The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (16 page)

Hecebolus smiled. “I’d be a fool to say no if he offered.”

We were almost outside, back into the shocking glare of the sun and the real world.

I grabbed his hand and pulled him into a shadowy alcove, ignoring
the chattering plebs that streamed past us. “You’re going to take me to that coronation.”

He stepped back, arms in front of him as he surveyed me like a charioteer choosing a horse before a race. “And why would I do that?”

“Because you owe me.” I pressed my body to his and let my fingers trail down his leg. “And I’ll make it worth your while.” I’d promised Comito I wouldn’t see Hecebolus again, but it was too late for that now. I had to be at that coronation to land another patrician, no matter the cost.

His hand slipped to the nape of my neck to tip my head back. His lips hovered over mine, and I resisted the urge to touch the scar on his lip. “I owe you, do I?”

“Nothing in life is ever free.” I ran the tip of my tongue over my lips. “What do you have to lose?”

His lips curled into a smile, one that made my flesh prickle. “The real question,” he said, his fingers tracing my neckline and then dipping lower, “is what do I have to gain?”

And then he walked away.

M
y hair still wet from the baths, I lay on the floor with Tasia the next morning and brushed soggy bread crumbs from her chubby cheeks as she alternated between gnawing a crust of brown bread and sucking her toes. Anastasia’s old one-eyed doll lay on the floor, its face damp where Tasia had chewed it. My little sister would have been almost seven now—I liked to think she would have adored Tasia as much as I did.

Tasia had the cutest fat rolls on her little legs—I couldn’t help but nibble and blow on them until she giggled. Unfortunately, I’d taken her
mappa
off, and a stream of urine sprayed onto the floor as someone knocked. I mopped up the mess as Mother opened the door to Hecebolus’ pretty eunuch, dressed in red again.

His regal nose wrinkled, and he heaved a huge sigh at me. “Hecebolus of Tyre requests your attendance at the coronation of Emperor Justin.” The slave snapped his fingers, and a woman so old I wondered how she had made it up the stairs stepped into our apartment. A waterfall of orange silk cascaded from her arms—the most exquisite stola I had ever laid eyes on.

It seemed Hecebolus had decided there was something for him to gain.

Mother gasped and reached out to touch it, but she pulled her fingers back. “This must have cost a fortune.”

The slave sniffed. “Hecebolus’ sedan will be here in an hour.” Then he turned on his heel and left, the woman scurrying behind him. An hour was hardly enough time to prepare—it was a good thing I’d just come from the baths.

I fingered the burnt orange shot through with gold. I’d never seen samite before, but even I recognized the rare form of silk woven with real gold.

Mother looked at me as if she’d never seen me before. “Orange—you’ll be a butterfly amongst moths.”

“I might as well drape myself in imperial purple.” I could look forward to being a head shorter if I wore the imperial color. “Or go naked.”

Mother blinked, then laughed. “That would certainly get everyone’s attention.” She draped the fabric reverently across my chest. The color would warm my skin and set off the highlights of my dark hair. It would have been perfect had it not been from Hecebolus.

Mother strummed her fingers on her chin. “I’m not sure you need anyone else’s attention. You seem to have caught Hecebolus’ eye.”

“He’s a means to an end. The coronation is my best chance to find a patron.”

She gave an exasperated sigh and picked up her amphora of wine, then made a face at it when she realized it was empty. “I didn’t raise you to be a fool.”

“I promised Comito—”

My mother stomped her foot. “Comito be damned. She’s preening in some marble villa with slaves to shave the calluses off her feet while we huddle in this hovel.”

“What?”

“Your sister already managed to catch some new patrician. Don’t be a fool.” My mother shook her empty jug at me. “It’s not every day you have a man with more money than God practically begging to take you to bed.”

I held up my hands to stop her rant. “Are you going to help me, or do I have to get dressed on my own?”

Mother threatened to beat me if I wrinkled the samite as she twisted my hair into an elaborate knot at the nape of my neck. I’d wear it uncovered, the better to stand out.

“You’d be a fool to reject him,” she muttered, an amber brooch clamped between her teeth.

“Pull your head out of the sky, Mother. Hecebolus isn’t about to become my patron.”

She struggled to pin the clasp and stabbed me in the shoulder. I had a feeling it wasn’t by accident. “This man wants you because he thinks you’re the goddess every man wants in his bed, not the loudmouthed chit we all know and love.” She waggled a finger at me as I shoved my feet into the slippers Hecebolus had sent—they pinched like a mousetrap. “A shut mouth gathers no foot. Don’t ruin this with that tongue of yours.”

“I happen to have a very talented tongue.” I gave her an impish grin that made her throw her hands in the air.

“You need a patron for that little girl of yours.”

That sobered me like a bucket of cold water. “I’ll get one, Mother. I promise.”

It just wouldn’t be Hecebolus.

An elegant sedan carried by eight barefoot slaves rescued me. Eight was terribly pretentious, but I rather liked it.

I ducked my head and took the seat opposite Hecebolus, feeling the tips of my ears flush at the thought of the last time I’d been in this litter. Hecebolus looked akin to some barbarian Emperor, his
shoulders filling out his navy stola stitched with gold and his head freshly shaved. He rubbed his jaw and shifted in his seat. “I see the stola fits.”

“It will do.” I forced a smile. “I’ll make sure you have it back tonight.”

He raised an eyebrow, but I didn’t say anything, preferring to let him imagine what that might mean.

The streets to the church were lined with Justin’s ecstatic subjects, extra bread tokens tucked in their hands and drunk on the free wine that would flow down the cobbles of the
Mese
all day. The entire city smelled of pine and rosemary, the streets sprinkled with the crushed herbs to herald the imperial procession.

Justin had chosen the moldering Church of the Holy Apostles for his coronation, and Excubitor guards held back the boisterous crowd. Hecebolus closed his fingers around mine as we walked up the steps into the dark interior of the church. It seemed the full Senate was here to witness the historic occasion—mostly
illustres
, but with a few others thrown in from the middle class and provinces. The men all wore ankle-length white tunicas, the narrow sleeves edged in purple and all tied around the waist with a red sash, the formal dress of proper patrician men. Many of the white-hairs stared at me, although they looked the other way when I caught their eyes. I overheard many discussing the Patriarch of Antioch whom Justin had just banished, a Monophysite named Severus. Beady-eyed patrician women adorned their husbands in their elegant stolas of green, red, and blue. No one else wore a flagrant color like orange.

Hecebolus led me toward the main nave of the presbytery. “I see they’ve cleaned out the pigeons,” I said. The droppings covering Saint Peter’s face had been scrubbed clean as well.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Hecebolus said.

The Patriarch’s head was bent in discussion with another priest at the
altar, but both stopped when they saw me. I inclined my head in their direction and rubbed my wrists. I had no intention of drawing attention to myself while the Patriarch was around—one private show of Leda had been more than enough. Hecebolus tucked a hand around my waist and scowled in their direction.

Heralds in pristine white tunicas and bay wreaths entered and lined the aisle, raised their golden horns to their lips, and trumpeted in unison.

“His Most Christian Sovereign, Augustus Basileus Flavius Justinus! Her Royal Majesty, Lupicina Eusebestati Euphemia!”

A figure swathed in imperial purple stepped into the atrium. Tall as he was, Justin appeared more grandfatherly than imposing, his white hair barely tamed to cover his donkey ears under his gold laurel crown. Lupicina scarcely came up to her husband’s shoulder, even with her silver-gray hair swept up in a nest on her head. Strands of pearls and rubies from her crown fell midway down her back and blended into the seed pearls gleaming on her stola. I hoped for her sake no magpies happened overhead when she left the church, searching for something shiny to add to their nests.

The Patriarch bowed to them, and they proceeded to the main altar, imperial red sandals and white silk socks poking from under their robes.

“Not bad for a swineherd and a barbarian whore, eh?” Hecebolus nodded to a dark-haired man at the Emperor’s side. “And a peasant from Tauresium.”

I couldn’t see the other man’s face well, but even still, he bore a striking resemblance to Justin with his stocky shoulders and thick shock of curls. “Flavius Petrus Sabbatius Justinianus,” Hecebolus said. “Justinian will be our next Emperor.”

“Isn’t it a bit early to be predicting the next heir?”

Hecebolus gave a wry grin. “Never.”

“Who is he?”

“Justin’s nephew. He’s a rather ambitious sort. Justin recently adopted him, actually.”

The Emperor and his wife knelt on the altar—it took Justin some time to force his long legs to bend—and bowed their heads. The Patriarch’s Latin chant swelled throughout the nave. We all bowed our heads to pray for blessings upon the royal couple, the people, and the entire Empire while a choir of
castrati
sang a series of haunting hymns from the balconies. Then Justin’s forehead was anointed with the oil of the sick, and the Patriarch offered him a codex of the Gospels thickly studded with diamonds and rubies. Too bad I’d never been a good thief—that book could have kept Antonina, Mother, Tasia, and me in a seaside villa for the rest of our lives. I also didn’t wish to risk God smiting me in front of the entire patrician class of Constantinople.

“May God bless the rule of Emperor Justin and his consort, Lupicina,” the Patriarch said. “May they be fair and just in all their rulings.”

The patricians stomped their feet, but Justin held his hands up and silence reigned again.

“Good people of Constantinople,” he began, “it is my most sincere honor to stand before you and receive the most heavy crown in all the world. I swear to guide this most holy nation, to protect her from without and enrich her from within. I have loved this city from my youth when I fled the barbarian invasions and found solace within her walls. I shall spend the rest of my life repaying her for loving me so well.”

The crowd erupted into cheering, so loud that some of the white-hairs across the way covered their ears.

“Impressive for an illiterate Emperor, eh?” Hecebolus didn’t look at me as he spoke, but he continued politely clapping as Justin and Lupicina left the church.

I had hoped for a chance to mingle, to bat my lashes at some of the unaccompanied men, but Hecebolus guided me to follow the rest of
the patricians who were drawn toward the royal couple like a hive pulled to its queen.

The sedan ride back down the
Mese
was uneventful, although the revelry had progressed since we’d been in the church. Off-key taverna songs were being sung down the streets, old tunes with new lyrics praising Justin’s virility in bed with Lupicina. Somehow I doubted the Empress would approve.

We passed the dark Kynêgion on our way to the Hippodrome—Justin had invited the entire populace of the city to the racetrack and financed a huge gala of games to supplement the free bread and wine. The stadium was already full—many of the plebs had likely claimed their seats before the sun rose, and many more would still be turned away. Men outside hawked ivory chips with seat numbers to the highest bidders.

Situated in front of the Black Gate before the Tripod of Plataea was a new addition to the
spina
of the Hippodrome—a squat wooden scaffold covered with clean straw and a block in the middle.

Dread unfurled down my spine. “What is that?”

Hecebolus’ hand on the small of my back guided me forward. “It’s the opening for the games. Theocritus knew it was a dangerous game he played when he gambled for the throne.” Hecebolus led me to seats under the Kathisma. There were several familiar faces from the
skolion
and a number of senators, including the one with the mare’s belly from yesterday. No one would doubt Justin favored Hecebolus now.

The stands filled, and people jammed the floor of the racetrack. Some might be lucky enough to walk away with a souvenir from the execution—a spatter of blood or chunk of hair. Theocritus had only seized an opportunity and been bested at his own game. By the man next to me.

Drums beat out at a pace quicker than a heartbeat as Excubitor guards marched from under the
vomitorium
arch. Justin emerged onto
the Kathisma balcony, the heavy gold diadem in his white curls and with Lupicina at his side, both still drenched in the imperial purple, but now accompanied by a pack of greyhounds wearing pearl collars.