Justinian

FIVE

‘To insist that Christ has two natures — human and divine, is to deny that the Virgin Mary was the Theotokos, the Bearer of God, as Cyril, Patriarch of Alexandria, made clear at the Council of Ephesus ninety years ago.’ Irene, abbess of a remote religious community in Egypt, smiled at Theodora and sighed apologetically. ‘Forgive me, my dear; why should I assume that a lay person such as yourself should share my concerns about the true nature of Christ?’ The two women were standing at the rail of Argo — a small merchant vessel two days out from Apollonia, the port of Cyrene, and bound for Alexandria. Like other passengers, they had had to bring their own food and bedding, sleeping at night in a deck-house. This was divided down the middle by a thick canvas sheet, separating the men from the women.

‘But I find it all fascinating,’ insisted Theodora, who had found, rather to her surprise considering her lack of formal education, that conversations with the abbess concerning religious topics had proved intellectually stimulating. She wondered briefly if this perhaps owed something to her Hellenic heritage (both her parents were of pure Greek stock from Cyprus), which had given the world some of its greatest thinkers and mathematicians. Although the victim of a sudden and traumatic reversal of fortune, Theodora felt strangely calm, almost happy in fact, as she contemplated an uncertain future. Her decision that, following her dismissal by Hecebolus she would henceforth lead an independent life, had left her feeling somehow stronger and with her self-belief enhanced. Simultaneously, her intention to recoup her fortunes by exploiting her talents as an actress seemed to have lost much of its original appeal.

‘If, as you say,’ Theodora continued, ‘Mary gave birth to God, then Christ, her son, must surely be divine? Which is what I’m told the Monophysites of Syria and Egypt believe. Yet our new emperor, Justin, backed by the Patriarch of Constantinople, tells us that this view’s now heretical. It seems we must now accept the decree of the Council of Chalcedon — that Christ has two natures: a human as well as a divine one.’ Theodora gave a wry smile. ‘Confusing, to say the least.’

‘It’s all totally unsatisfactory,’ declared Irene, shaking her head. ‘By reviving Chalcedon — held seventy years ago under Emperor Marcian — Justin has split the Empire: north and west for Chalcedon, south and east Monophysite. Fortunately, Justin seems to have had the good sense not to push things too far. Monophysite Egypt, which, significantly, supplies the Empire with its corn, has not been targeted for persecution; and anti-Chalcedon so-called heretics have been permitted to seek refuge there.’

‘What an incredibly bright star,’ observed Theodora, indicating a brilliant, steady point of light on the southern horizon.

‘That’s no star,’ laughed Irene, standing beside the other on the Argo. ‘It’s the Pharos — the lighthouse of Alexandria; they say it has the brightest flame ever produced, on top of the tallest tower ever built.’

The flame’s light quickly faded in the brief sub-tropical dawn, then the sun rose on a stupendous vista of turreted walls, beyond which rose a glittering frieze of domes and columns, obelisks, temples, and palaces; and in the foreground, towering impossibly high above the city’s Great Harbour, rose the fluted column of the ancient lighthouse.

During the week-long voyage, Theodora had become firm friends with Irene, to whom she had confided her predicament. Sympathetic and nonjudgemental, and also impressed by Theodora’s keen if untutored intellect, the abbess before parting furnished the girl with a letter of introduction to Timothy, the Patriarch of Alexandria — a Monophysite sympathiser, and a wise and great-hearted man, she affirmed. The archbishop, she assured Theodora, would help her in her quest for a new direction in her life.

After disembarking from the Eunostos Harbour, separated from the Great Harbour by the Heptastadion — an immense mole nearly two miles long, the two women exchanged fond farewells and went their separate ways: Irene to the principal post station* for the next stage of her journey, Theodora to the palace of the Patriarch.

Theodora was thrilled and fascinated by the great metropolis, founded eight and a half centuries before, by the young Macedonian conqueror. In contrast to Constantinople, with its hills and jumble of narrow lanes, Alexandria was flat, laid out on a grid system with wide avenues and grand squares, and bisected by the Canopic Way — a magnificent hundred-foot wide promenade, reputedly the longest street in the world. This was crossed by the equally broad Argeus running north and south, the intersection of the two forming the hub of the municipal and administrative district. Everywhere among the crowds were clerics — monks, nuns, priests, ragged anchorites — many of them, Theodora suspected (remembering the words of Irene), Monophysite refugees fleeing persecution. From one, she obtained directions to the dwelling of the Patriarch, a modest villa adjoining the cathedral of St Mark.

After waiting for an hour with others in an outer chamber, Theodora’s turn came to be admitted to the bishop’s presence. She entered a sparsely furnished tablinum or study, its lack of chairs and tables compensated for by open cupboards crammed with scrolls and codices. Timothy, a full-bearded giant exuding energy and confidence, waved her to a chair, the room’s only seat barring that occupied by the bishop himself. To Theodora’s surprise, he wore a simple priest’s robe instead of the richly embroidered vestments proper to the office of a Patriarch.

‘Well, it would seem my good friend Abbess Irene, our sister in Christ, has formed a high opinion of you,’ boomed Timothy, after perusing the abbess’ letter of introduction. ‘She hints that you have had a chequered past not without its share of troubles, but that now you wish to follow a fresh path in life. She maintains that despite lacking any advantages of wealth or education, you possess in your favour youth, courage, a generous heart, and an excellent mind.’ Looking up from the missive, Timothy barked, ‘None of which, of course, will be the slightest use to you, unless you also have that most essential of ingredients — luck.’

‘Was it not luck, Your Holiness, that directed I should meet Irene, and thus yourself?’

The bishop stared at Theodora, then shook his head and chuckled. ‘You may have a point. At least you’ve got a ready tongue, which counts for something, I suppose. I’m wondering how I can be of service to you.’ Shooting her a keen glance, he went on, ‘I could always recommend you to a nunnery as a postulant. Perhaps not,’ he continued hurriedly, as Theodora gave a slight shake of her head. ‘Well then — how about working as an almoner until you find your bearings? Free bed and board, plus allowance — only a tiny one, I fear.’

‘Yes, I’d like that,’ replied Theodora, immediately attracted by the idea of working with deprived people, helping lives less fortunate than hers.

And so began the happiest period Theodora had thus far known in her short life — a strange, fulfilling interlude in which she discovered, through her work with the poor, a natural empathy and ability to communicate with others. Her peregrinations sometimes took her past the theatre, situated near the waterfront; somewhat to her surprise, she felt not the slightest twinge of regret or nostalgia on these occasions. From her base in the Convent of St Catherine situated in Rhakotis, a poor quarter in the west of the city, she made periodic reports to Timothy, who seemed to take a personal interest in her welfare as well as in the progress of her work. Noticing the curiosity she displayed towards his impressive collection of volumes, he gave her the freedom of his library, a privilege which afforded Theodora enormous satisfaction. She simply could not get enough of books; her keen and active mind, so long starved of knowledge, hungrily absorbed their contents as fast as she was able to unroll papyrus scrolls or turn the pages of parchment codices. Plato, Aristotle, Isocrates, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Polybius, Caesar, Tacitus, Dio Cassius, Ammianus: all were greedily devoured (Latin authors in Greek translations, for although Constantinople was a bilingual city, Theodora had but a smattering of the tongue of Cicero and Virgil). The subtle metaphysics of Christian theologians such as Athanasius or Augustine proved a tough challenge, but also a source of gratification when she found she could (mostly) unravel their complexities.

‘A pity you can’t supplement my poor collection from the richest store of knowledge known to man,’ sighed Timothy one day when she showed up to present her report, ‘ — the great library of Alexandria, burned down by a Christian mob over a century ago in the time of the first Theodosius.’ He shook his great head sadly. ‘Misguided bigots. Fanaticism — the curse of the Eastern mind, I fear. Hence the present unhappy state of near-schism between the Monophysites — Easterners of Syria and Egypt, unbending in devotion to their creed — and the Chalcedonians of the West.’

‘But Irene said you favoured the Monophysites.’

‘True. But not too openly, I fear.’ Timothy grinned ruefully and spread his hands, as if to disown what he was about to say. ‘As Patriarch, officially I represent the emperor in a spiritual sense, so can’t afford to wear my heart upon my sleeve. Monophysites, you see, can tolerate a bit of mystery in their creed. Christ, to us, though born of woman is still entirely God, and so can have but one, divine, nature. Egyptians like myself, and Syrians — a Semitic people — have no problem accepting that apparent contradiction. Try to force us to abandon our belief and you risk provoking insurrection on a massive scale. Of the multitude of monks and nuns on the streets out there, scarcely one but would gladly give their life to defend a view we hold so passionately — fanatically, if you like. Although, speaking for myself, I can understand the Chalcedonian point of view, and — tell it not in Gath — even sympathize with it to some extent. Luckily, the present imperial regime has the good sense to turn a partial blind eye to what it regards as Monophysite heresy — at least in Egypt. Four centuries ago, Titus and Hadrian faced the same sort of problem when they stirred up a hornet’s nest by tampering with the religion of the Jews — another race of Semites.’

‘Then why on earth does the government insist on uniformity, when that risks turning half the Empire into heretics?’

Timothy rose, and began to pace the tablinum. ‘Ah — there you have the Graeco-Roman mind,’ he boomed, wheeling to begin another circuit of the chamber, ‘whose legacy is Greek philosophy and Roman law. You Westerners, with your restless probing intellects, never satisfied until you have defined a thing precisely, or worked out a rational solution to a problem. To you, Christ, because He walked the earth as man, yet also was the Son of God, logically must have two natures: human and divine. Q.E.D., as Euclid would have said. Anyone who can’t see that is just being obstinately unreasonable. And as one true belief is as important for personal salvation as it is for promoting political unity within the Empire, orthodoxy must be made to prevail. Anyway, that’s how the Chalcedonians would see it.’

‘Then the Chalcedonians are stupid as well as narrow-minded!’

‘Really, my dear,’ declared Timothy, holding up his hands in mock horror, ‘such views — while refreshingly forthright — are also hopelessly naive.’ He halted his perambulations to stab an accusing finger at Theodora. ‘Heaven help you if you were ever called upon to defend them in argument. You would be utterly demolished, and deservedly so. I have a suggestion: tomorrow, I visit an old friend, one Severus, Patriarch of Antioch and an ardent Monophysite, so presently in Alexandria as a refugee from persecution. He’s renowned throughout the Roman world for his skill in disputation, and as a teacher. Were I to ask him, I’m sure he would be willing to accept you as his pupil. What do you say?

Under Severus’ benignly merciless tuition, Theodora learned to hold her own in theological argument and debate. By the end of three months in the Egyptian capital, Theodora’s metamorphosis was almost complete. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, she had become transformed from the frightened lonely derelict who had fled from Apollonia. In a world which had shown her little kindness, she had at last encountered others who had given her true and disinterested affection. (That two of these were male had shown her that there were at least some men prepared to value her for herself alone, and not just for the pleasure her body could provide.) Buoyed up by the friendship of two eminent and respected figures who had helped her to regain her self-respect and cultivate her mind (as well as imbuing her with sympathy and admiration for the Monophysites), she was ready to embark on the next stage of her voyage of self-discovery. For Alexandria, she knew, could only be a staging-post. She must find her destiny, whatever that should prove to be, in her home city, Constantinople, with its strong pull of family and genius loci — the place’s soul.

‘I understand, my dear,’ said Timothy sadly, when she told him the time had come to move on. ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions,* and you must seek your fortune wherever it may call you. I can’t pretend you won’t be greatly missed; the poor whom you served so well have come to love you — as have I, as a father loves a daughter. May I suggest you break your journey in Antioch, where an old friend of mine lives — a wealthy widow with many contacts in the world of trade and business. I’d be surprised if Macedonia were unable to help you find an opening in work you’d find congenial. I’ll give you a letter of introduction.’

Timothy did more than that. Although Theodora had saved enough (just) from her stipend to cover the cost of the voyage home, the bishop pressed on her a bag of solidi, ‘for unforeseen emergencies’ (a kindness Theodora would one day repay a thousand-fold**).

Disembarking at Seleucia — Antioch’s harbour, fourteen miles from the sea on the River Orontes — Theodora entered ‘The Crown of the East’ via the great city’s Watergate. Before her stretched a vast townscape, its suburbs chequered with orchards, olive groves, and vineyards, extending to the lower slopes of Mount Casius three miles distant. A few enquiries enabled her to track down Macedonia’s home, its entrance opening onto the street in the wealthy suburb of Daphne. On producing Timothy’s letter of introduction, she was conducted by a porter to the atrium — a courtyard floored with magnificent mosaics and surrounded by colonnaded walkways. ‘The Domina will be with you presently,’ the man murmured respectfully and withdrew. A little later, an attractive and elegantly clad lady entered the atrium and approached Theodora. While still some yards away, she halted, and exclaimed, ‘The actress from Constantinople!’

‘The dancer from Antioch!’ gasped Theodora in sudden recognition, as a tide of feelings, long suppressed, surged up inside her.

* The Alexandrian terminus of the cursus publicus — the imperial post. See Notes.

* In this quotation from the Bible, ‘mansion’ doesn’t mean a large house. The English meaning of the Latin mansio is ‘station, stage’ (Cassell’s New Compact Latin Dictionary) — i.e. a staging-post on the cursus publicus.

** See Notes.