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
