The Purple Shroud: A Novel of Empress Theodora (25 page)

They were walking in the outer courtyards, each one opening into another, each one more sumptuously laid out, more intricately decorated than the last. They followed a route that brought them close to the wall beyond which were markets, shops, streets teeming with citizens and refugees, with old ladies and children, all committed to one faction or the other, all passionately espousing one type of faith or another.

‘I’m not so sure now. I do find the Palace constricting, but …’ Theodora’s voice drifted off and she stopped.

‘Mistress?’

‘You didn’t know me before, Barsymes, before the riots, before my friend and so many others were killed.’

‘Were you different?’

‘I think so,’ she said, carefully, deliberately, trying to understand herself as she spoke, ‘I was just as Pasara thinks of me, one of them, one of the people. I felt I knew them and could advise on what was best for the City, I wanted what was best for them.’

‘And since the riots?’

‘I want to support the Emperor in governing well, I want to do what’s best for Rome, but as for the people …’ she shook her head, ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive them.’ She smiled, then said, ‘Pasara might want to send me back. I don’t think I’d want to go now.’

Barsymes leaned towards Theodora, his face impassive as ever, his tone conspiratorial. ‘From what I hear, Augusta, Pasara has her own problems. They say she spends far too much time with the son, and Germanus finds it irritating, to say the least.’

‘Good. Just now all our women seem to be obsessed with their babies or their husbands or their lovers—’

‘Not all three?’ Peter Barsymes interrupted.

‘Rarely all three,’ Theodora smiled. ‘Even Antonina rests occasionally.’

‘So you are grateful I can gossip like a woman?’

‘I’m grateful, Syrian, that you scratch your beard.’

Barsymes looked at her, confused, and his hand went involuntarily to his close-cut beard.

‘The beard still marks you out as an outsider,’ she explained; ‘such an outsider that people forget they need to keep their mouths shut around you. And you can then share their stories with me.’

He nodded. ‘Sharing is one thing, Mistress. I could also – if you would allow me – offer solutions?’

‘Believe me, I’d exile Pasara if I could. For now, the only option is to hope Germanus’ irritation turns to dislike.’

Barsymes frowned, then said, ‘Then this is not the right time. Instead, I will tell you about the new silk routes I’ve been looking into.’

Theodora allowed him to change the subject. Pasara was too much of a barb to think on for long and the price of silk was always a matter of concern at court.

‘The real goal would be to make silk here, in the City,’ she said, ‘but the Chinese have been both bribed and threatened, they’ll never sell their secrets.’

He smiled.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

Barsymes shook his head. ‘Nothing yet, but if I could find a way to bring silk production to the City, you would support it?’

‘In every way possible.’

He bowed. ‘I’ll do my best.’

They turned back and walked towards the scaffolding for Theodora’s new Petitioners’ Hall on the edge of the women’s quarters, heading through the kitchen and medicinal gardens where the late sunshine of the early spring evening warmed the beds of young herbs and flowers. The stronger light had only returned in the past weeks, and was now spinning gold from the gilt of the mosaic paths. Pasara had upset Theodora again, just this morning, when she lifted her son Justin from the children playing together and covered his ears as the other children squealed and giggled and rolled about. It was true they were playing close to the room where Narses was meeting with his generals, but that room was usually empty until the afternoon, Mariam and Ana had meant no wrong by taking them there to play, and the babies were happy.

‘She’d rather have her son sobbing in her arms than
enjoying the company of my family’s children,’ said Theodora. ‘There’s long enough life for them to be unhappy, why not let them play now? All she cares about is place and propriety and ambition.’

‘While you have no ambition at all for the children of your own line?’ Barsymes asked.

Theodora laughed. ‘That’s different, my niece and grandson were born into the purple, it’s their mission.’

‘Of course’ – he was smiling too – ‘so why not get rid of the woman? If she’s such a thorn to you.’

‘Because it’s not as easily done as those rumours of our dungeons and torture chambers might suggest.’

‘Then they are just rumours?’

Theodora looked at Barsymes, and said, ‘I couldn’t possibly answer that,’ and then laughed, and he laughed with her. She continued: ‘The August values his cousin Germanus as a general, as an adviser, and Germanus’ men love him. We need him, he’s still married to Pasara, even if it’s true they’re not happy, she’ll never leave him and he’s too stolid to consider divorcing her. I’m stuck with the woman.’

Barsymes stopped, searching the herb beds for a particular flower he’d noticed earlier in the week. He jumped across a raised section just coming into new blossom, and from a fenced-off corner picked out a flower. He handed it to Theodora.

‘Pretty.’ Theodora held the stem he’d given her, the tight wad of small dark purple flowers fading to pale blue at their edges.

‘The flowers are, yes,’ Barsymes said, taking back the stem; ‘pretty enough for a poison.’

‘Like Pasara – a pretty poison?’ Theodora shrugged and began to walk on. ‘I didn’t take you for such a poet, Peter. What’s the flower?’

‘Wolfsbane, lycoctonum. Those who live in the mountains
between northern Persia and the Chinese border use it on their arrows when hunting.’

‘And are the border Chinese shooting at hunting traders who cross the silk route?’ Theodora asked.

‘Not usually, Augusta, they’re good tradesmen, they prefer not to frighten us off.’

‘Or perhaps they shoot at traders who veer from the agreed route, into territories where they’re not welcome?’

Barsymes shrugged. ‘I’ve done both in my time. No, these hunters use it to bring down deer, horses, whatever they need. Sometimes they use small doses to capture the horses to break and train them later, other times just enough to stun the creature, before cutting its throat. There’s no point killing it with such a lethal dose that the meat becomes spoiled.’

‘But our doctors use it for healing?’

‘They do. Rome likes to think it knows everything, but these same plants grow across the world, and people have found uses for them wherever they have settled. The Chinese I trade with know them by different names and have uses for them we haven’t even begun to consider.’

‘So you’ve found a useful poison among our herbs. Should I have the gardeners remove it? Isn’t the fence enough to keep the children safe?’

‘It is, Mistress.’

‘Then why show it to me?’

Barsymes smiled. ‘I’m sure I could find other uses for it.’

The light was fading and Theodora turned to face her new friend, staring at him. He was no longer smiling.

‘I don’t think you should say any more now, about herbs or flowers or poetry,’ she said.

‘Or Pasara?’

‘Or Pasara.’

‘Of course not, Mistress.’ Peter bowed in acquiescence.

They went inside; the spring sun was giving way to the damp of the night. Over wine and figs, dates stuffed with almonds, salted olives and honeyed pastries they turned their conversation to the other woman disturbing Theodora’s sleep.

Narses had suggested that Barsymes would be the ideal person to travel to Italy with messages from the Emperor to the Goth Regent, Amalasuntha. While Belisarius and the other generals were readying themselves for a campaign in Italy later in the year, Justinian was still keen to keep channels of communication open, and the Regent Queen’s recent eagerness to communicate with the August had done little to calm Theodora’s fears. Theodora knew that many on both Roman and Goth sides believed a match between Amalasuntha and Justinian would be the perfect solution to all their problems. Barsymes was recognised for his knowledge of the fastest and safest routes across the Empire. Sending her new friend with the Emperor’s messages would ensure they arrived safely; it also meant he could return with the more personal information she craved. All queens were spoken of as beautiful, all kings as powerful: Theodora wanted to know if Amalasuntha was beautiful in truth, and more, if she had any real interest in the Roman Emperor. No more was said about Pasara and, once Barsymes confirmed his willingness to travel as the Emperor’s messenger, they dropped all talk of rivals and jealousies and returned to their favourite topic of discussion, the city of Antioch where they had both lived and loved in the past.

Later that week Justinian agreed to the proposal that Barsymes act as their messenger, but had one concern.

‘I hope he’ll confine himself to our work.’

‘He’s a businessman, a trader by birth,’ Theodora said, ‘it’s
unlikely he could limit himself to crossing the Golden Horn without finding something to profit himself.’

‘Amalasuntha’s more important than his purse. We’ve promised her Rome’s support.’

‘Barsymes understands protocol, he knows court manners better than anyone but Narses.’

‘The Goths are very different,’ said Justinian, then added, ‘and so are the Syrians.’

‘You Westerners never trust those of the East.’

‘Nor they us.’

‘There’s too much of Rome spread out between you. Justinian, I’m sure you’d prefer Peter not to think of his purse as he works for us, but he’s a dealer by nature, better we encourage him to use that knowledge on our behalf. Who knows what he’ll find to benefit the Empire as he travels?’

Peter Barsymes left Constantinople that week, sealed messages for the Regent Queen Amalasuntha in his bags.

L
ess than five days after Barsymes’ departure, Mariam brought news that Pasara was ill with nausea and vomiting. Theodora thought briefly of the dark blue flowers in the herb garden, of how her new friend had sounded when he told her of the plant, then thought no more of it. Barsymes had been well on his way before Pasara fell ill. He might be a highly successful merchant and skilled in social niceties, but it would take more than that to poison a woman in Constantinople while his ship was passing the coast of Greece.

Two days later, when Mariam told her Pasara was gravely ill, that the Palace physician had real fears for her life, Theodora decided she needed to speak with her herself. She stood before the closed door to Pasara’s private rooms, in her wake any number of slaves and servants who had never before seen the Augusta in this wing of the Palace. They barely saw the Augusta from one week to the next in their daily duties, and it was a complete shock that she should walk in, with neither announcement nor entourage, asking after Pasara’s health. The health of the woman everyone in the City, let alone the Palace, knew was her avowed enemy. Standing at the door,
her hand out to still the slaves waiting to open it, Theodora took a moment to look at those around her.

The slaves would do as they were told. That was all they did. They didn’t mind which room they were in or what was asked of them, no matter how often the command utterly contradicted what had been previously ordered. They carried out any task that was asked of them, and often did so with no need for asking at all. The Palace ran on the work of its slaves and Theodora noticed it now, for the first time in months. She reminded herself of her early weeks in the Palace when she used to thank every slave who opened a door for her, greet those who brought her food, acknowledge their presence constantly until Justinian pointed out that she was not only making them uncomfortable, but was wasting their time as they bowed and scraped to her, when the skill most highly valued in Palace slaves was that of invisibility in the August’s presence.

The servants were another matter entirely. Many were from families who had worked since Constantine’s time in the jumble of connected buildings that were the Palace. Often they had chosen to work here when they might have gone on to higher positions in non-Imperial households, and they understood their small gradations of status with more clarity than Theodora could hope to discern, even after a decade and more married to Justinian. It didn’t matter to the slaves that Theodora was here now, waiting to visit Pasara. They would go back to their quarters at the end of the day, and the doings of the Augusta would be of no consequence in their all too brief free time. The servants, looking up nervously from the floor where they were prostrate, twisting heads and wrenching necks to eyeball each other, were quite different. Along with Pasara’s shocked ladies, many of them were already planning what they would say to their counterparts in other Palace buildings. Those not from the City were lying on the ground
composing letters home, detailing the appearance of the Empress in the rooms, her lightness of attitude, the quiet tone of voice, the way – basically – she did not conform at all to Pasara’s usual impersonation of her.

Theodora raised her hand again, and the slave turned the handle, pulling back the door to the room where Pasara lay.

The first thing that hit her was the stink – a cacophony of vile smells in the over-heated room. Initially she caught what must be bile in Pasara’s vomit; then a deeper but no less bitter tang of shit, recently cleaned away but lingering regardless; and blood. The overwhelming smell was of too much blood. Theodora waved the servants and one woman from the room. The woman was nurse to Pasara’s baby; now Theodora held the boy herself. Shifting the baby to her hip, she quietly moved around the room. She opened a shutter just a little and was glad of the soft stream of fresh air. She turned back to Pasara’s bed; the sickness was more clearly illuminated now. And Theodora, who had lain in an Egyptian desert mountain during her faithful conversion and seen her own death arrive, was a little shocked at what she saw.

Pasara spoke, a whisper of vowels: ‘Give me the boy.’

Theodora stayed still, by the window. ‘You have been awake all this time?’

Now the voice croaked from a dry throat, bloodied raw from retching. ‘When everyone must fall on the ground at your coming, it is hard for you to arrive by stealth … Mistress.’