hand over hers, speaking more quietly still in this room full of advisers and counsellors and trusted friends.

‘Not your August self, sir.’

Justinian nodded, thinking that while his wife might be too keen to judge the younger man, she also had a point. Things were bad enough, he didn’t need to send the golden boy out there in his place. He spoke to the room: ‘I’ll go to the games tomorrow as planned. I will not speak publicly about this matter, or any other. It’s better I don’t add my voice to the clamour.’

Belisarius agreed. ‘It’s certainly wise to be present at the races, show the power of the August.’

Narses added his own thoughts, wanting to soften Belisarius’ emphasis on power: ‘Further, Master, it’s up to your ministers to carry out their tasks using their own best judgement and they’ve done that. There’s no obligation for the August to speak, and doing so when our spies report that the Green and Blue leaders plan to call again for clemency would most likely provoke further debate.’

Narses did not add that although the Emperor spoke well on matters of law and the future, he was a less skilled speaker on more passionate matters, and it was in all their interests for him to remain silent as their figurehead.

Justinian acknowledged his Chief of Staff’s tact with a rare smile and Narses went on, ‘Above all, it’s important to show you are Emperor of Rome in both title and action. If you disallow the Prefect’s judgement it might be interpreted as suggesting the Emperor is higher than the law.’

‘We’ll send out an edict stating the August will ensure Roman justice is done, for the sake of those killed in the riot,’ said Tribonian, making notes as he spoke.

‘And for their victims’ families,’ Theodora spoke up.

‘Yes,’ Justinian replied, ‘for their families and, not least, for Christian law.’

‘Nicely put,’ Narses sighed, not reassured, but pleased a decision had been made.

‘Good, then we’ll enjoy the games tomorrow,’ Justinian said. Ending the meeting, he sent his advisers to get what little sleep they could, while he returned to his rooms to read. Theodora prayed through the night once more.

T
he cold day meant thicker cloaks, deeper purple. The August couple walked the distance from the Emperor’s rooms to the Kathisma in silence. Theodora had never yet walked this corridor beside Justinian without wondering if this would be the day when the public rose up and, instead of adoring the girl who had risen so high, brought her crashing down. She knew better than most how fickle the people could be. This morning, for the first time in ten years by his side, her fear was for her husband.

The heavy doors were opened and they emerged to the contained force of thirty thousand bodies gathered in one space. Justinian held his wife’s hand and gave his greetings to the crowd, who responded more quietly than either had expected, politely showing due deference. Perhaps all would be well.

The Emperor and Empress took their seats. The Kathisma was draped simply in purple, Theodora had advised there should be no added gold for glory, no greenery for celebration. The Emperor’s envoys had spoken with the faction chiefs, making it clear that the Prefect’s justice would be carried out as soon as possible, and the Imperial couple knew this
news would already be all round the Hippodrome, the crowd talking of little else. As agreed the night before, Justinian would not speak about what was going on at the Church of St Lawrence, the frightened and damaged men inside, the Prefect’s guards outside. The people had chosen to make the two men the focus of their complaint. Justinian’s silence would confirm the impending execution, but the Palace hoped it would do so without implying he was in favour of the execution and aggravating the situation. The Imperial couple were silent and solemn. Theodora thought they no doubt suited the dull sky above.

Before the first races began, the Blue and Green leaders came forward out of the tense hush of the waiting crowd. They spoke together, requesting politely, and in formal language, that the Emperor rescind Eudaemon’s ruling. The Mandator looked to the Emperor: his role was to speak for the August when the August chose not to speak for himself. The crowd were silent. Theodora felt their waiting in the air, on her skin, and knew Justinian felt it too. After a very brief pause, Justinian turned from the faction leaders to the Mandator and gave the signal for the games to begin. The Mandator made his usual cry, the racers readied themselves. The public, crammed in even tighter than usual, made no secret of their displeasure, and the games began.

The same process continued throughout the day. At regular intervals the faction leaders came forward and offered their respectful plea to the Emperor; at regular intervals, each time with the same pause, Justinian behaved as if he had not heard them.

The races went on, Blues and Greens chanting for their own men, their own racers. Their call of ‘Nika’, of victory, for a Blue winner or a Green winner no less vociferous than any
other day, but Theodora heard another tone in the cries, a warning in the way the word swirled around the Hippodrome, as if the resounding ‘Nika – Green!’ or ‘Nika – Blue!’ was to do with more than the race just won. As the twentieth race approached she finally began to feel her heart slow a little, stretched her fingers to loosen the tension that had been building for hours. Their day in the Kathisma was nearly done. All might be well.

At the twenty-second race, just two contests from the end of the day, the cry changed. For the first time in her life, a life in and of the Hippodrome, Theodora heard the cry of Nika given, not to one side or the other, but to both. The Blues called Nika to their eternal opponents the Greens. The Greens called Nika to the Blues. The warring factions were one, chanting Nika in unison.

‘Long life to the Blues!’ the Greens shouted.

‘Victory to the Greens!’ answered the Blues.

Nika to and for the benevolent, humane, victorious Greens and the Blues. Together.

Justinian looked shocked, but Theodora interpreted their call only too well, hissing at her husband, ‘Stand up, we’re leaving. Now.’

He turned to her, almost a smile on his lips, bemused and astonished. Theodora had seen this look all too often on the faces of her audience: now was not the time for the Emperor of Rome to explode in wild cathartic laughter, and she stood, then knelt as quickly as possible, so she didn’t seem to be leading her husband. The action brought him to his senses. Justinian rose with her, turned away from his people and left the Kathisma. Theodora followed a step behind, pushing him from beneath her robe.

A roar rose from the crowd at their backs, a jeering, hysterical, thrilled, ‘Nika! Nika! Nika!’

The final races were cancelled and the crowd streamed out of the Hippodrome into the streets of the City, a wild, excited, unified people.

Narses, already waiting in the chill of the Kathisma corridor, led the Imperial couple away. No one spoke until they were safely in Justinian’s private office. Theodora dismissed the waiting servants, poured her husband’s wine, passed it to him, noted his shaking hands and forced him to swallow half the glass before she let him speak.

‘What was that?’ asked Justinian.

Theodora shook her head, impossible to answer without saying this was exactly what she had feared.

‘Do we free the prisoners? Give in to the crowd?’

Narses answered, ‘Sir, we can’t.’

This time Theodora couldn’t keep silent, ‘We could have.’

‘Yes, Mistress,’ Narses retorted, impatiently, ‘we could have, but we didn’t.’

‘And now it’s too late?’ Justinian asked, though even as he did, he knew it was a statement not a question.

‘If we give them what they ask now, we’ll seem weak,’ said Narses. ‘If you countermand Eudaemon’s order, they’ll say you’re taking the law into your own hands.’

‘I am August.’

‘Yes sir, and this is Green and Blue together, looking for excuses to riot. They’d as soon turn on the August for going against the agreed form of decision-making, as attack Eudaemon for refusing them.’

Theodora looked up, impressed and a little horrified by Narses’ reasoning. ‘And it’s safer for us if they take their fury to the Prefect?’ she said.

‘It is. They’ll take their anger out on the Prefect’s Palace – no doubt they’ll free a few prisoners, or many more. It’s not
the first time we’ve had a riot in the City, it won’t be the last. This is what the people do: they shout, they fight, then they get drunk, screw each other and go home to sleep it off. There are more games tomorrow, by which time their hangovers will have them back to flinging insults at each other.’

Justinian looked at his two most trusted advisers. ‘Is Narses right?’ he asked Theodora.

Theodora frowned. ‘I’m not even sure he knows if he’s right, for once. None of us have seen the factions like this before. But yes, I agree it’s too late for you to rescind the Prefect’s order. With the people in this mood, it’s vital the August appears to be upholding the rule of law, I just don’t…’

Her speech faltered. All three stood, listening. The sound of running anger was clear from beyond the Palace wall.

‘What?’ Justinian prompted her.

Theodora shook her head, her skin chilled. The frustration that her opinion had been dismissed until now threatened tears that pricked at the back of her eyes. ‘I don’t think they’ll burn themselves out tonight.’

Theodora was right. The rioters, without each other to attack, turned on the City itself. The amorphous mob, mottled blue and green, went first to find Eudaemon. They broke into the Praetorium, killing the half-dozen officers who offered resistance, welcoming those who agreed to join with them – a one-sided agreement given in return for their lives – and freeing ecstatic prisoners. The Prefect himself was nowhere to be found, having fled the building the moment news of the conjoined cry of Nika reached him. His absence did nothing to calm the crowd and within another hour the Praetorium was on fire. Next, wheeling around towards the seat of Empire itself, moving as one and at speed, the rioters attacked the Chalke, the famous, inviolable, almost sacred gate
to the Imperial Palace. The Chalke guards were no more than ceremonial figures, chosen these days for their good bodies and good looks, posted at the grand entrance to look splendid in their uniforms and make the finest impression on new arrivals to the City, princes and refugees alike. Faced with a flame-hungry mob, these boys who were not yet men simply melted away; those who did not live in the Palace ditched the most distinctive parts of their uniform and joined the crowd, preferring to be swallowed up than spat out. The Chalke and its massive bronze doors were burned down. The mob, and the wind now guiding it, then rounded on the Senate House. Easy here to demand justice and find no answer – the senators were long gone. The people offered fire to their absent leaders and were richly rewarded. The cold January darkness turned hot and yellow-bright.