as Commander of the Imperial Guard. He wore a broad black sash across his usual uniform. “Are you ready, Despoina?”
“I am ready.” Theodora was dressed from head to tiny foot in unrelieved black, layer upon layer of embroidered silk. Jet and onyx glittered in the diadem on her ebony hair. Her pale skin gleamed in contrast, her slender neck looking as vulnerable as a child’s.
Narses said: “Despoina. You are … beautiful.”
“Why, thank you,” said Theodora, surprised by the sudden emotion in the voice of this official who was usually so formal and correct.
He coughed. “The Patriarch awaits, on the steps of the main Palace Church.”
The procession formed up in the square in front of the church. A phalanx of guards surrounded the royal couple at the head; Justinian, like Theodora, wore unrelieved black. Theodora’s sisters stepped up: Comito, the wife of General Sittas, and Stasie, now married to a self-important middle-aged senator. Once again, thought Theodora, we three sisters are actors in a public mime, only dressed in black instead of white. It suits Comito with her crown of chestnut hair, but Stasie looks like a dun-coloured, plump bird. No, I shouldn’t be concerned with looks today, Theodora thought guiltily. I must be serious.
More priests took their places, swinging censers. Then the Excubitors fell into line, followed by the Scholarian and the Domestic Guards, and then various officials, all on foot. Not, however, the Goth and Herul mercenaries who had been directly involved in the slaughter.
The Patriarch of Constantinople, a black stole draped over his snowy vestments, welcomed the penitents to the steps of the church from which they would depart. He raised his arms in their wide winglike sleeves and intoned:
“Our heavenly Lord and Father … we thank thee for the knowledge that thou dost not despise the sinner, but dost ordain repentance for his salvation … Accept, O Master, from the lips of us sinners the thrice-holy hymn, and deal with us according to thy kindness: forgive us every offence, whether of malice or of weakness, sanctify our souls and bodies, and grant that we may serve thee in holiness all the days of our life …”
Malice and weakness, thought Theodora, there had certainly been. On their part, she and Justinian had had the best of intentions. They had meant only to serve their people. Once the rioting had begun, Justinian had tried to negotiate with the rebels, yet they had persisted in their intransigence. The Crown had been reviled, thought Theodora. Traitorous actions had engendered terrible violence, just as a fierce wind at sea lashes the waves into wreaking havoc and destruction on the shore. Action forcing violent reaction. Her words, aimed at strengthening the resolve of Justinian, had not been intended to prompt the slaughter of thirty thousand men.
Yet that had happened. That deed was done. And now, their people mourned, a deep grief that could yet rebound in renewed rebellion. The penitential procession was, in her mind, necessary to demonstrate to the populace that the Emperor and Empress were also grieving, to create a sense of unity and renewed acceptance of their legitimacy.
The procession left the palace complex and proceeded at a stately pace, set by a muffled drumbeat, along the recently cleared streets, stopping at predetermined churches where the prayers of the Patriarch echoed and the massed voices of the participants chanted their responses. Groups of people began to gather by the roadside to witness the solemn ritual. They stopped and stared.
“Most holy and merciful Father: we confess to thee and to one another, and to the whole communion of saints in heaven and on earth, that we have sinned by our own fault …” the Patriarch proclaimed.
“Have mercy on us, Lord,” the supplicants chorused the response.
“We have not loved thee with our whole heart, and mind, and strength. We have not loved our neighbours as ourselves. We have not forgiven others, as we have been forgiven. We … have grieved thy Holy Spirit.”
“Have mercy on us, Lord.”
A sturdy washerwoman had set down a heavy bundle to watch. As the litany continued, she wiped away tears.
“We confess to thee, Lord, all our past unfaithfulness: the pride, hypocrisy and impatience of our lives … We confess to thee, Lord, our anger at our own frustration …”
Indeed, thought Theodora, she was both angry and frustrated. That she could truly confess. “Have mercy on us, Lord,” she said, through lips stiff with tension and cold. Her legs were aching. She noted that Comito was leaning on her husband’s arm, while he stood tirelessly to attention, his military bearing ingrained. He has a good profile for a coin, thought Theodora. Unlike Stasie’s senator. A Roman nose is required; bulbous will not do. But fortunately the Senator is rich. She wrenched her attention back to the ceremony.
“We confess to thee, Lord, our intemperate love of worldly goods and comforts …”
Ah, thought Theodora, I do love comforts. I do love worldly goods. But I have known what it is to be poor. I have known what it is to possess nothing, to be dependent on others for mere sustenance.
“Accept our repentance, Lord, for the wrongs we have done: for our blindness to human need and suffering, and our indifference to injustice and cruelty …”
The rolling, sonorous words were uplifting. As Empress she had done much to relieve need and suffering, she thought, but still the people had been rebellious. Yet she would dedicate herself again, she would renew her efforts, she would fight injustice and cruelty to the utmost of her ability.
“Accept our repentance, Lord … For all false judgements …”
Yes, thought Theodora, mistakes had been made.
“Accept our repentance, Lord. Restore us, good Lord, and let thy anger depart from us. Favourably hear us, for thy mercy is great … Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who desires not the death of sinners … who pardons and absolves … grant us true repentance … that the rest of our lives hereafter may be pure and holy, so that at the last we may come to eternal joy; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed the throng.
Amen, thought Theodora. She was resolved to rededicate her life to the service of her people, in the name of Christ.
“I need something concrete to do,” said Theodora. “Something that matters. I want to be truly involved in the restoration of our city.”
“The Church of the Apostles also requires rebuilding,” said Justinian. “You could undertake that as your personal project. Consult Anthemius and Isidorus.”
“I will do that.” She was eager to embrace this undertaking, well worth doing. She would oversee the rebuilding of the second most important church in the city, one that counted among its many treasured relics the skulls of Saint Andrew, Saint Luke and Saint Timothy. It also housed the tomb of Constantine I, who had made Constantinople the capital of the Roman Empire after Rome itself had fallen to the Barbarians. “I’ll need a clerk of works, to handle the administration. Ordering materials, seeing that they are stored safely, keeping track so that nothing gets stolen before it is required.”
Justinian smiled at this evidence of her clear-eyed practicality. “Ask Narses,” he advised.
Narses recommended one Areobindus, a young man lately come to court from Thrace. “His father rides with Belisarius,” he said, “as a mercenary. The boy’s had a decent education and he seeks advancement.”
