deal of her time and trouble went into maintaining the sleek black sheen of her hip-long hair and keeping her smooth pale porcelain skin unblemished.
No longer was he the inept, fumbling lover who had turned his face aside on their first night together in the Hormisdas Palace. Over the shared years they had explored and experimented; learned to cast off inhibitions and tensions, discovered how to pleasure each other. No longer was their entire shared focus on forcing the miracle of fertility to happen. Now they could come together at the height of their physical bloom in exuberant affirmation of their love.
He would pick her up effortlessly and carry her over to the turned-down bed. Squeals and laughter, a deep rumble and a lighter, joyous range of notes, would emanate from behind the ornately carved doors. Most of the time the excubitors on guard outside gazed into the middle distance, maintaining their imperturbable poses. Only occasionally, exchanging glances, the older man would respond to the younger one’s flush of hot embarrassment with a sardonic leer.
By the time autumn came to Constantinople, a great deal of restoration had been achieved, and the life of the city returned to its customary rhythms. Justinian had given a general pardon to the survivors of the insurrection. He restored to the children of Hypatius and Pompeius their former titles, and their confiscated property. Once again the racing chariots of the Blues and the Greens duelled in the Hippodrome, cheered on to victory by supporters who seemed unaware that the shout of “Nika!” had, for a brief and bloody period, united them in rebellion against the crown. They were opponents once again, but in a disciplined manner. No longer did the vicious partisan gangs who had infested the streets prey on the populace. Order reigned.
Justinian was busier than ever, overseeing the rebuilding of several great edifices. This activity created many jobs, absorbing large numbers of the poor who had participated in the attack on the throne because they were hungry and desperate.
“We’re making remarkable progress,” he reported to Theodora. “And I’ve decided to reinstate my key people. Now we’ll really get things done.”
“Which key people?” she asked, suspiciously.
“Eudaemon,” he said. “Best praetorian prefect this city has had. I admit he misjudged popular sentiment during the uprising, but now everyone has calmed down. He’ll keep the peace in future.”
“And?”
“And Tribonian.”
She frowned.
“He’ll know better than to accept any more bribes – I’ve given him strict instructions to apply justice according to the law. But there’s no one better, nor even half as good as he is to lead my legal commission.”
“Well, he did get the Codex done in short order,” conceded Theodora. “I didn’t think it would be humanly possible to sort out the tangle of laws so quickly. If at all.”
“See, he has both the knowledge of the law and the ability to cut to the essence.”
“Mmm,” said Theodora. “Two out of the three officials you dismissed during the riots back in office? Is that wise?”
“Three out of three,” he said.
“You haven’t reinstated Cappadocian John?” she demanded in alarm. “Surely not him!” We were warned, she thought. The sibyl warned against this. But Justinian would not heed the words of such a woman.
“My dearest, we are in dire need of funds. I need his fearless efficiency. Taxes must be collected.”
“That man is dangerous,” said Theodora. “You will regret it.”
“We can’t rebuild without funds. Nor can we wage war on the Vandals. I’ve not given up my dream of expansion. One can’t govern without money, and that’s the simple truth.”
“You promised,” said Theodora. “You promised the people that those three would be dismissed.”
“A promise made under duress,” said Justinian. “It is not binding.”
“Narses says Cappadocians are always bad, worse in office, even worse with money – and worst of all when riding around in a grand official carriage.”
“I need him,” insisted Justinian. “Gross though he is, our financial needs are paramount. He stays.”
Chapter 3: Impostors
“A young man has arrived with an extraordinary claim, Despoina,” said the Chief Usher, who arranged audiences with the Empress and managed her daily programme. “Completely unheard of. Yet I thought … maybe … I should repeat his message.”
“Claim? What do you mean?”
The man looked extremely embarrassed. “It is … truly very strange. I almost sent him packing, but then I thought … well, I did not know …”
“Stop dithering,” said Theodora, “and tell me what this is all about.”
“He claims … he claims to be …”
The usher swallowed and stared down at his boots.
Theodora frowned. “What does he claim?”
“That he … that he … is your son, Despoina.”
“He claims what?”
“That he is your long-lost son, Despoina.”
Theodora shuddered. “I have no son,” she said. “That is well known. How on earth can he … does he … support this … this ridiculous …”
“He says he was born to you here in Constantinople, when you were fifteen, just becoming a stage star. But his father … he took him away to Egypt, from where he has now returned to look for … for the, ah, the mother he never knew.”
A huge wave of heartache almost swamped Theodora, catching her unawares. She found it necessary to sit down. She took a deep breath, fighting for her usually firm self-control and regal poise.
“Despoina? This is an impostor, of course? Shall I send him away?”
“Yes … No, no … I don’t know …” Her thoughts were jumbled. She had to find out, if she could, who was behind this. “Have him wait. And – and – tell Narses to interview him. And then he should report to me.”
“Yes, Despoina. Immediately, Despoina.” He was clearly relieved to have passed on responsibility.
Theodora sat, dumb and stricken. There was nobody to whom she could speak of this. Not one living soul in the world knew exactly why the arrival of this youth with his impertinent story was so very hard for her to bear. Certainly everybody was aware of the fact that she had only the one child, a daughter she had borne to Hecebolus, whose mistress she had been in the African Pentapolis. Everybody also knew, of course, that she greatly desired a son and had tried every possible method to promote conception, including a trip to the Asclepion in Bithynia. A spectacular progress, that had been, and the physicians there had tried every conceivable remedy, but in vain.
She cringed at the memory of the many avid faces who had watched her abase herself before the
