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.
