Justinian

TWENTY-SEVEN

Hurrying through the Palace corridors en route to Theodora’s bedchamber, Justinian was intercepted by Theoctistus, the imperial physician.

‘What ails the Empress?’ cried Justinian distractedly. ‘I had no idea anything was amiss. I–I came immediately I received your message.’ Grabbing the other’s arm, he stared with wild-eyed panic into the man’s face. ‘How is she?’

‘The Augusta sleeps, Serenity,’ replied the medicus, a grave-faced man of calm demeanour. ‘I have increased her medication. She is very sick, I fear. But, to spare you from worrying, she has insisted these past months, while secluding herself in her summer palace of Hieron, that you were told nothing. Until now, that is.’

‘Until now! What does that mean?’

‘Her sickness is terminal, I fear, Serenity. She has a cancer in her back — beyond my skill to operate.’

Theoctistus, formerly the army’s most brilliant surgeon, had saved the life of many a soldier whom other physicians had despaired of helping. When such a one declared a case hopeless. . Nevertheless, Justinian found himself clutching at straws. ‘A cancer — can that not be cut out?’ he gabbled.

‘Not in this case, Serenity. It is too deep. Besides, it has now spread,’ he added gently, his face creased with compassion, ‘The best that I can do is ease her pain with a potion I’ve prepared: an infusion of mandragora — poein anasthesian, as we say — to dull the pain. I should warn you, though; its effectiveness will soon diminish rapidly.’

‘How long?’ whispered the emperor, a terrible sense of impending loss replacing his initial shock.

‘A month at most, Serenity.’

‘Will she experience much pain, Theoctistus? Please be frank; I have to know.’

‘Very well, Serenity. She is already suffering bouts of severe pain at intervals, which she is enduring with commendable fortitude. These, unfortunately, will increase in frequency and severity. Towards the end, the pain will be unbearable. Unless — ’

‘Unless! You said “unless”, Theoctistus! Does that mean what I think it means?’

‘I can supply the means, Serenity, to ensure that death comes swiftly and without pain. As a physician, I am constrained by my Hippocratic oath which begins, “First, do no harm”, from administering it myself.’ Glancing keenly at the emperor, he added softly, ‘But perhaps another may.’

‘For her sake, I must be strong; I must be strong,’ Justinian repeated to himself as he entered the bedchamber. But, at the sight of that beloved face drained of all colour to a waxy pallor, his resolve crumbled and he broke down.

‘You cannot, must not leave me,’ he sobbed. ‘I myself, the Patriarch, all Constantinople, will pray for you. God, the All-Powerful, will surely heed our intercessions and restore you to health.’

‘Don’t torture yourself with false hopes, my dear,’ murmured Theodora, summoning a tremulous smile. ‘My time has come. I have accepted that, and so must you. We have been fortunate, you and I. Our married life together has been long and good; not many are so blessed. Besides, our parting will not be forever. Soon, I must be in Heaven, but you will join me there in God’s good time.’ Suddenly, she took a sharp intake of breath and winced, biting her lower lip with such force as to draw blood. After a few moments she relaxed, then whispered, ‘The pain — it strikes suddenly, without warning; but it is gone now. For a while.’

Cursing himself for being so blindly obsessed with implementing the religious aspect of his Grand Plan that he had been unaware that his wife was sick — Theodora, who had nursed him so devotedly while he lay stricken with the plague, his loyal helpmeet through thick and thin these twenty-three years — Justinian could only hold her hand and gaze at her with helpless love from tear-blurred eyes as she drifted into sleep.

The time had come. His heart pounding, his breathing shallow and constricted, Justinian was seized with a fit of trembling so violent that he could scarcely hold the phial that Theoctistus had made ready. It contained, in addition to Theodora’s usual medicine, a substance called arsenikon — in a quantity sufficient to cause the patient ‘to pass peacefully away within an hour’, as the medicus had assured him. The memory of the terrible agony he had witnessed Theodora enduring in the last few days had nerved the emperor at last to carry out the task he knew he must perform.

‘Time for your morning dose, my love,’ said Justinian in a broken voice, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Had she guessed? he wondered, as he poured the phial’s contents into a cup which he held to her lips. Steadying his shaking hand with hers, she drained the vessel in a single draught.

‘Don’t weep, my love,’ she murmured, her head falling back on the pillow. ‘We shall meet again in a place where there will be no more tears nor pain, but only joy and peace.’ Her eyes began to close, then opened suddenly. With a smile and a hint of her old spirit, she declared in a low but clear voice, ‘You and I — the barbarian from Thrace and the bear-keeper’s daughter from the Hippodrome, together we showed the world, did we not?’

‘We surely did, my dear,’ whispered her husband in choked tones. ‘We showed the world indeed.’

Stirring awake, Justinian took a few seconds to come to himself. Exhaustion from shock and the strain of the past days must have temporarily overcome him, he told himself. Then he realized that the little hand he held in his was cold. In sudden panic, he bent his ear to her lips, could detect no sound nor sign of breath. The awful truth hit him: Theodora was dead!* — had died while, unforgiveably, he had slept. He felt as though the central pillar of his life had suddenly been knocked away, leaving him, at sixty-six, bereft and utterly alone. The remainder of his life seemed to stretch away before him like a bleak and barren desert. What meaning had his Grand Plan now, when there was no Theodora to share it with?

A great cry of grief and loss burst from the emperor. To have taken Theodora from him, God must surely have abandoned him — no longer His vicegerent upon earth. The old morale-sapping conviction that he was somehow cursed came flooding back; those who had been close to him had always come to harm — now including Theodora. The dreadful thought occurred to him that, being the instrument of her passing, in the eyes not only of the law but of the Church, he was guilty of the cardinal sin of murder. That he had acted out of love and pity made no difference. For such a terrible deed there could be no absolution. Therefore, for him no entry into Heaven, and thus no prospect of a joyful reunion with Theodora to comfort his declining years. But was not God a kind and loving Father, who would surely stay His Hand from punishing one who had always striven faithfully to serve Him? And had not Christ His Son declared that he who repented should not perish? As he had done before, he would pray to God to give him a sign. On that occasion, his prayer had been answered; surely, this time it would be again. Hope and dread mingling with overwhelming sorrow, he kissed his wife’s cold forehead. Then, after summoning Theoctistus, he made his way towards his private oratory.

‘. . and all my life, Lord, I have tried to do Your bidding,’ intoned the emperor. ‘I have set about recovering the West for Rome, the Roman Empire being the vehicle for the spreading of Your Word over all the world. Though the work is yet unfinished, Lord, much has been achieved. Also, I have striven to establish one single faith throughout the Empire, to the end that You be worshipped in a true and fitting manner. I freely own, Lord, that I have not yet succeeded in accomplishing this latter task, but with perseverance and Your aid, hope eventually to illuminate the darkness that presently obscures the minds of many of my subjects.

‘And lastly, Lord, I confess to having ended the life of my beloved spouse Theodora. I tell myself I did so out of love, to end her pain. But is it possible, Lord, that I acted out of weakness — to spare myself the distress of witnessing her suffering? If that should be the case, Lord, I truly repent of my great sin, and ask You to look with compassion on Justinian, Your unworthy servant. And that I may truly know You have forgiven me, vouchsafe to me a sign, I beseech You, O Lord.’

The shadow of the cross upon the altar grew shorter as it moved towards the base, merged briefly with it, then, appearing on the other side, began to lengthen. The distant rumble of the vendors’ carts as they headed for the city gates before they closed signalled the approach of evening. When the light within the oratory grew so dim that the kneeling emperor could no longer read the frieze of prayers inscribed around the window’s architrave, he knew at last no sign would be forthcoming. But perhaps to have hoped for a sign was delusion in the first place, the emperor pondered, as a terrible sense of hopelessness and doubt began to permeate his mind. What if the Resurrection was, after all, a myth, and Jesus just a heap of mouldering bones in some forgotten tomb in Palestine? ‘If Christ be not risen,’ Paul had said, ‘then is your faith vain’. Justinian felt as if a tide of black despair were closing over his head.

In the Triclinium of the Nineteen Couches, in a long, long line the Roman Empire’s great and good filed past the bier on which Theodora lay: Menas, the Orthodox Patriarch, with a retinue of monks and bearded priests; Pope Vigilius, accompained by his nuncio and Stephen his apocrisiarius; bishops from both East and West; toga-clad senators; patricians; prefects in their robes of office; high government officials; magistrates; generals; and finally, Justinian himself. His vision half obscured by tears, the old emperor looked for the last time on that beloved face — marble-pale, from which all ravages of pain and sickness had, as if by a miracle, disappeared, leaving her countenance serene and beautiful. Was this at last His sign? Justinian wondered, with a surge of desperate hope. With trembling hands he placed around her neck a parting gift — a necklace of magnificent jewels to wear inside the tomb. Then, unable to contain his grief, he burst into uncontrollable sobs, suffering himself to be gently led away from the bier. Mastering himself with a huge effort, he signed to the bearers, who lifted up the bier. In a loud voice, the master of ceremonies called three times, ‘Go forth, O Empress! The King of kings and Lord of lords calleth thee.’

In slow and solemn procession, the mourners followed the bier down the length of the great hall, out of the Palace, through the Augusteum, along the Mese thronged with silent citizens, through the Fora of Constantine and Theodosius, to the empress’ last resting-place — the Church of the Holy Apostles. Here, while a choir of clergy sang the Office for the Dead, Theodora’s small body was lifted from the bier and gently placed within a porphyry sarcophagus. ‘Enter into thy rest, O Empress!’ declaimed the master of ceremonies, and the enormous lid of the sarcophagus was lowered by pulleys into place. The congregation then dispersed, and Justinian returned to his empty Palace, broken and in tears.

* She died on the 28 June 548.