The Purple Shroud: A Novel of Empress Theodora (39 page)

‘But she was mean to you.’

Sophia looked up and Theodora was startled again by the girl’s eyes, their striking resemblance to her own, but set in Comito’s open face, with Comito’s fine fair hair. Sophia was turning into a beauty.

‘It’s true Pasara and I were not friends, and now she is dead,’ said Theodora, ‘so we pray for her as we do for all the dead.’

‘Yes, but what about …’

Theodora watched her niece stop herself with some difficulty. ‘Go on.’

‘Should we pray for the old Emperor’s wife too?’

‘Euphemia?’

‘Because Joannina’s mother said she hated you and the work you’d done in the theatre.’

‘Joannina’s mother does like to gossip,’ said Theodora, watching Antonina now, on Belisarius’ arm, leading him from senator to statesman, working her husband around the room as she had been working her daughter only moments before. ‘Yes, Sophia, we pray for them all.’

‘Why?’

Theodora took a long sip of the cool, sweet wine the servant brought her and waved away the tray of food. ‘Because they’re dead. Because even if they’re sorry for the things they did wrong in life or for wicked words spoken, it’s too late for them to make amends. So we pray for them now because none of us know how long we have to live, how much time we’ll have to make things right in our own lives. We pray for them in the hope that others will one day pray for us.’

‘And do you forgive Euphemia?’

‘Dear God no, she was an evil bitch,’ Theodora laughed, ‘but I pray.’

And Theodora did pray. She prayed with the rest of the City as Belisarius took his troops back to Italy, his lower rank irrelevant to the thousands who turned out on the streets and
at the docks to wave him off. She prayed in uncertain remorse when Bouzes was finally well enough to be released from his captivity in the Palace; silent and hobbling, he left the City the next day and never spoke of Constantinople again. She prayed with Justinian that his latest attempt to heal the religious divide, his Three Chapters edict, would make a difference. Then, when it helped a little but not enough, she prayed with her husband that Pope Vigilius would support their attempts for union from Constantinople, rather than schism under Totila’s Goths in Rome. She, and Justinian and the whole of the government prayed that the vastly expensive peace they were negotiating with the Persians would hold this time. The Persian ambassador and his retinue in return prayed with gratitude to their god of fire; the terms were very much in their favour and their treatment in the Roman court could not have been better. Theodora prayed too, for the priests and spies working for Peter Barsymes in China, from whom there had been no word in over a year. She prayed for Macedonia, now working alongside Barsymes, posing as the trader’s wife; a respectable City housewife, listening to stories other housewives told of their husbands’ business; market-stall secrets relayed to Theodora to keep the Palace better informed of the world they ruled. She prayed, as she always did, for her mentors Timothy and Severus, prayed in gratitude and an old grief that never quite left her.

Above all, and silently, sharing her entreaties with no one but the emerald Virgin and the owl that stayed awake with her through the night, Theodora prayed for health. She was forty-five years old, it was half her life ago, more, since she had collapsed in a desert mountain, haemorrhaging in fierce pain and woke weeks later in the care of Severus’ people, told by his physician that she would probably never have another child, that the growth they had removed from her belly had
been too big, too strong. Theodora had seen her grandmother die from the pain of the growth that took over her flesh, her insides. She watched as the old woman sank into her bones, the thing inside becoming bigger than her. For twenty-five years Theodora had waited, knowing that once the illness had been in her life, it was always likely to return.

It was a spring morning. Across Constantinople everyone was preparing for the City’s feast, a day of prayer and processions and receptions to come. Theodora’s rooms were full of the careful haste of her women; ceremonial gowns were removed from storage boxes, old threads pulled into place, small rips and tears hidden with new jewels or gold embroidery by Esther and Leah, Sophia assisting them. The craftswomen were training Sophia in their skills at Theodora’s request. Mariam and Ana laid out Theodora’s jewellery – the five-strand pearl necklaces, the emerald earrings, the jewelled brooches that held her robes in place.

In the privacy of her anteroom, Comito was arranging her sister’s hair: ‘You have no grey at all – how is that? Are you dyeing your hair without telling me?’

Theodora shook her head beneath the fine comb and smiled. ‘It’s one of the Imperial secrets, my sister, you’ll never know.’

Comito laughed and with a careful twist, caught Theodora’s hair up into an ivory pin, adding height and elegance to her little sister’s little frame. She then shook out her own blond hair, threaded now with silver strands and, taking another ivory needle, pinned hers up in the same way.

The sisters stood in front of the mirror, smiling at each other. They were easier together now that Sophia was older, and it was this closeness, magnified in the mirror, that made Comito feel it was possible to reach out and put her hands around her sister’s waist.

‘You can’t escape age entirely,’ said Comito. ‘I can’t tell when you’re fully dressed, but here, in this thin slip, even you seem to be gaining the belly of an older woman.’

Theodora laughed it off, told her sister not to be so rude to the Augusta, acknowledged she probably had been eating far too many of the sweet treats prepared for the Persian ambassador’s delegation during the peace talks.

That night though, when Theodora had finally gone to bed after the long day celebrating Constantine and the City, she felt her lower belly, ran a hand over the small swelling, and she knew it had nothing to do with the honeyed cakes.

Now, six months later, with the Persians gone and Belisarius asking for reinforcements in Italy, with Comito in love again and preparing to marry for the second time, Theodora hid her swollen belly with swaddling and loose robes and bedroom excuses to Justinian about her exhaustion or his. There was too much to do: Anastasius was betrothed but not yet married, Sophia was still unpromised, both children must be woven into her plans for the succession, Comito wanted her sister by her side when she became a wife again and Theodora knew her main task was to support Justinian in his lifelong struggle to reunite the Church and the state. She was not prepared to succumb to her body, knowing only too well what her swelling belly might mean. She chose to believe it was purely age, only age, and to pray for time.

L
uckily there were plenty of distractions. Things were not going well for Belisarius in Italy, and much of Justinian’s time was spent analysing messages that came to and from the military camp in old Rome.

Theodora’s version of what was happening came from Antonina’s letters.

Antonina’s private letters to Theodora were often useful to Justinian, and this one, once censored of the material about the young soldier Antonina was keen to entertain, was no less so. Orders were sent to an Imperial troop to capture Vigilius and bring him to Constantinople. The Pope was clearly too comfortable under Goth rule, and Roman law might be far better applied in Constantinople than in Rome.

While the siege of Rome dragged on, Theodora dealt privately with her own personal unrest. The stabbing pains had spread to her lower back, waking her more often, and she called her old theatre wardrobe mistress to attend her in the Palace. The woman had been adept at procuring abortions for the young girls in her care, and Theodora took the herbs the old woman offered on the basis of the half-stories she gave, scared to fully share either her fears or the extent of her pain with anyone else. Antonina was in Italy, Comito was newly
married and newly in lust, Macedonia was a better spy than confidante – Theodora had no one to talk to about her fears. Until Sophia asked her.

‘Are you in a lot of pain, Mistress?’

They were walking from the Palace, through the underground corridors to the great church.

Theodora checked her posture, took a breath before she spoke. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You cried out last night, in your sleep.’

Theodora shook her head, annoyed with herself for allowing the child to get so close that she now slept in Mariam’s old room, the door between the two often ajar.

‘Perhaps you should stay closer to your mother, if I’m disturbing you?’

Sophia shook her head, well aware there was no substance to the threat. ‘You like having me around, more than she does now, anyway.’

‘You should be patient with your mother, she’s in love.’

‘She’s almost fifty.’

‘And fifty can’t love?’

Sophia sneered, ‘It doesn’t need to be so public about it.’

Theodora smiled, it was true that since Comito’s marriage she seemed to have lost some of her famous reserve.

‘We were trained to show nothing but whatever was required of the dance or the piece we were working on. Menander was a formidable teacher; all these years later, it is hard to ignore his lessons. It’s good your mother feels more free.’

‘Menander was Narses’ lover?’

‘Yes.’

‘They must have made a fierce pair.’

‘I didn’t know them as a pair, I only met Narses after Menander had died. But you can’t tell, not really, not from the outside.’

‘You can with my mother.’

‘Only at the moment. Most couples don’t show who they are to the world, they present a united front, work to make it look as if they are one.’

‘Except when it’s useful for you to support different sides?’

‘As with the Church?’ Theodora said. ‘Yes. I didn’t mean just the Emperor and myself, but of course it’s been useful. Showing a united front also means we have some privacy, we are one – a unit – as August, but we are ourselves too. Only a partner can know your private self as well as the world thinks it knows your public self. It’s important to keep something back, Sophia. The world would consume it all and still want more.’

‘Which is why you cry only in your sleep?’

‘Which is why I prefer to cry only when I can control it. Unfortunately I have no power over my sleep or my dreams.’

They were at the Hagia Sophia. The great carved wooden doors were held open for them, they swept into the church and up to the gallery in a procession of women, Theodora taking her usual place on the green marble, Sophia beside her. The whole sumptuous interior of the great church was swimming in pale afternoon light, with the dome apparently suspended above. No matter how often Theodora stood here, it never failed to move her, one of her own dreams that had become real, one of the good ones.

‘I’ll pray for your happiness, Mistress,’ said Sophia.

Theodora looked at the girl beside her, very nearly a woman now, her whole life ahead; a huge life if Theodora managed to arrange her betrothal and marriage well enough. The girl was smart and thoughtful. Theodora couldn’t remember the last person apart from Justinian or Armeneus
who had asked about her well-being – most came to her begging for themselves.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘and I will pray for yours.’

Theodora’s fears for her health made her even more determined to take care of the succession. Germanus had mourned Pasara and then married the Goth princess Matasuntha. With a son now born from that marriage, Theodora was no longer content to allow Justinian his relaxed attitude to the succession.

‘Germanus is going to keep breeding successors of Justin’s line, there’s nothing we can do about that,’ she said.

‘We’ve tried,’ Justinian said, and reached an arm around his wife’s waist.

‘Not now,’ she smiled, pushing his hand away, smiling to hide her fear of his feeling the swollen belly she hid beneath heavy gowns, ‘we need to make a bigger leap.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘We forge our own links back to the old Emperor Anastasius. Your sister’s girl, Praejecta, there’s talk of her marrying Artebanes.’

‘Really? He’s given up his wife?’ Justinian asked the question lightly, well aware that Theodora loathed the practice of men summarily divorcing their wives.

‘Artebanes’ wife doesn’t want to be given up. She’s asked for my help. Even the new divorce ruling can’t protect her.’

‘Of course, she knows you’ll do your best to help her, as do all our women.’

Theodora glared at her husband. ‘It’s not just the divorce question, it’s also who Artebanes is.’

‘Because you believe he killed Sittas?’

‘Because everyone believes he killed Sittas.’

‘Yes, and our law requires more than suspicion.’