Читать книгу A Triple-headed Serpent - Marié Heese - Страница 14

Gelimer and Belisarius continued their measured march toward the Kathisma, accompanied by wave after wave of delirious applause.

“Gracious, he is goodlooking,” said Juliana, clearly not referring to the stocky, swarthy Vandal, whose legs were somewhat bowed. His purple looked to have been lent him, temporarily, by a better figure of a man.

Behind the two leaders rode cuirassiers, marines and mercenaries on horseback, each division preceded by a tall standard with its glittering golden eagle. They rode at a slow pace to keep their places with those who walked. These included members of the Senate in their striped togas and the urban militia in spotless white. All the elements of society were present, thought Theodora in growing dread. The army, the Senate, the people, the priests, even the Patriarch. Perhaps she and Justinian were facing a carefully staged coup.

Now more prisoners entered the stadium, although they hardly appeared particularly abject; they were walking tall.

“He’s brought only the tallest and the best-looking,” said Antonina. “Very handsome they are, too. And there are the other members of Gelimer’s family.”

But not in chains, noted Theodora. Nobody was in chains.

Round the circus the procession made its stately way. Now some heavily laden mule-drawn wagons rumbled into sight. They bore extraordinary treasures. Piles of armour, gold-inlaid. Gold-handled swords, scimitars and daggers. Cups and vases and dishes and spoons and bowls and salt-cellars glittering in the sun. A huge branched candelabrum with tongs and snuff-dishes. A gold seat flanked by winged cherubim. Golden statues with jewelled eyes. The sun struck sparkles on the multiple bright surfaces, brighter than the bronze heads of the snakes atop the serpentine column on the central spina around which the procession had to go.

Next followed an entire gold carriage, drawn by four high-stepping chestnuts; even their coats had a golden sheen. It was empty, with only the driver up on the box. The cheering spectators roared with joy. The triple bronze snakes’ heads appeared to be grinning.

“Incredible riches, quite incredible,” said Justinian, awed. “It is truly hard to believe one’s eyes.”

“All the hoarded treasures of the Vandals, gathered over a century of conquest,” said Narses in wonderment.

“Oh, yes, he scoured the vaults and cellars of all the palaces in the cities he took from the Vandals,” said Antonina.

“Some of it must be old Geiseric’s booty from the sack of Rome,” said Narses. “I believe I can see sacred items of the Jews that Titus looted in Jerusalem and bore home to Italy. It must all be here.”

A king’s ransom, thought Theodora in terror. More than a king’s ransom. Enough to buy and finance an entire empire. They could have planned to have the reigning emperor and empress killed. They could have bribed the guards. They could have brought the carriage to drive in triumph out of the Hippodrome to the palace. No doubt they would be cheered, especially if they distributed largesse. Oh, why had Juliana and Zeno come! Oh, dear God, let them not kill my grandson also, she thought. If we are deposed, he won’t be safe. She put up a hand to cover her trembling lips, feeling faint and nauseous.

Now Belisarius and Gelimer had reached the hard and dusty area below the Kathisma. They looked up at the royal couple. The brightly gaudy procession came to a halt. The Hippodrome went silent. In the hush, Belisarius stepped behind his prisoner, reached out and stripped off the purple robe. He flung it aside.

“Thrice August,” he declared, in a stentorian voice accustomed to addressing massed ranks of men without the services of a mandator to speak for him. “We present to thee and to the Empire of Byzantium the vanquished king of the Vandals, and the spoils of war. And we both declare our solemn oath of loyalty to thee.”

Gelimer stood motionless, denuded of his authority. He bowed his head in sorrow, and said in a less carrying but still audible voice: “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”

Then the two men made full prostrations, side by side.

Once more the crowd erupted in an approving roar. Justinian bowed, throwing his arms wide to indicate his acceptance and grateful thanks. Delighted, Juliana and Zeno waved. Theodora drew a deep breath and exhaled shakily. Glancing sideways, she saw Narses sheathe his sword and smile.

With every month that passed, the wounds and scars that the civitas had suffered were healing. Constantinople had survived the ruin and devastation caused by the Nika riots. The Emperor and Empress were anxious to do whatever they could to prevent another uprising. Theodora had convinced Justinian that the widespread corruption on the part of officials was a major source of anger among the populace. She remembered the riot that had boiled up in Apollonia when she lived there with the governor, Hecebolus.

“We must put a stop to the sale of offices,” she urged, “and ensure that civil posts, especially in the provinces, are filled by men loyal to us, who will properly execute their duty.”

So, a solemn Oath of Office had been instituted by Justinian and Theodora for the first time. Now Cappadocian John would be the first servant of the crown to take the new oath. The gathering of top officials, senators and patricians in the Triclinium of the Nineteen Couches fell silent as the palace priest prepared to administer the oath. Robed in his patrician garb, that looked somewhat incongruous draped on his massively muscular and clearly peasant frame, John stood at a lectern on the floor just below the raised throne chairs, set sideways to the audience and the royal couple on their thrones. He accepted the large codex with embossed golden covers tendered by the priest. A document with the wording of the oath lay on the lectern.

John’s deep rumble spoke the solemn words: “I swear on the all-powerful God, his only begotten son Jesus Christ our God, on the Holy Spirit, on Mary, the holy and glorious ever-virgin Mother of God …”

Theodora wondered whether he would truly feel himself bound by this oath. Probably not. Rumour had it that he had as a young man been a follower of Mithra. If only this could be proved, she thought, she would be easily rid of him, since paganism was forbidden by law. But she had had him watched, and none of her spies had been able to report that he ever attended the illegal gatherings that still took place in secret cellars around the capital.

“… on the four gospels I hold in my hands, on the holy archangels Michael and Gabriel …”

“He attends church, Despoina,” Narses had told her. “To which he wears a dark blue woollen cloak with stars in the lining. It’s a pagan cloak, but he swears it’s a gift from one of the great landowners, and it’s marvellously warm, so he wears it. Says the church is cold enough to freeze off the balls of a marble bull.”

“And that’s a reference to Mithra killing the bull! Oh, he has the most colossal nerve!”

“It indicates just how sure of himself he has become,” said Narses, “since the Emperor reinstated him.”

John continued intoning: “… that I shall keep a pure conscience toward our most divine and pious rulers, Justinian and Theodora his consort in power …”

Theodora, looking iconic in her regalia, head with its jewelled coronet held high, could not resist a small triumphant smile at this. A pure conscience the man had surely never had since he wore swaddling clothes, she thought, but it was extremely satisfying to have him swear this oath in public, with its specific reference to her as the Emperor’s consort in power. Oh, yes!

“… that I shall loyally serve them in carrying out the office that their mercy has entrusted to me …”

Let him remember that, thought Theodora. He serves by our mercy, and he can equally lose his post and his power if it pleases us. At the moment it does not please Justinian to get rid of him. But I can be patient. I can be vigilant. I will bide my time.

“… should I fail in upholding this oath at any time, may I undergo, both here and in the afterlife, in keeping with the terrible judgment of our great Lord God and our Saviour Jesus Christ, the fate of Judah, the leprosy of Gehazi, and the terror of Cain; may I suffer the penalties provided for by the law of their mercy.”

His bold, brutal stare locked with Theodora’s majestic gaze. He held steady for a long moment. But, perhaps slightly unnerved by the frightful curses he had just wished on himself should he fail to keep his oath, he was the first to blink.

Every few days Theodora went to the Hormisdas Palace. Although her movements generally were carefully planned and orchestrated and she seldom went anywhere without a considerable entourage, when she visited the Hormisdas she liked to slip away unaccompanied. Instead of the stately pace at which she proceeded in the public eye, she would make her way there with the quick, light step that had belonged to the Theodora who was not an empress. She would leave her private regal chambers in the Daphne Palace and stride along the corridors, past the polychrome marble pillars and the stolid silentiaries on duty, the statues, vases and mosaics, out of the far double doors, past the palace guards, down the stairs, and along the walkway to the Hormisdas Palace, nestled against the huge outer curve of the Hippodrome, with a small private garden and a terrace with a superb view across the sea.

She would always first look in on her religious refugees, Monophysites all, still sheltering there even though the worst excesses of persecution had let up. A warren of small cells had been constructed by subdividing the large rooms, since the monks did not require much individual space. As she walked in, she was greeted by a deep-throated hum composed of various chants and psalms plus grunts and groans that spoke of self-flagellation, together with a miasma of unwashed humanity. Her palace smelled as if something had died there and lay decomposing in the heat. Undeterred, she would enter several cells, kneeling for a blessing.

Sometimes she would stop to discuss points of theology with some of the holy men, but not today. Today she had a secret she couldn’t wait to share with somebody, a source of such pure happiness that she felt it should shine forth in a telltale radiance. She went straight through to the wing where her friends from her acting days, Indaro and Chrysomallo, had been allowed to make a home.

“Please will you make me one of your sour milk drinks with mint?” she asked Chrysomallo, as she sank back into a pile of cushions on a couch. “It always picks me up.”

Chrysomallo went to fetch it, still moving with the fluid grace of a former dancer, although heavier set than she used to be. She brought a beaker on a silver tray, offered it, sat down and sighed.

“What is it? You both look downcast.”

“It’s Anna,” said Indaro.

“Little Anna? What’s the matter?”

“She’s not little any more, Theodora. She’s eighteen,” said Chrysomallo, with a touch of impatience.

“I hadn’t realised. Well, then, we must find her a husband.” Theodora sipped her drink. Looking at her friends with greater attention, she noted that Chrysomallo’s formerly bright blonde hair had suffered an overdose of henna, while Indaro’s brown locks were streaked with grey. They sat silent, their expressions glum.

“What is it? She’s a lovely girl. I’m sure I could …”

“She’s … I’m afraid … she’s pregnant,” said Chrysomallo, twisting the fringe on her stole and avoiding Theodora’s eyes.

“Well, then the father should marry her. Who is it?”

“One of the palace guards,” said Indaro. “Handsome bastard. Turned her head completely.”

“So he should marry her.”

“He’s already married, it now appears,” said Chrysomallo. “He didn’t tell her that until … until …”

“Should have the bastard stoned,” growled Indaro.

“His solution is that she should … you know … get rid of it.” There were tears in Chrysomallo’s blue eyes.

Indaro put a large hand over her friend’s smaller one. “Don’t cry, lovey,” she said, blinking her own eyes. Oddly, even the glass one could ooze tears.

“Absolutely not,” said Theodora. “I won’t have it. No. I’ll find her a husband, never fear. I know exactly who. We have just published a law forbidding the trade in young girls. I won’t have them sold and I won’t have them abused. Leave it to me.”

Chrysomallo sobbed with relief.

Indaro patted her hand. She looked up at Theodora. “Did you have something to tell us? In particular?”

“No,” said Theodora, “not really.”

Justinian decided that Belisarius merited a consulship. He had prevailed, ultimately, in the Nika riots, and he had won convincingly in Africa. He had delivered the Vandal king, who now lived, according to the promises made to him by Belisarius, in comfort on a fine estate in Constantinople with his family. He, Justinian, would make this magnanimous gesture. It was fitting. And he had great plans for what his victorious general should undertake next.

To mark the occasion Justinian had a special gold medal struck, with his own head on the one side and on the other Belisarius in full armour with the inscription: The Glory of the Romans.

“You don’t think you are overdoing things somewhat?” asked Theodora.

“No, he deserves it. Besides, he brought the most magnificent spoils ever carried in a Roman triumph. A huge contribution to swell the Imperial treasury. Now we can afford the next stage in our grand military plan.”

“Surely, this time, he won’t walk,” said Theodora.

Nor did he. This time, his adoring veterans carried him aloft in his ivory chair of office from the Palace to the Senate House after his ceremonial swearing-in, along a route strewn with myrtle and lined with wildly cheering crowds. It was a considerably shorter progress than when he went on foot during his triumph.

“Just as well,” said Antonina. “Did you see the largesse? He distributed large quantities of his own portion of the spoils to the crowd. The man’s demented. Gold and silver cups, girdles, necklaces, brooches … simply flung them out into the crowds! Many a plebian family has no doubt been set up for life while he beggars himself.”

“I shouldn’t think he threw away quite everything,” said Theodora.

“No, some items were too heavy, might have brained his eager supporters,” said Antonina. “And besides, I took some precautions.”

“Ah. Against a rainy day?”

“Never know when it’s going to rain in Constantinople,” said Antonina. “And by and large it does not rain gold cups and coins.” She looked at Theodora thoughtfully. “Although you, my friend, have a look about you that suggests a shower of solidi, at least.”

“Not that. But I … I’m pregnant. I think. I’m late.”

Antonina leaned forward and took her hand. “How late?”

“Almost three weeks. “

“Have you spoken to any of the palace physicians?”

“No, not yet. It’s just … Well, I’m late.”

“Does Justinian know?”

“Haven’t mentioned it,” said Theodora. “Because it might not …”

Antonina squeezed her hand, hard.

“But it might. It might be my son,” said Theodora. It is possible, she told herself. It is truly possible. She put her other hand on her belly.

“I shall light candles,” said Antonina. “I shall petition the Virgin Mother. For a son.”

Justinian was delighted to receive from Tribonian a revised version of the Codex Constitutionem containing all the laws that the legal commission had recorded in the first version some five years previously, with the addition of all the Novellae, the new laws promulgated in the intervening period, the whole carefully edited.

“No contradictions, nothing obsolete, nothing superfluous,” said Justinian. “A model of clarity. I am most pleased.”

“I see that your preamble refers to the war in Africa,” observed Theodora, leaning over his shoulder to read the inscription: “… Divine providence enabled us to overthrow the Vandal nation and to join again to the Empire Carthage … to bring by our watchful care the old laws out of the heavy burden of age into new beauty … In nomine Domini nostri Iesu, Caesar, the Emperor, Flavius Justinianus, victor over the Vandals and Africa itself … the pious conqueror in triumph, always August. No mention of Belisarius, my love?”

“He was my chosen instrument,” said Justinian, annoyed, “but it was my judgement that appointed him, in the face of opposition from my advisers. My vision that sent him to Africa. My secret agreement with Amalasuintha that ensured revictualling in Sicily. My strategy that divided the Vandal army at a crucial stage.”

“True,” agreed Theodora.

“And my unwearied toil and planning in the watches of the night,” said Justinian, still looking injured.

“Indeed, my love, you are tireless,” soothed Theodora. “And this Codex is extraordinary.”

Justinian was somewhat mollified. “With the Digesta and the Institutiones we now have the Corpus Juris Civilis,” he said. “It is a work of surpassing excellence. An outstanding tool of government. And a record for the ages.”

“One of your dreams has come to fruition,” said Theodora. “But there is still much rebuilding to be done, and further conquests, we must hope, still to come.”

“Indeed. Next, we must subjugate the Goths.”

“Will you launch a war against Italy now?”

“Not yet. I need a casus belli, to attack Italy,” said Justinian. “It is in a sense a vassal state. We have had a friendly alliance with Amalasuintha for some years.”

“Would the old Roman populace in Italy rise up against the Goths?”

“They might support us if we attack. When the time is right. But we must be patient. An opportunity will present itself.”

Theodora planned to tell Justinian of his impending fatherhood when she had seen no menses for a month. She had no doubt that he would be delighted. Even a daughter, she thought, would please him. But a son … a son who would be directly descended from the reigning emperor, who would be brought up from his first days as the heir apparent to the great Empire of Byzantium – not the child of a peasant, who had to clump over the many Roman miles from Illyria, who had to rise up through the ranks of the military, who would always be sneered at by the old aristocrats – not that, she thought, exulting, not a boy with that precarious hold on the crown, but one born to the purple. A Byzantine prince. Yes. It would set the seal on the healing of the civitas. It would be a sign from God. She would bear a prince for Byzantium.

But then: she woke up one morning to a familiar sensation of warm stickiness. She lay rigid, staring at the ornate ceiling above her bed in the Daphne Palace. No, she thought, no, no, no! She groaned. She pushed aside the coverlet and rolled to one side. Nothing there, no mark, no stain. Maybe …

She investigated with a trembling finger. Brought it to her nose, red and sticky. It smelled as it always did, meaty, rank. Why? demanded her anguished heart. God cannot have intended this, she thought rebelliously. Surely God did not will this.

A frightening thought presented itself: Could it be a punishment, perhaps? Was it possible? Could it be divine retribution for her words at the time of the Nika riots, words aimed at preventing flight, words that had caused the shedding of so much blood? Her belly cramped. There could be no doubt about it: she was bleeding.

There would be no son. No prince for Byzantium.

She burst into furious, racking sobs.

News came to Constantinople that the situation in the Gothic kingdom had changed. “The wastrel son of Amalasuintha has died,” Justinian told Theodora. “The reports say that his skin was gold in colour when he passed away. Gold is a good colour for precious metal. Not good for human beings.”

“Will she reign over the Goths now?”

“No. Their laws do not allow a woman to be sole ruler. Regent, yes. But now she can no longer be regent.”

“But if she cannot reign, what will she do?”

“She has written to us begging asylum.”

“Has she indeed? And have we answered her?”

“I am about to do so.”

“Saying what?”

“We are honour bound to succour an ally in distress. Besides, it may happen that she simply resigns her power, officially, to me. In which case, I would reign over not only the Romans in Italy, but over the Goths there as well. A bloodless coup. But then she would have to live here, or her fellow Goths would kill her.”

“Do you have a palace in mind in which to put her up? Or perhaps you intend that I should give her mine?”

“Don’t be childish, my love, it does not become you.”

To Narses Theodora said: “I don’t want that woman in Constantinople. She’s of truly royal descent, daughter of a great Gothic king. And she’s beautiful, I’m told. Have you heard that? That she’s beautiful?”

“They do say,” conceded Narses, “that she bears herself very regally. A magnificent carriage.”

“Not to mention highly educated,” went on Theodora. “They correspond in Latin, would you believe? She shares his vision of the greatness of ancient Rome. So he tells me. As if I don’t!”

“She knows what to say to catch his interest,” said Narses.

“And she’s enormously rich. Narses … don’t you think it might occur to people that she would make a better empress than I ever could?”

“Wouldn’t matter,” said Narses, “unless it also occurs to Justinian.”

“Well? Is that so impossible?”

“The Emperor adores you, Despoina.”

“But he is always concerned for his throne, for his empire. Might he not become convinced that it would be desirable to have a more appropriate consort?”

“I cannot envisage that, Despoina. Truly, I think you are needlessly concerned.”

Justinian did not allow Theodora to influence his decision on this matter. He wrote to Amalasuintha, assuring her of a warm welcome and a safe sanctuary. She replied that she would certainly come. The Emperor gave orders that a grand mansion should be prepared to receive her.

“In Sykae, with magnificent views across the Golden Horn,” said Comito. “She’ll be my neighbour.”

Theodora went to visit her elder sister, so that she could observe the preparations next door for herself. First there was an orgy of scraping, plastering, painting, scrubbing, mopping and polishing. Then an army of slaves overran the extensive gardens, weeding, pruning, trimming and planting. Next a long line of carts rumbled up the winding, tree-lined driveway bearing piles of Oriental carpets, rolls of silk brocade curtaining, caskets full of household linen, stacks of ornate furniture, and glittering candelabra, urns, vases and ornaments fit for any potentate.

“Doesn’t this woman possess a single thing?” demanded Theodora. “One would swear she’s going to arrive in the clothes she stands up in!”

“I fail to understand your sudden disapproval of these preparations,” said Justinian tetchily. “We made similar preparations for Gelimer before Belisarius brought him here, and you had nothing to say about that!”

“Well, he had been vanquished,” said Theodora. “He had been stripped of his worldly goods. This woman, I understand, is extremely rich.”

“We must be hospitable,” said Justinian. “And she is, in her own right, a queen.”

“Whereas I, in my own right, am nothing but a former actress and a courtesan,” fumed Theodora, but not within her husband’s hearing.

“Despoina, I am sure the Emperor did not mean …” Narses looked pained.

“And,” said Theodora, voicing her greatest fear, “she’s still of child-bearing age. She was quite young, they say, when she had Athalaric. And a daughter too, I’m told. You can say what you please, Narses, but she’s a threat. A serious threat. To me.”

“Well, Despoina, we must see how matters develop. Perhaps you fear for naught.”

Amalasuintha went so far as to send a ship riding low in the water with a tremendous cargo of gold; it wallowed at anchor just outside the Imperial harbour, but she hesitated to give the order to berth and unload.

In the end it seemed that the former regent could not bear to give up the reins of power. She had been used to exerting authority in the place of her debauched and useless son, and bending the male court officials to her will. The news reached Constantinople that she had invited her cousin, Theodahad, to take the throne of the Goths. The ship was ordered to turn around and take its precious cargo home.

“How does she imagine this will work?” asked Justinian, dumbfounded. “Theodahad is a married man, she can hardly share the throne with him.”

“Probably believes she can manipulate him,” suggested Theodora. “She’s been manipulating men all her life.”

Amalasuintha, reported the Emperor’s observers, had worked out an agreement with her cousin. He could have the title of King of the Goths, but she would retain the power to govern. After all, she was accustomed to it. Theodahad accepted this offer, and swore a solemn oath to carry out its prescriptions.

Two letters came, one from Theodahad and one from Amalasuintha herself, setting out this agreement and assuring Justinian that the parties concerned were both satisfied with its provisions.

Justinian was unconvinced. “It won’t work with Theodahad,” he said. “He’s not a complete weakling. Even though he is known as The Philosopher. He’ll never be content with an empty ceremonial position. And the Goths are not amenable to being governed by a woman. There will be trouble.”

Justinian was proved correct. Soon, in contradiction to his oath, Theodahad deposed Amalasuintha and imprisoned her on an island.

“After all, he is a Barbarian,” said Narses. “One cannot depend upon his given word.”

Now, thought Theodora, Justinian would arrange for the woman to be rescued. She would come to Constantinople after all, deeply in his debt. Beautiful and needy. And fertile, thought Theodora.

I don’t want that woman here, the words formed in her mind.