Justinian

NINE

‘Benedico vos in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,’ intoned Epiphanius, Patriarch of Constantinople, at the conclusion of the marriage service in the great Church of the Holy Wisdom, adorned by splendid mosaics and myriad statues of emperors and saints, with windows glazed by plates of translucent marble. Justinian and Theodora were then given the sacrament of Christ’s body, followed by that of His blood in a silver spoon. The veil held over the pair was now exchanged for nuptial crowns, and hand in hand, they walked slowly down the thronged nave, past courtiers, senators, patricians, officers of the Excubitors and Scholae, ministers and civil servants — all splendidly arrayed in parade uniforms or long silk robes. Peering down excitedly from the gallery, among the assembled ladies-in-waiting, maids of honour, and wives and daughters of the dignitaries in the nave below, were Theodora’s mother, and her sisters Comito and Anastasia.

Emerging from the church into the Augusteum, Justinian and Theodora showed themselves to the vast and enthusiastic crowd waiting in the great square. Only among the upper classes, following the wedded pair in procession, were murmurings of disapproval heard: ‘. . He’s not one of us, that’s for sure. . a pair of upstarts. . He’s got barbarian ancestors, I’ve heard, and she used to be an actress — an actress! Justin had to change the law forbidding stage performers from marrying people of higher rank. . the wedding had to be postponed, you know, until the old Empress Euphemia died; she wasn’t going to countenance that common little tart succeeding to the throne. . and did you see her mother and sisters in the gallery, dressed up to the nines in those ghastly outfits, fancying themselves as good as senators’ wives? I hear that Comito, the eldest daughter is to marry a general; whatever next — patricians’ daughters marrying charioteers. .?’

Theodora’s heart swelled with pride as the crowd began to cheer. Eat your heart out, Hecebolus, she thought, and you Greens who taunted my family and me when we appealed to you for help in the Hippodrome all those years ago, and you narrow-minded snobs among the aristocracy and, worst of all, among the nouveaux riches, who’d looked down on me because I trod the boards. From being regarded as the lowest of the low I’m now above the lot of you, married to one destined to become the ruler of New Rome, the most powerful man in the world. Fondly, she glanced at the tall, handsome figure to her right: this kind, brilliant, sensitive, ambitious, vulnerable man — whom she’d mended and made whole, and who would never come to harm as long as she was by his side. She remembered their first meeting, a year ago. .

Following her return to the capital from Antioch, Theodora invested some of the money Timothy had given her into renting a property in Region VIII near the Julian Harbour — an area populated by small craftsmen, where in consequence the rents were not too high. Above the living quarters of the house was a large, well-lit garret, which (consulting Macedonia’s business plan) she set about converting into a workshop for spinning wool. Bypassing middlemen, she contacted (from a list again supplied by Macedonia) various suppliers from whom she obtained stocks of fine quality wool grown by sheep-farmers in the high central plateaux of Anatolia. Next, following a cause close to her heart, she recruited out-of-work actresses as workers in her business. As she knew from bitter personal experience, they might otherwise be tempted into prostitution to make ends meet. With experienced spinners hired to train her workers, Theodora’s business flourished, as clothiers, soon recognizing the quality of her product, competed to buy her yarns.

She longed to offer employment to girls forced to work in brothels, but accepted, sadly, that this was something beyond her present power to achieve. The plight of such females was wretched, amounting to virtual slavery. With the hope of enlisting a powerful ally in tackling this evil, she decided to approach Petrus Sabbatius (renamed Justinian on his becoming consul, she discovered), to whom she had a letter of introduction provided by Macedonia. His impressive list of titles suggested a man of standing and importance who might, she thought, be able to help provided she could win him round. Her hopes were further raised when she learned that this Justinian was none other than the nephew of the emperor.

Presenting herself at the Chalke or ‘Brazen House’ from its great bronze doors — the grand entrance vestibule of the imperial palace — she produced her letter of introduction. ‘You’ll be lucky,’ grunted the porter after briefly scanning the document. ‘His Nobilissimus ain’t receiving visitors these days — not since he got back from Arabia. Suppose there’s no harm in trying, though. Ask at the Magnaura — that’s the main audience hall.’

Entering the sprawling collection of buildings and gardens connected by porticoed walkways, Theodora, with some difficulty, eventually tracked down the Magnaura. The silentiarius on duty in the corridor outside, studied the letter then shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a journey for nothing,’ he declared in tones of polite regret. ‘The Count of the Domestics — His Most Noble, the Patrician — is unable to see anyone at present.’

‘Oh, please,’ Theodora entreated, assuming her most winning smile, ‘it’s about something that’s very important to me. He may be the only person who can help, I think.’ Feeling in her purse for an obol piece with which to tip the man, she remembered, just in time, that these were gentlemen ushers, who would be greatly offended if offered a gratuity. Something of the charm and force of personality that had so affected Timothy seemed to penetrate the armour of the usher — member of a tribe of past masters in the art of administering courteous rebuffs.

‘Wait here,’ he said with a wry grin, shaking his head. ‘God knows why I’m doing this.’ And he set off down the corridor. Returning after a few minutes he declared, ‘The Patrician will see you now,’ and conducted her along a maze of passages to a porchway opening onto a small colonnaded garden. Chin resting on his hands, a solitary figure sat beside a fountain.

‘Theodora — the protegee of Macedonia of Antioch, Patricius,’ announced the usher, and withdrew.

The seated figure rose and smiled at Theodora, who was immediately struck by several things about him: tall and good-looking, the man had a quiet presence; his affable expression suggested a kind and gracious personality; but dark shadows beneath the eyes, and lines around the mouth, hinted at some secret and deeply troubling worry.

‘Macedonia — a charming lady, as I recall,’ the man said, his voice low and pleasant, yet with a note of underlying sadness. ‘One of our chief suppliers of olive oil and wines. I would gladly be of service to one who is her friend.’

Theodora explained how, with help from Macedonia’s business plan, she had started her wool-spinning project and staffed it with unemployed actresses, thus saving them from having to sell their bodies to make ends meet. ‘But what I have really set my heart on, Patricius,’ she went on (copying the form of address the silentiarius had used), ‘is to do something to help those whose only livelihood is prostitution.’

‘I don’t wish to appear hard-hearted,’ said the other gently, ‘but if that is what they choose to do, why should they be helped? Though Augustine might disagree, God, as Pelagius points out, has given us all free will to make our own decisions.’

‘But Patricius,’ declared Theodora passionately, ‘the girls who work in brothels are not there from choice! Let me explain. Prostitution is big business, providing for a certain loathsome type of parasite a chance to make a quick and easy living. These pimps travel round the provinces, persuading poor families to part with their daughters for a few gold coins — a fortune to penurious coloni,* often saddled with crippling debt. The inducement offered never varies: a promise of a better life for the girl in Constantinople or some other big city, working as a governess or maid or such like, to some wealthy aristocrat. Once they arrive at their destination however, a cruel surprise awaits the poor, duped girls. Sold on by the pimps to brothel-owners, they are asked to sign a contract; of course they’ve no idea what they’re letting themselves in for, thus legally binding themselves over to a life of prostitution. No fine clothes or rich food, no light domestic work plus a good salary with which to augment their parents’ income. Only a wretched and degrading form of slavery, from which the only escape is to become too old or worn-out to be of further use to their master — when they’re thrown out onto the street to fend for themselves’

‘That’s appalling!’ the Patricius exclaimed, appearing genuinely shocked. ‘I confess I’d no idea such a thing went on. Thank you, Theodora, for bringing it to my attention. Be assured, I’ll speak about this to my uncle. Between us, with the help of one Procopius — a brilliant young lawyer who has done good work for us — we will make a beginning: draft measures which, hopefully, will eventually become legislation.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ declared Theodora, hardly able to believe that her appeal had produced such an immediate and positive response. ‘Dare I ask, Patricius — how long?’

‘Unfortunately, Theodora, such things take time. From what you say, the practice would seem deep-rooted and widespread, involving ruthless men with vested interests. But imperial decrees have cracked tougher nuts before. Have no fear that something will be done — just as soon as we can get the wheels of law to turn. Come to me next week — same day, same time — and I’ll tell you what we’ve managed to do.’

Delighted to have made such progress, Theodora left the palace (Region I) and returned to her workshop in Region VIII. In the course of the short journey, she recalled something which caused her heart to lift. On parting from the patrician, she had noted that the signs of worry on his face appeared to have lifted somewhat. Her imagination? Or the result of her having provided him with a positive interest to help take him out of himself? That it was an altruistic cause he had taken up convinced her that she was dealing with a good and conscientious man, who would back his words with action.

During the next few weeks, Theodora had regular meetings with the patrician. At first, their discussions were confined to juridical details regarding the legal status of prostitutes. But over time, discovering a mutual interest in theology and certain aspects of philosophy as they impinged on law, these topics were included in debate. When Theodora (thanks to her voracious reading in Timothy’s library in Alexandria) was able to quote Isocrates* in the latter context, Justinian was visibly impressed, and took to consulting her opinion on various matters on a regular basis.

This enabled Theodora to put in a good word for the Monophysites. ‘The people of Syria and Egypt are your loyal subjects, Patricius,’ she pleaded, ‘who wish only to be allowed to worship in their own way. By continuing to persecute them, you run the risk of alienating half the Empire. I ask you — is it worth it? And is it right that brilliant minds like Timothy and Severus, good men and ornaments of Rome, should be made to suffer for their faith?’

‘You’re fast becoming a Seneca to my Nero,’ replied the Patricius with a smile. ‘Hopefully the young Nero — before power went to his head. As always, Theodora, your words give food for thought. You have a point; I daresay in our concern for uniformity my uncle and I may have erred on the side of being overzealous. I’ll mull over what you’ve said.’

Without either being consciously aware that such a thing was happening, a deep friendship began to form between the two — something at last openly acknowledged when the patrician invited her to call him by his name, Justinianus. So it seemed entirely natural and unobtrusive when, one day (during a bout of the depression which visited him periodically), she found herself asking, as a concerned friend would, if anything was troubling him.

Justinian looked up, his face a mask of misery. ‘I’m glad you asked me that,’ he said. ‘For far too long I’ve kept my tribulation to myself. But you, I think, alone of everyone I know, will understand — even perhaps be able to offer me advice.’ He paused, then went on in a whisper, ‘I’m cursed, you see, Theodora. It seems I have the gift of inspiring others to wish to follow me; a fatal gift, I fear, like that vouchsafed to Midas. Only with me, it’s not myself I harm, but others.’ It all came out then, as though gushing from some deep well of sorrow and regret: the deaths of Atawulf and Valerian, the duel with Nearchus in his student days, his near-fatal hesitation before recommending Roderic for emperor to the Senate. In each case, cowardly irresolution on his part had prevented or nearly prevented him from acting, leaving his conscience permanently scarred.

‘In my dreams I still see that helmet on the cliff!’ he cried, ‘ — still hear Atawulf ’s despairing calls for help, still see my dearest friend Valerian spitted by a Galla spear, still feel the blow I inflicted on myself in the Cistern of Nomus. Look — I yet bear the mark!’ And he pointed to a faint, star-shaped scar on his forehead. ‘The truth is, Theodora, I’m bad for those I allow to become close to me.’ He shot Theodora an anguished glance. ‘I’ll probably turn out to be bad for you as well — something I would not have happen for the world. Perhaps it’s best we don’t see each other any more.’

Instinctively, Theodora rushed over to him, took him in her arms. She felt an overwhelming surge of pity and affection. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she murmured, cradling his head against her breast, ‘there’s nothing wrong with you that can’t be put right. I think I understand what the root of your problem is. In the past, you’ve seen yourself — as many Romans think they ought to see themselves — as a man of Mars: strong, courageous, displaying active leadership. But perhaps you’re not a man of action,’ she continued gently. ‘And there’s no shame in admitting that. Inspiring and directing men need not consist in leading from the front. Let others do that for you. Don’t you think that that’s where your true genius may lie, Justinian — in choosing the right men to carry out your plans?’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ breathed the other, wonderingly. He paused, then went on, ‘Yes — I believe you are right. Why could I not have seen that for myself?’

‘Sometimes it takes another to see in us what we can’t ourselves perceive. Isn’t there a verse in Scripture somewhere about motes and beams?’

‘“Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?”’ quoted Justinian with a smile. ‘Luke 6, verse 41.’

From that moment Justinian’s mind began to heal. Freed from the burden of past guilt, he began to form plans — schemes that suddenly now blossomed (from what had previously been vague aspirations) into designs for ambitious projects. As though it were the most natural thing in the world, he found himself eagerly discussing these with Theodora: reform of Roman Law; great buildings which would incorporate exciting new design ideas, enabling, for example, the construction of stupendous domes of a size never before conceived; and — something he had hardly yet dared to think about, so mind-blowing in its boldness was the concept — the recovery of the Western Empire from the barbarians who had overrun it. ‘Together, we shall make Rome greater than she’s ever been before,’ he enthused.

‘Together?’ Theodora smiled indulgently. ‘You flatter me, Justinian. You make us sound like partners.’

A silence followed, a silence in which both came to realize that an invisible boundary had somehow been crossed. ‘We could be partners, Theodora,’ Justinian said at last. ‘In every way.’ He smiled gravely. ‘I’m hopelessly in love with you, you know — something I’ve never felt before for any woman. Theodora — I’m asking if you’ll marry me.’

Theodora’s mind reeled as she tried to analyze her reactions. She liked Justinian enormously, and, as a result of helping to restore him to himself, felt (mingled with a Pygmalion-like concern for her ‘creation’) a fierce protectiveness towards him that was almost maternal in its tenderness. But did this amount to love? She thought perhaps it did — a kind of loving, anyway. But, admittedly, as different from the love she had for Macedonia as a quiet stream is from a raging flood. To become the wife of Justinian! — that opened up unimagined possibilities. After Hecebolus, she had promised herself that never again would she become dependent on a man. But to the spouse of the emperor-designate that condition scarcely applied. She herself would hold patrician rank, and thus be entitled to a palace and income of her own, in perpetuity. However, since Macedonia had shown Theodora her true nature to herself, would she not be living a lie if she married? Whatever she decided, nothing would be gained, she told herself, by being anything but honest with this fine, good man.

And there were considerations beyond the strictly personal to be taken into account — factors which seemed to tilt the scales in favour of accepting Justinian’s proposal. Her efforts to alleviate the plight of prostitutes would be immeasurably strengthened. Why limit that to prostitutes? The status of all women throughout the Roman world was circumscribed by laws which favoured men. As Justinian’s consort, she would be in a position to change that for the better. Then there was her family — her two sisters and her mother; at a stroke, their lives could be lifted out of poverty into security and comfort. And what about the Monophysites, especially her dear friends Timothy and Severus, at present suffering under unjust persecution? She had made a good beginning there, in getting Justinian to see the benefits of toleration. But think how much more she could achieve, as his wife.

‘May I dare to hope?’ asked Justinian softly, with a gentle smile.

‘I must be frank with you, my dear,’ replied Theodora, taking him by the hand and looking fondly into his face. ‘I cannot love you in the way that is usual between a woman and a man, for such is not my nature. But I love you, or at least I think I do, in the sense that Plato means when he says, “The true lover loves the beauty of the soul rather than the beauty of the body”. If you can accept me on those terms, Justinian, then I will gladly marry you.’

Was it relief that she saw in his eyes — relief that was more than the joy of the accepted suitor, hinting that his love for her was of the same kind that she felt for him? If so, theirs should be a happy union indeed, their kind of love the strongest bond of all — agap, the pure love that blossoms between soul-mates.

During the weeks when she was getting to know Justinian, one incident occurred which marred, momentarily, Theodora’s serenity of mood.

Reporting one day for her regular meeting in the palace, she found, instead of Justinian, a smooth and self-possessed young man who introduced himself as, ‘Procopius of Caesarea, lawyer, man of letters, and world-citizen.’ Today, he explained, Justinian was unable to be present and had asked Procopius to take his place. They were to discuss the business of compensation for brothel-owners, in the event of legislation being passed that would outlaw prostitution.

‘I have here a list of samples, taken from every province in the Empire, of the various rates paid for girls by brothel-owners. As you will see when you peruse it, they vary widely. The best solution is to work out a mean rate as the basis for a standard payment, one that will satisfy all brothel-owners.’

At the conclusion of the session (with the task barely half-completed) after tying up his codices, Procopius seemed inclined to linger. ‘If you’re hoping to become his mistress,’ he said with a conniving wink, ‘then you’re in for a long wait. Justinian’s a cold fish. He wouldn’t be interested, even if you offered it to him on a plate.’

‘The thought never occurred to me,’ replied Theodora icily. ‘You’ve got a filthy mind, Procopius. I think you’d better go.’

‘Come on, don’t give me that,’ sneered the other. ‘I know your sort, Theodora. Proper little prick-teaser, aren’t you? Don’t imagine I haven’t heard that you once trod the boards. Everyone knows that actresses are always ready to turn a trick. Well, let me enlighten you, my dear. You’re wasting your time where Justinian’s concerned. Instead, why not share my bed? You’re quite a looker, I’ll give you that. I’d pay good money.’

‘You disgust me,’ Theodora retorted. ‘Just get out.’

‘Playing hard to get, are we? Well, I don’t mind; it adds a little spice to the proceedings.’ And with a lascivious grin, Procopius slid an arm around her waist, and with his free hand gripped her chin.

Reacting instantly, Theodora jerked her head free and bit the offending hand on the fleshy part below the thumb.

‘Bitch!’ yelled Procopius, whipping his hand away. He stared at a row of tooth-marks in his skin, some already welling blood. ‘I’ll pay you back for that,’* he snarled, and stormed away.

Following the wedding, the transfer of power from Justin to Justinian — a process whose pace had been steady rather than rapid, began swiftly to accelerate. With the old emperor’s health — mental as well as physical — now failing fast, Justinian found himself managing affairs of state virtually alone. Accordingly, eighteen months after his marriage, Justinian was made co-emperor (with Theodora as empress). Then, four months later Justin died,** and was succeeded by his nephew as sole ruler of the Roman world.

Mindful of Theodora’s advice, Justinian, having abandoned the idea of leading any project personally, had already (following his instinct, which proved invariably sound) delegated the implementing of his plans to men of his choice. Selected first and foremost for efficiency and loyalty, and (as a matter of priority) not from any of the great Roman families who sullenly resented the upstart from Tauresium, they made a formidable team. With a view to consolidating his power, Justinian intended these to be long-term or even permanent appointments (depending of course on performance), thus breaking with the age-old tradition of very short tenures of office. Among several generals (one of whom, Sittas, was honoured by being allowed to marry Comito, Theodora’s elder sister), pre-eminent were two very different men: Belisarius, a dashing young cavalry officer and a veteran (at twenty-one!) of a campaign against the Persians; and a much older man, Narses, a eunuch from Persian Armenia. Slight and frail-looking, a Monophysite — hence attracting Theodora’s support, Narses (belying popular beliefs regarding eunuchs) was extremely courageous, honourable, and energetic. With a view to implementing his long-cherished plan of reforming Roman Law, Justinian selected one Tribonian, a lawyer supremely gifted as an organizer and collator. And to carry out his building schemes, he was to choose the brilliant engineer and architect, Anthemius of Tralles. Finally, to streamline and reform the civil service, he appointed one who had already impressed him under Justin — John the Cappadocian.

With the Blues behind him to ‘discourage’ any who might challenge his authority, Justinian now felt himself the undisputed master of the realm he had inherited. But, unwittingly, in making one of his appointments, he had sown the seed of something that would shake his grip on power and almost bring about his downfall.

* Procopius is here referring to ex-prostitutes rehabilitated in the Convent of Repentance, following the ban against brothel-keepers..

* Tenant farmers/peasants.

* A brilliant orator and rhetorician, Isocrates, 436–338 BC, devoted his talents to producing written models on how to win legal cases. (See Notes.)

* Which he duly did — ‘in spades’, as they say. (See Notes.)

** On 1 August 527.