The Purple Shroud: A Novel of Empress Theodora (23 page)

Mariam turned to Antonina, curtsied, and then carried on with her work, minding other women’s babies.

‘Don’t be cruel,’ Theodora said quietly, ‘not all women are as hard as you and I.’

‘Hard? You?’ Antonina laughed. ‘Empress, you may have lived a hard life – some time ago now – but if you were truly hard, the architect’s behaviour wouldn’t upset you in the slightest. He’s young, he’s proud of his work. Yes, you’ve enjoyed each other in bed, but your patronage, your husband’s patronage, will do more for his life – his career, his reputation – than anything the two of you have shared.’

‘He wasn’t using me, Antonina.’

‘Of course not. Any more than you used him, as a distraction, an enjoyment.’

‘More than that.’

‘Fine, it was lovely, but it’s over, and it’s safer that way. You’re not me, Theodora, you don’t get to have lovers and still trust that your husband believes the best of you.’

‘Only because Belisarius chooses to disbelieve the evidence of his own eyes.’

Antonina grinned, eating another fig and licking the sticky residue from her fingers. ‘Lucky me. And you were lucky to get away with having Anthemius as your lover, don’t push it. If all he is now is your architect, then at least it shuts Pasara up for a bit.’

Theodora frowned. ‘I certainly didn’t miss her.’

‘My family are Anicii, my aunt was Juliana of the Anicii, Germanus is the nephew of Justin, just as Justinian is …’ Antonina perfectly aped Pasara’s elegant patrician voice, reverting to her own accent to add, ‘You should get rid of the bitch.’

Theodora started to tell Antonina what she’d contemplated while away, the possibility of doing just that, and then bit back
the words with a smiling sigh. Despite her casual demeanour, Antonina was easily as ambitious as Pasara, Theodora knew better than to trust her with this secret.

The Empress shook her head. ‘Germanus is too important to upset his wife any more than necessary.’

‘What if Germanus had a new wife? Obviously something would have to happen to the old one first …’

‘Don’t tempt me,’ Theodora whispered, making light of Antonina’s speaking her own dark impulse. ‘Anyway, there are others more threatening, Amalasuntha for one. All we ever hear from Italy is how fully she supports Justinian’s new Rome, how wise she is, how beautiful. If any wife is to be let go, I’m more likely to be dismissed. It would be a sensible union, the Emperor of Rome and the beautiful, refined Regent Queen of the Goths.’

Antonina lowered her voice and said, ‘There are ways. It wouldn’t be the first time. Amalasuntha, and Pasara—’

Theodora interrupted her, ‘I know. It’s not that easy.’

‘Of course not, you’re only Augusta, you have no power at all.’

Theodora sighed, stretched, looked around the room, searching for something to distract her old friend who was too close to catching her thoughts, thoughts she didn’t want to acknowledge. Antonina followed her gaze, from the slaves stationed by the door to answer any call, to the children seated with Mariam and their maids, to the stunning view, the delicately inlaid table between them covered with figs, grapes, peeled and quartered pomegranates, tiny pastries laid out between the fruit, dripping with honey. She counted the four jugs of different wines, the cool fresh water, changed more often than it could ever be drunk so that it never tasted stale to Imperial lips, and leaned back against the perfectly soft, perfectly stitched upholstery of the couches they had been
lying on for half the morning. Then their eyes met and Theodora burst out laughing.

‘Yes, it’s so damn hard being me,’ she said, her arms wide, taking in the incongruities of her life.

‘Not as hard as a month at sea with a bunch of soldiers who loathe sailing as much as Belisarius and I do.’

‘You don’t have to go.’

‘Oh, I’m as bored as you are in the Palace, I like the roughness of the soldiers’ camp.’

‘And the roughness of the soldiers?’

‘Some of them,’ Antonina agreed, ‘but I doubt I’ll enjoy their company on the journey there, they’re drunken bores at sea.’

‘Don’t let them drink – fill the wineskins with water. And don’t tell them until you’re well away at sea.’

‘Perfect, sober bores.’

‘They’ll be kept busy enough on board, preparing for the assault,’ said Theodora.

‘They’ll have to be, there’s been no preparation here. I know it makes sense to go so soon: if the first assault goes well we could be in Carthage long before the Christmas festival. But it’s a risk with men so unready.’

‘Your husband believes they’ll manage?’

‘My husband believes in his own fortune, yes. And he’s been right so far. Then you, Mistress, will organise his Triumph.’

‘For a soldier?’ Theodora asked. ‘That’ll be the first in a very long time.’

‘Yes, but the Emperor’s already writing him up as conqueror of all Africa, they’ve started the mosaic celebrating his victory. Belisarius will merely be fulfilling the prophecies of the Empire’s civil servants.’

‘The August is very sure of your husband’s success.’

The two women smiled at each other, aware that Belisarius’ ambition stung Theodora even as it delighted Antonina.

Theodora changed the subject: ‘What about your godson? Now that he’s joined Belisarius’ ranks, will you demand a Triumph for him too?’

Antonina leaned closer to refill their wine glasses and whispered, ‘Theodosius doesn’t need a triumph, Augusta, he has me.’

Theodora turned sharply to her friend, taking the glass offered her as Antonina’s smile confirmed she had begun another affair.

‘You amaze me,’ said Theodora, half impressed, half shocked.

‘He’s of age to go to war, Belisarius believes him one of our best, and – since just last week – I agree with him.’ Antonina grinned. ‘My godson will be journeying to war with us.’

The women toasted complication then, and passion, and Antonina’s freedom to do what Theodora could not.

Then Antonina’s daughter Joannina started crying again. Mariam lifted her and settled her on her lap where Ana’s boy Anastasius was already comfortable. Joannina stopped her cries and the little boy, half a year older, reached out to her. The two children stared into each other’s faces; matching small bodies, matching smiles.

Theodora watched her grandson with Antonina’s daughter and spoke her friend’s thoughts. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they are a good match.’

B
elisarius’ Triumph took Theodora almost as long to organise as it took the triumphant general to sail home from Carthage with Gelimer, King of the Vandals, safely stowed in a spacious cabin, befitting his status. Contrary to many expectations – though not his own, or his Emperor’s – Belisarius proved himself as capable on sea as on land. Just as the equinox heralded the beginning of the cooler months, he had led his troops into Carthage, where the Vandal kings had worn the purple for almost a century. Although the city was taken, Gelimer escaped capture, hiding for six months among the Berber tribesmen in the mountains of Numidia. When he was finally found and brought before Belisarius, Gelimer asked for three things.

‘A lyre, a sponge and some bread.’

Belisarius’ adviser and scribe Procopius noted each item, as the general asked his captive why he wanted them.

‘I no longer have a kingdom, but I am a poet, and I need a lyre to accompany myself.’

‘Of course.’

Belisarius waved a young soldier off to find a lyre.

‘My eyes are tired, I am not used to mountain life, or life on the road. I’d like to wash my eyes.’

Belisarius nodded; another boy ran for sponges and water.

‘As for the bread,’ the deposed king went on, ‘I’ve spent six months in these mountains …’

‘The Berbers have been generous to you.’

‘Yes, and you’ll face a challenge if you intend to fight them off the land as well, they’re a strong people.’

‘But?’ asked Belisarius.

‘But they don’t eat wheat, and whatever Rome may think, we Vandals are a civilised people.’

‘And civilised people eat bread?’

‘We do.’

That night, Belisarius and his men broke bread with Gelimer, captured King of the Vandals, and Antonina sent the story of the meal in her regular letter to Theodora. The next day war began again and in summer, nine months after leaving the City, Belisarius was recalled. It was over two years since Theodora had persuaded her husband to stay and fight for the purple through the noise and blood of the Nika riots. A Triumph welcomed the soldier home and Theodora ensured that this one showed the Emperor’s strength, not the general’s, no matter how good the younger man looked in his ceremonial armour.

Theodora, Comito and Antonina stood to one side of the Kathisma, with a clear view of the whole of the Hippodrome. Justinian took his usual place in the centre, chief officials and highest-ranking priests on either side of him. Belisarius and his men had marched down the Mese, through the main squares, past the Chalke where the Emperor’s African success was now depicted in glorious gilt mosaic. The men began to assemble in the Hippodrome, marching into the arena in full regalia and lining up in ranks to face the August. They were there to present their trophy: Gelimer, King of the
Vandals, draped in purple and followed into the rapidly filling ground by cart after cart of gold, jewels and other spoils, many of them treasures the Vandals had taken during the sack of Rome a hundred years earlier, all of it now coming home, to the new Rome.

Standing proud among the heap of warm gold was the great menorah that Titus had originally confiscated from the Jews’ Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem. Taken in the century of the Christ’s death, it was saved from the Temple’s destruction and brought to Rome only to be later captured by the Vandals. The menorah and other Hebrew treasures were known to bring bad luck to any who held them; bad luck evidenced by Gelimer’s plight.

‘We will return the pieces to Jerusalem,’ Theodora had insisted.

Justinian was dubious. ‘I know you count the Jewish weavers as your friends …’

‘They were kind to me when I returned to Constantinople.’

‘Yes, but Rome will not appreciate losing anything it once held so proudly – not now that it has been regained at cost.’

‘It’s not about what Rome appreciates,’ she said. ‘Those pieces have brought nothing but bad luck to whoever holds them. Look at Gelimer. Look at the Jews themselves. We can give them to a church in Jerusalem, but we’re not keeping them here – our City has been broken enough.’

Justinian smiled at his wife’s superstition, but he agreed: with things going this well, there was no need to tempt fate. The menorah was kept for the Hippodrome ceremony and would be sent back immediately afterwards.

Theodora had planned the spectacle meticulously, insisting Gelimer wear the purple when he was paraded through the City streets, expressly so that it could then be taken from him
in public. The packed stadium watched as he was brought to the front, marched through the central arena crammed with fully armed soldiers standing to attention. At the point where Gelimer came level with the most senior of the military, in line with Belisarius, Germanus, Mundus and Sittas, all the generals shouted their allegiance to Rome and to the August as arranged. The soldiers took up the cry, and a full arena of spectators did the same, then the generals called again, the soldiers repeating, and the massed ranks of the watching public joined in, until the cries for Rome and Justinian and Justinian-the-great-Roman could be heard as far as the Wall of Constantine.

Eventually Justinian held up his hand for silence and spoke the words he and Narses had sweated over for the past week, the speech he had rehearsed a dozen times with his wife. The excellent acoustics of the venue required no raised voice from the Kathisma, but even so, the careful, measured tone he adopted meant the people had to make an effort to listen – just as Theodora wanted. The Emperor drew them in, speaking of justice, Christian Roman values and Roman Christian men and women. He spoke, too, of clemency where needed, passion where necessary. Raising his voice just a little, as he had been coached, he went on to talk of calculated risks, acting only when action was inevitable, when diplomacy and strategy had been tried to the utmost. Above all, Justinian spoke of the rule of law, Roman law, good law resulting in the common wealth of all. When he finished, the high-ranking Palace officials in the Kathisma and the soldiers and their generals in the arena waited as they had been instructed. They waited until the crowd began to applaud, until the people cheered and clapped, calling ‘Justinian, August, Emperor, Rome!’ Only then did the military and civil servants applaud, after the citizens’ praise had been heard.

When there was silence again, Narses gave the signal. Gelimer, also rehearsed in his performance, took three paces forward. The crowd booed and jeered, the soldiers seemed to stand even more readily to attention. Belisarius stepped out and, at his signal, two of his lieutenants moved forward and pulled the purple from Gelimer’s shoulders, stretching out the silk between them so the full effect was seen all around an arena perfectly lit by the mid-afternoon sun. The crowd whistled and stamped their approval, the purple robe was carefully draped into a neat skein of cloth and then the gilt-embroidered seam was passed forward and up to the Emperor, waiting in the Kathisma. The symbolism was lost on no one: the August reaching forward to take the purple, the young soldiers still holding it at ground level. The Emperor held the purple and by his grace it spread out and down to the military and the people, to Rome.

Gelimer, standing alone, chilled even in the afternoon sun, took in the image of himself as both the apex and the base of the picture, and sighed. He’d done this sort of thing often enough in Carthage, any good ruler knew the people were as much persuaded by a lowering of taxes as they were by scenes like this. He knew, too, that no matter how happy Justinian’s soldiers were now, jeering as he lowered himself to the ground, prostrating himself before their Emperor, there would be grumbling in the barracks when pay day came and it turned out that Vandal gold was needed for the Empire instead of the men who’d worked to capture that hoard. His forehead on the ground, wearing only the thin robe they’d allowed him, his feet in sandals slightly too large, the better to make his gait hesitant and stumbling, Gelimer was relaxed and calm. In private negotiations over the past nights, Justinian had promised land in Galatia and a quiet retirement in return for information about the Berber tribes the Romans still hoped
to subdue, along with Gelimer’s agreement that he would fully play his part in today’s proceedings. The Vandal king was almost the same age as Justinian and, since the death of his beloved brother on the battlefield, since the loss of his kingdom – and as he would be free to worship however he wished in Galatia, unlike Theodora’s more careful faith in Constantinople – he was ready to retire. At Sittas’ command he rose to one knee, offered allegiance to the Emperor and to Rome, and praised both Belisarius and his men. The crowd roared again, the soldiers were finally free to cheer without restraint, and Gelimer was led away, to an elegant room with expansive views and a table heavy with wine and good food. He was a king, after all; not for Gelimer the deep dark of the holding cells beneath the Palace.