Justinian

‘Benedico vos in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,’ intoned Epiphanius, Patriarch of Constantinople, at the conclusion of the marriage service in the great Church of the Holy Wisdom, adorned by splendid mosaics and myriad statues of emperors and saints, with windows glazed by plates of translucent marble. Justinian and Theodora were then given the sacrament of Christ’s body, followed by that of His blood in a silver spoon. The veil held over the pair was now exchanged for nuptial crowns, and hand in hand, they walked slowly down the thronged nave, past courtiers, senators, patricians, officers of the Excubitors and Scholae, ministers and civil servants — all splendidly arrayed in parade uniforms or long silk robes. Peering down excitedly from the gallery, among the assembled ladies-in-waiting, maids of honour, and wives and daughters of the dignitaries in the nave below, were Theodora’s mother, and her sisters Comito and Anastasia.

Emerging from the church into the Augusteum, Justinian and Theodora showed themselves to the vast and enthusiastic crowd waiting in the great square. Only among the upper classes, following the wedded pair in procession, were murmurings of disapproval heard: ‘. . He’s not one of us, that’s for sure. . a pair of upstarts. . He’s got barbarian ancestors, I’ve heard, and she used to be an actress — an actress! Justin had to change the law forbidding stage performers from marrying people of higher rank. . the wedding had to be postponed, you know, until the old Empress Euphemia died; she wasn’t going to countenance that common little tart succeeding to the throne. . and did you see her mother and sisters in the gallery, dressed up to the nines in those ghastly outfits, fancying themselves as good as senators’ wives? I hear that Comito, the eldest daughter is to marry a general; whatever next — patricians’ daughters marrying charioteers. .?’

Theodora’s heart swelled with pride as the crowd began to cheer. Eat your heart out, Hecebolus, she thought, and you Greens who taunted my family and me when we appealed to you for help in the Hippodrome all those years ago, and you narrow-minded snobs among the aristocracy and, worst of all, among the nouveaux riches, who’d looked down on me because I trod the boards. From being regarded as the lowest of the low I’m now above the lot of you, married to one destined to become the ruler of New Rome, the most powerful man in the world. Fondly, she glanced at the tall, handsome figure to her right: this kind, brilliant, sensitive, ambitious, vulnerable man — whom she’d mended and made whole, and who would never come to harm as long as she was by his side. She remembered their first meeting, a year ago. .

Following her return to the capital from Antioch, Theodora invested some of the money Timothy had given her into renting a property in Region VIII near the Julian Harbour — an area populated by small craftsmen, where in consequence the rents were not too high. Above the living quarters of the house was a large, well-lit garret, which (consulting Macedonia’s business plan) she set about converting into a workshop for spinning wool. Bypassing middlemen, she contacted (from a list again supplied by Macedonia) various suppliers from whom she obtained stocks of fine quality wool grown by sheep-farmers in the high central plateaux of Anatolia. Next, following a cause close to her heart, she recruited out-of-work actresses as workers in her business. As she knew from bitter personal experience, they might otherwise be tempted into prostitution to make ends meet. With experienced spinners hired to train her workers, Theodora’s business flourished, as clothiers, soon recognizing the quality of her product, competed to buy her yarns.

She longed to offer employment to girls forced to work in brothels, but accepted, sadly, that this was something beyond her present power to achieve. The plight of such females was wretched, amounting to virtual slavery. With the hope of enlisting a powerful ally in tackling this evil, she decided to approach Petrus Sabbatius (renamed Justinian on his becoming consul, she discovered), to whom she had a letter of introduction provided by Macedonia. His impressive list of titles suggested a man of standing and importance who might, she thought, be able to help provided she could win him round. Her hopes were further raised when she learned that this Justinian was none other than the nephew of the emperor.

Presenting herself at the Chalke or ‘Brazen House’ from its great bronze doors — the grand entrance vestibule of the imperial palace — she produced her letter of introduction. ‘You’ll be lucky,’ grunted the porter after briefly scanning the document. ‘His Nobilissimus ain’t receiving visitors these days — not since he got back from Arabia. Suppose there’s no harm in trying, though. Ask at the Magnaura — that’s the main audience hall.’

Entering the sprawling collection of buildings and gardens connected by porticoed walkways, Theodora, with some difficulty, eventually tracked down the Magnaura. The silentiarius on duty in the corridor outside, studied the letter then shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a journey for nothing,’ he declared in tones of polite regret. ‘The Count of the Domestics — His Most Noble, the Patrician — is unable to see anyone at present.’

‘Oh, please,’ Theodora entreated, assuming her most winning smile, ‘it’s about something that’s very important to me. He may be the only person who can help, I think.’ Feeling in her purse for an obol piece with which to tip the man, she remembered, just in time, that these were gentlemen ushers, who would be greatly offended if offered a gratuity. Something of the charm and force of personality that had so affected Timothy seemed to penetrate the armour of the usher — member of a tribe of past masters in the art of administering courteous rebuffs.

‘Wait here,’ he said with a wry grin, shaking his head. ‘God knows why I’m doing this.’ And he set off down the corridor. Returning after a few minutes he declared, ‘The Patrician will see you now,’ and conducted her along a maze of passages to a porchway opening onto a small colonnaded garden. Chin resting on his hands, a solitary figure sat beside a fountain.

‘Theodora — the protegee of Macedonia of Antioch, Patricius,’ announced the usher, and withdrew.

The seated figure rose and smiled at Theodora, who was immediately struck by several things about him: tall and good-looking, the man had a quiet presence; his affable expression suggested a kind and gracious personality; but dark shadows beneath the eyes, and lines around the mouth, hinted at some secret and deeply troubling worry.

‘Macedonia — a charming lady, as I recall,’ the man said, his voice low and pleasant, yet with a note of underlying sadness. ‘One of our chief suppliers of olive oil and wines. I would gladly be of service to one who is her friend.’

Theodora explained how, with help from Macedonia’s business plan, she had started her wool-spinning project and staffed it with unemployed actresses, thus saving them from having to sell their bodies to make ends meet. ‘But what I have really set my heart on, Patricius,’ she went on (copying the form of address the silentiarius had used), ‘is to do something to help those whose only livelihood is prostitution.’

‘I don’t wish to appear hard-hearted,’ said the other gently, ‘but if that is what they choose to do, why should they be helped? Though Augustine might disagree, God, as Pelagius points out, has given us all free will to make our own decisions.’

‘But Patricius,’ declared Theodora passionately, ‘the girls who work in brothels are not there from choice! Let me explain. Prostitution is big business, providing for a certain loathsome type of parasite a chance to make a quick and easy living. These pimps travel round the provinces, persuading poor families to part with their daughters for a few gold coins — a fortune to penurious coloni,* often saddled with crippling debt. The inducement offered never varies: a promise of a better life for the girl in Constantinople or some other big city, working as a governess or maid or such like, to some wealthy aristocrat. Once they arrive at their destination however, a cruel surprise awaits the poor, duped girls. Sold on by the pimps to brothel-owners, they are asked to sign a contract; of course they’ve no idea what they’re letting themselves in for, thus legally binding themselves over to a life of prostitution. No fine clothes or rich food, no light domestic work plus a good salary with which to augment their parents’ income. Only a wretched and degrading form of slavery, from which the only escape is to become too old or worn-out to be of further use to their master — when they’re thrown out onto the street to fend for themselves’

‘That’s appalling!’ the Patricius exclaimed, appearing genuinely shocked. ‘I confess I’d no idea such a thing went on. Thank you, Theodora, for bringing it to my attention. Be assured, I’ll speak about this to my uncle. Between us, with the help of one Procopius — a brilliant young lawyer who has done good work for us — we will make a beginning: draft measures which, hopefully, will eventually become legislation.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ declared Theodora, hardly able to believe that her appeal had produced such an