The Purple Shroud: A Novel of Empress Theodora (24 page)

As he went he smiled up at Justinian, and then across at Theodora, mouthing Solomon’s words from Ecclesiastes, ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’

Antonina laughed and called down to Belisarius who followed the deposed king through to the Palace, ready to join her for the private celebrations inside, ‘He’s finally learned he placed himself on a pedestal too high.’

Belisarius nodded in agreement, delighted with his work, with his army, and with his own standing.

Theodora and Justinian exchanged a look. Neither believed Gelimer had been referring to himself.

Making their way through to the celebrations in the inner Palace, Theodora asked her husband, ‘Was it too much, do you think?’

‘It was certainly too much for Gelimer,’ Justinian said, ‘but no, not for me. And if he meant the vanity of Rome, not his own, well, we have much to applaud. This is a good day, I don’t mind comparison to Solomon.’

‘Nor should you.’

‘The people were happy.’ He broke off to listen to the crowds leaving the Hippodrome and spilling out into the streets, faction catcalls replaced with united chants of Roman glory. He corrected himself, ‘Are happy.’

‘Yes, the people, who were screaming for our demise two years ago, from the same spot, now weep in your praise, forgetting the blood beneath their feet.’

‘That’s not entirely their fault. You put on a faultless show, they were swept along.’

‘They were meant to be.’

They parted at the corridor that led to their rooms. Theodora wanted to wear different clothes for the Palace celebrations: the Imperial chlamys was too heavy anyway, but she also wanted to look her best. Comito had been preening herself for Sittas for days, and Antonina had rushed to Theodora’s rooms as soon as she came back to the City, keen to share the delicious time she’d had with Theodosius while Belisarius was high in the mountains searching out the Vandal hideaway. While her women delighted in the glory of their men, Theodora had been coaching her husband in his speech, planning the perfect route for the Triumph, and working out how best to make sure Belisarius was honoured, yet keeping Justinian at the forefront of the public mind. She had done a good job and now she was ready to play. She and Justinian would re-enter the celebrations in the finest silks China could provide, but free of jewels and adornment. They would appear, even to their closest circle, as victorious yet pure, not revelling in Rome’s success, but serving it. Those who worked in the Palace would understand and appreciate the symbolism. And those who worked for the Palace – Anthemius for example, who had also been invited to the party – might not
understand the full significance of Theodora’s simple gown, but would see it suited her perfectly, and that the lines of her neck and arms were as fine and elegant as those of Anthemius’ own buildings. Even as she maintained a polite distance in their dealings, Theodora still wanted to make sure the young architect was aware of what he could not have; what she could not give him.

Long after Justinian had left the revellers to return to his office, Theodora was still in her favourite courtyard, seated on her own against a wall that held the sun’s heat well into the night and was warmed now by hundreds of tiny iron braziers, each miniature fire providing warmth and the prettiest of light shows, flame-coloured stars flickering on the Palace walls behind. The children were in bed, their mothers had just left, Germanus and Sittas were arguing with Belisarius and Mundus about the best way to prepare their men for what would surely be war against the Goths within the next year, Antonina had used her husband’s preoccupation as an opportunity to rush Theodosius off to an empty room, and even Narses and Armeneus had taken advantage of the lull to move to a quiet corner of the grounds, closer to the waterfront. Theodora stood up, ready to make her way to bed. This success in Africa simply meant Justinian and his staff had to work longer hours, aware of how much more there was now to do in Italy. She sent Mariam off to prepare her room and, with no one around to be shocked at the impropriety, took off her slippers, dropped her outer gown, hitched up the light silk robe she wore beneath, and tied it into a knot by her left thigh to leave her legs free, then began to climb the wall. There were few handholds but with effort, several broken nails, a grazed knee and a bruised elbow, she made it.

She had been wrong to think no one was there to see her.

Pasara, sitting on the other side of the wall, looked up as Theodora settled herself on the top, let out a cry that quickly turned into a barely disguised laugh.

‘Mistress! Of course, once a circus girl …’

Theodora caught her breath and took a moment to calm herself, allowing her impulse to jump back down to be overtaken by Imperial calm.

‘Pasara. What are you doing here, cousin? Hiding from your husband?’

‘No, I’m waiting—’

‘You’ll wait a long time for Germanus to come to your bed tonight.’

Pasara stood, with a fixed smile and her eyebrows raised. ‘You consider yourself an expert in the night-time habits of our men, do you, Mistress?’

Theodora would have taken it for the outright insult that it was, but as she spoke Pasara made an impeccable curtsy and lowered her eyes.

‘Germanus is off with the other drunken soldiers,’ Theodora answered, ‘debating the best way to win Italy from the Goth hordes.’

Pasara smiled delicately now, standing again. ‘I would not expect him to come to my bed when he has work to do. The women of my family are bred to put our own needs second to that of the Empire, we know our place.’

Theodora, stuck on top of the old wall, tried hard not to be stung by the words, but Pasara was right. Those women did know their place and she, quite plainly, did not. Pasara took the opportunity to rub it in even further.

‘Of course you find all this ceremonial exhausting, Mistress. Having to stand around all day, being polite to the visiting dignitaries, speaking Latin so they feel more comfortable. It’s not your first language, is it? You weren’t raised to behave in
this manner, it’s no wonder you need to run wild occasionally.’

Ready to jump down and smack the woman across the face, but knowing that was exactly what Pasara was after, Theodora carefully crossed one leg over the other, adjusted the neckline of her dress so her breasts shone in the cloud-hazed moonlight, hitched the knotted skirt of her robe up just a little further, the better to show that her legs were still as shapely as they were strong, and lowered her voice even more, so Pasara had to come closer to hear her.

‘You’re very low down there, Pasara, I don’t think you’ll quite reach my foot, but you can blow me a kiss if you wish.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Sorry, don’t they teach Anicii girls to blow?’

Pasara stepped back and stared up at Theodora. ‘Of course they do, Mistress, but unlike theatre tarts, they also teach us how to behave outside the bedroom. Anyone can learn the brothel skills to please a man. Anyone. It would appear, however, that it takes generations to breed the kind of woman who knows when to keep her mouth and her legs shut. Such a shame you and the Emperor have no children of your own, you might even have bred a girl with manners yourself, eventually.’

Theodora sized up the distance from wall to ground, reached her arms up and out for leverage, and dropped down without so much as dislodging the knot of her robe, landing just in front of Pasara. Any other time she would have been proud of her careful leap, now all she could think of was how much she wanted to hurt the woman in front of her. Her hand was up, ready to strike, ready to grab the hairpiece Pasara used to hide her thinning hair – a trick she’d learned from her old aunt, the equally balding, equally arrogant, Juliana Anicii. It was only Pasara’s smile and the satisfied glint in her eyes that stilled Theodora’s hand. The two women stood, a breath apart, and Theodora’s fingers were claws, her brow furrowed,
lips curled. She saw herself as everything Pasara believed her to be: an ill-bred brothel-tart backed into a corner, grasping for words. She was her father’s bear – face red, teeth bared. Tendons bulging in her forearms as she stilled hands that were aching to attack, she brought herself back to Augusta, was herself again. Too late. The look in her opponent’s face told her it was far too late.

Pasara turned and slowly, impressively slowly – Theodora had to give her that – walked from the courtyard and up into the Palace. She did not bow, she did not acknowledge the Augusta, she simply turned and left. Every quiet step was a barb. Theodora, knowing her words, and worse, her attitude, would be all over the building before morning, wanted to scream out her frustration but knew that would please Pasara even more. She sat on the seat Pasara had vacated, and leaned back, the cool marble mosaic welcome against the heat of her angry body. She closed her eyes, wishing to be anywhere but here, anywhere but held in by the walls and the noise and the etiquette required of a Palace celebration.

She was saved from the self-pity she despised by the sound of two men entering the courtyard, and opened her eyes to see them kneeling before her.

‘Anthemius, I thought you’d left our party.’

‘I found a friend, Mistress, I wanted to introduce you.’

While the men knelt to kiss her foot, Theodora quickly untied the robe, adjusted her hair, and let her skirt fall to the ground. The silk fell a little over Anthemius’ wrist and he left it there for a second, before he caught it between his fingers and kissed the fabric as well. She stood, holding out her hand and raised him.

He looked at her, uncertain. ‘If you would rather we made an appointment with Armeneus?’

‘Of course not, it was just …’ Theodora shook her head,
lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug, trying to laugh away the anger that still held her, ‘Pasara. She knows exactly how to rile me.’

‘Then perhaps we can distract you, Augusta?’

The other man spoke from where he still knelt on the ground.

‘Mistress, this is my friend, Peter Barsymes, we met when I was studying in Alexandria,’ said Anthemius.

Happy to be diverted from her self-loathing, Theodora held out her hand and the man rose to stand. He was a good head taller and half again as broad as his friend. ‘Barsymes – you’re Syrian?’

‘I was born in Syria, Mistress, but my father was a trader. My family travelled a great deal when I was a child. The Levant, Mesopotamia and Armenia have all been my home.’

‘And where were you happiest?’

‘As a youth, in Antioch.’

Theodora said to Anthemius, ‘Good scheming, architect, you’ve found me a friend who praises my second-favourite city.’ Turning to the Syrian, his pale blue eyes shining in the flickering lights, she asked, ‘And which city do you prefer now?’

‘Given what you’ve just said, Mistress, I should say Constantinople …’

‘But?’

‘But we happened to overhear your conversation with Pasara of the Anicii,’ Anthemius interrupted.

‘And I must admit,’ Barsymes said, ‘having travelled so much for my work …’

‘Which is?’ Theodora asked.

‘Peter is both a financier and a trader, Mistress,’ Anthemius explained, his eyes only on the Empress.

Barsymes continued, ‘While I love Constantinople for its
opportunities, the centrality of its markets, I find the arrogance of some of the people here hard to take. Especially when that arrogance is founded merely on name or wealth, neither made by the current holder.’

Theodora laughed. ‘Your father was an unsuccessful trader? He left you no wealth?’

‘My father was very successful, but I’ve been more so myself, and achieved all I have on my own terms. I believe that was one of the reasons Anthemius wanted to introduce me to you, Augusta. He thought you might find my work interesting.’

Theodora turned her gaze to Anthemius now, approving, her voice quiet. ‘My architect is very skilled in finding ways to please me.’

Theodora arranged for Peter Barsymes to meet her in the morning and then made her way to her rooms. She slept badly, and alone.

P
eter Barsymes quickly became a good friend to Theodora, making a useful chaperon for her visits to Anthemius – his presence not only prevented any further gossip about her friendship with the architect, it also stopped any inappropriate behaviour. Left alone with Anthemius, Theodora knew her desire would mean a return to the physicality of their affair, but with Barsymes present, even if he did prefer to stand in the long corridor outside the draughtsman’s brightly lit workroom, it was safe for the Empress and architect to study plans and draughts, hands always almost touching, never quite touching. With someone else so close, Theodora was more likely to remember both her status and the danger of that position, to confine herself to the pleasure of briefly-held looks and potential, rather than the recklessness of sex, a danger she no longer wished to give in to, and yet didn’t want to lose entirely. She knew better than to pretend to herself that their relationship was over just because it was no longer physical, but as long as their contact was limited to hands on papers, hands on scale models, this was the best compromise possible. Peter Barsymes helped her make it.

As was to be expected given his Syrian birth, Barsymes was more inclined towards Theodora’s religious leanings than Justinian’s, but he understood and supported the August’s desire for compromise, for a coming together. While there were plenty of well-read, well-bred people working in the Palace, most who found a safe place in the hierarchy congratulated themselves and stayed there; even soldiers like Belisarius and Sittas gravitated to Palace life when they were in the City. In Barsymes, Theodora found a man who brought the outside world back to her cloistered life. Well travelled, skilled in business and diplomacy, fluent in Greek, Latin, the shifting language of the Persians, as well as Syriac, he represented much she missed in the close confines of her Palace life. He also brought an ability to speak openly, something Theodora, still missing Sophia’s too-ready mouth, prized in a friend.

‘I can understand you find the Palace a confined arena, Mistress.’

‘I have done.’