Justinian

Now however, through a turn of Fortune’s Wheel, all aspects of his curriculum vitae to date, Petrus realized, constituted the perfect set of qualifications for him to become plenipotentiary for his uncle, in his capacity of emperor. Petrus’ intimate knowledge of the workings of state departments put him in an ideal position to check the pulse of the administration and, where necessary, apply corrective measures. And now that, through his uncle, he had access to the levers of executive power, he could at last entertain realistic hopes of being able to implement his cherished schemes of law reform. Also, his interest in theology would help him to take up the vitally important role of mediator in the conflict between the two opposing Christian creeds within the Empire. These were: the Chalcedonian, which held that Christ had two natures, both human and divine; and the Monophysite, which believed that Christ had but one, divine, nature. Unresolved, these differences (such was the central importance they assumed in people’s minds) had the power to bring about a damaging schism, which could split the Empire into two mutually antagonistic camps.

A sobering consideration now occurred to Petrus. Roderic (no — Justin, he corrected himself) was sixty-eight. His successor, therefore, could reasonably be expected to ascend the throne in the not too distant future. And, Justin being childless, that successor (barring some unforeseen accident) would, Petrus realized with a shock, be him! Though no longer a prerequisite, military experience was always a distinct advantage for anyone aspiring to the purple. So, even though in Petrus’ case this was limited to largely ceremonial duties, the fact that he had held an army rank would count in his favour regarding his acceptability as Justin’s heir.

Bent on some official errand, a silentiarius came by. Noticing Petrus, he paused and bowed, murmuring a deferential, ‘Illuster,’ as he passed. Yesterday, he had been just a plain Roman citizen, Petrus reflected. Today, through some strange constitutional alchemy, he had become one of the Illustres — the highest grade of Roman society! Feeling oddly disorientated, Petrus told himself that he was still the same person. Yet he knew that in some indefinable way this was no longer quite the case, and that his world would never be the same again.

* 10 July 518. The entry in the Fasti was later modified to show that Anastasius had died that same year — which began on 1 January with the naming of the consuls.

* Not the present Hagia Sophia which was consecrated in 537, but a rebuilding of 404 of Constantine’s fourth-century church. It was in this building that the marriage of Justinian and Theodora took place in 525

** The Head of the Senate: in Westminster terms, something between the Speaker and the Father of the House.

* Northern Sudan.

* AD 496. See Prologue.

** Agentes in rebus (a catch-all title) were imperial agents with wide-ranging executive or inspectorial powers, covering anything from diplomacy to spying.

* The state records were housed in an extraordinary complex — beneath the arches supporting the stands of the Hippodrome! In Rome, a similar ‘World-below-the-Arches’ was the milieu of a colourful under-class: entertainers, snack-vendors, jugglers, prostitutes, pimps et al.

FOUR

She was extremely clever, and had a biting wit, and she soon became popular

as a result

Procopius, Secret History, c. 560

Seated in Cyrene’s theatre beside her ‘patron’ — Hecebolus, governor of Libya Pentapolis — Theodora was hot, bored, and uncomfortable. The parasol held above her head by a slave was scant protection against the fierce African sun, as was the silk cushion against the hardness of the marble tier. And the play — Antony and Cleopatra, penned by an influential friend of Hecebolus with literary ambitions, which the governor was paying to produce, was unbelievably tedious, portraying Antony (who in real life, as everyone knew, was a loveable hedonist) as a stage villain of the deepest dye, who must be brought low for the crime of heaping disgrace upon the name of Rome.

As Cleopatra opened the basket containing the asp (actually a harmless tree-snake) preparatory to holding it to her bosom, the creature escaped. In the ensuing hiatus, while stage menials rushed around the orchestra in a futile search for the offending reptile, Theodora let her mind drift back fifteen years to when she was a child of five, the daughter of Akakios, a bear-keeper in Constantinople’s Hippodrome. .

The world of the Hippodrome into which she was born was unbelievably tough, where survival depended on courage, adaptability, quick wits, and shrewd judgement. Yet, though hard, it was an exciting and colourful world, populated by barkers, hawkers, dancers, strolling players, acrobats, sneak-thieves, clowns, pimps, and prostitutes — all operating under licence from the minions of the two circus factions, the Blues and the Greens, who managed the day-to-day business of the place. At least her father’s job as animal-trainer gave his family security, until, in Theodora’s sixth year, Akakios’ sudden death plunged them into destitution. Rapidly re-marrying (or at least securing a live-in partner to provide a bread-winner for her family), the mother pleaded with Asterius, the manager of the Greens, to give her late husband’s job to her (unfortunately unemployed) new partner. But she was too late; Asterius, on payment of a bribe, had already given the job to another.

With an initiative born of desperation, the mother, in a direct appeal to the ordinary members of the Greens for help in their extremity, appeared on a race day before a packed crowd in the Hippodrome, driving her three small daughters before her, their little heads crowned with chaplets of flowers, their hands held up in supplication. Never would Theodora forget her feelings of desperation and bewilderment when the Greens reacted to their appeal by bursting into roars of derisive laughter. Then, as in a state of utter humiliation and distress, mother and daughters were hurrying towards the exit, the Blues called for them to stop. The Blues’ manager then assured them he would find a job for the girls’ stepfather. No doubt the gesture was made as much from a desire to score points against their rivals, the Greens, as from compassion. But Theodora never forgot that act of spontaneous generosity, and thereafter was the Blues’ most ardent supporter, and the Greens’ bitterest enemy.

The family’s security once more established, Theodora’s elder sister, Comito, began from the age of fifteen to make a contribution to its income, by appearing as an actress on the stage, accompanied by the twelve-year-old Theodora as her dresser. In no time, Theodora’s impish humour and gift for mimicry was convulsing audiences, and providing serious competition for the older sister. Soon, Theodora was given minor parts of her own; by sixteen, she had left Comito behind and was fast becoming the star of the theatre in her own right.

The downside of success on the stage was that actresses were equated with prostitutes, thereby consigned to the lowest rung of the social ladder and legally forbidden to marry anyone of high rank. Indeed, at times when acting parts were hard to come by, Theodora was forced to sell her body — never a problem, as she had developed into a ravishingly beautiful, petite young woman, with huge dark eyes in an oval face, and possessed of a vivacious charm. She regarded such liaisons as purely business transactions, undertaken from necessity and performed without emotion.

One day, a celebrated troupe of female dancers from Antioch arrived in the capital. Booked for one night only at the same theatre where Theodora was playing, their sensuous, exotic performance received tumultuous applause. As the troupe was exiting, one of the girls — a handsome brunette a few years older than Theodora — noticing the latter waiting in the wings prior to her act, signalled Theodora to join her on the stage. Puzzled yet intrigued, Theodora complied, whereupon the other, taking her by the hand, began to lead her in a dance. Theodora, who, apart from that one occasion when her mother had pleaded with the Greens in the Hippodrome, had never been embarrassed in her life, reacted with unwonted shyness. No dancer, she responded stiffly at first to the other’s guiding steps. Then, some quality of warmth or empathy — and something else she was unable to define — communicated itself. Suddenly she seemed to lose her inhibitions, and found herself moving with her partner in perfect synchrony. Faster and more abandoned grew the evolutions of the dance; Theodora began to experience a strange sense of arousal, something she had never felt before, accompanied by a warmth spreading