Justinian

immediate and positive response. ‘Dare I ask, Patricius — how long?’

‘Unfortunately, Theodora, such things take time. From what you say, the practice would seem deep-rooted and widespread, involving ruthless men with vested interests. But imperial decrees have cracked tougher nuts before. Have no fear that something will be done — just as soon as we can get the wheels of law to turn. Come to me next week — same day, same time — and I’ll tell you what we’ve managed to do.’

Delighted to have made such progress, Theodora left the palace (Region I) and returned to her workshop in Region VIII. In the course of the short journey, she recalled something which caused her heart to lift. On parting from the patrician, she had noted that the signs of worry on his face appeared to have lifted somewhat. Her imagination? Or the result of her having provided him with a positive interest to help take him out of himself? That it was an altruistic cause he had taken up convinced her that she was dealing with a good and conscientious man, who would back his words with action.

During the next few weeks, Theodora had regular meetings with the patrician. At first, their discussions were confined to juridical details regarding the legal status of prostitutes. But over time, discovering a mutual interest in theology and certain aspects of philosophy as they impinged on law, these topics were included in debate. When Theodora (thanks to her voracious reading in Timothy’s library in Alexandria) was able to quote Isocrates* in the latter context, Justinian was visibly impressed, and took to consulting her opinion on various matters on a regular basis.

This enabled Theodora to put in a good word for the Monophysites. ‘The people of Syria and Egypt are your loyal subjects, Patricius,’ she pleaded, ‘who wish only to be allowed to worship in their own way. By continuing to persecute them, you run the risk of alienating half the Empire. I ask you — is it worth it? And is it right that brilliant minds like Timothy and Severus, good men and ornaments of Rome, should be made to suffer for their faith?’

‘You’re fast becoming a Seneca to my Nero,’ replied the Patricius with a smile. ‘Hopefully the young Nero — before power went to his head. As always, Theodora, your words give food for thought. You have a point; I daresay in our concern for uniformity my uncle and I may have erred on the side of being overzealous. I’ll mull over what you’ve said.’

Without either being consciously aware that such a thing was happening, a deep friendship began to form between the two — something at last openly acknowledged when the patrician invited her to call him by his name, Justinianus. So it seemed entirely natural and unobtrusive when, one day (during a bout of the depression which visited him periodically), she found herself asking, as a concerned friend would, if anything was troubling him.

Justinian looked up, his face a mask of misery. ‘I’m glad you asked me that,’ he said. ‘For far too long I’ve kept my tribulation to myself. But you, I think, alone of everyone I know, will understand — even perhaps be able to offer me advice.’ He paused, then went on in a whisper, ‘I’m cursed, you see, Theodora. It seems I have the gift of inspiring others to wish to follow me; a fatal gift, I fear, like that vouchsafed to Midas. Only with me, it’s not myself I harm, but others.’ It all came out then, as though gushing from some deep well of sorrow and regret: the deaths of Atawulf and Valerian, the duel with Nearchus in his student days, his near-fatal hesitation before recommending Roderic for emperor to the Senate. In each case, cowardly irresolution on his part had prevented or nearly prevented him from acting, leaving his conscience permanently scarred.

‘In my dreams I still see that helmet on the cliff!’ he cried, ‘ — still hear Atawulf ’s despairing calls for help, still see my dearest friend Valerian spitted by a Galla spear, still feel the blow I inflicted on myself in the Cistern of Nomus. Look — I yet bear the mark!’ And he pointed to a faint, star-shaped scar on his forehead. ‘The truth is, Theodora, I’m bad for those I allow to become close to me.’ He shot Theodora an anguished glance. ‘I’ll probably turn out to be bad for you as well — something I would not have happen for the world. Perhaps it’s best we don’t see each other any more.’

Instinctively, Theodora rushed over to him, took him in her arms. She felt an overwhelming surge of pity and affection. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she murmured, cradling his head against her breast, ‘there’s nothing wrong with you that can’t be put right. I think I understand what the root of your problem is. In the past, you’ve seen yourself — as many Romans think they ought to see themselves — as a man of Mars: strong, courageous, displaying active leadership. But perhaps you’re not a man of action,’ she continued gently. ‘And there’s no shame in admitting that. Inspiring and directing men need not consist in leading from the front. Let others do that for you. Don’t you think that that’s where your true genius may lie, Justinian — in choosing the right men to carry out your plans?’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ breathed the other, wonderingly. He paused, then went on, ‘Yes — I believe you are right. Why could I not have seen that for myself?’

‘Sometimes it takes another to see in us what we can’t ourselves perceive. Isn’t there a verse in Scripture somewhere about motes and beams?’

‘“Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?”’ quoted Justinian with a smile. ‘Luke 6, verse 41.’

From that moment Justinian’s mind began to heal. Freed from the burden of past guilt, he began to form plans — schemes that suddenly now blossomed (from what had previously been vague aspirations) into designs for ambitious projects. As though it were the most natural thing in the world, he found himself eagerly discussing these with Theodora: reform of Roman Law; great buildings which would incorporate exciting new design ideas, enabling, for example, the construction of stupendous domes of a size never before conceived; and — something he had hardly yet dared to think about, so mind-blowing in its boldness was the concept — the recovery of the Western Empire from the barbarians who had overrun it. ‘Together, we shall make Rome greater than she’s ever been before,’ he enthused.

‘Together?’ Theodora smiled indulgently. ‘You flatter me, Justinian. You make us sound like partners.’

A silence followed, a silence in which both came to realize that an invisible boundary had somehow been crossed. ‘We could be partners, Theodora,’ Justinian said at last. ‘In every way.’ He smiled gravely. ‘I’m hopelessly in love with you, you know — something I’ve never felt before for any woman. Theodora — I’m asking if you’ll marry me.’

Theodora’s mind reeled as she tried to analyze her reactions. She liked Justinian enormously, and, as a result of helping to restore him to himself, felt (mingled with a Pygmalion-like concern for her ‘creation’) a fierce protectiveness towards him that was almost maternal in its tenderness. But did this amount to love? She thought perhaps it did — a kind of loving, anyway. But, admittedly, as different from the love she had for Macedonia as a quiet stream is from a raging flood. To become the wife of Justinian! — that opened up unimagined possibilities. After Hecebolus, she had promised herself that never again would she become dependent on a man. But to the spouse of the emperor-designate that condition scarcely applied. She herself would hold patrician rank, and thus be entitled to a palace and income of her own, in perpetuity. However, since Macedonia had shown Theodora her true nature to herself, would she not be living a lie if she married? Whatever she decided, nothing would be gained, she told herself, by being anything but honest with this fine, good man.

And there were considerations beyond the strictly personal to be taken into account — factors which seemed to tilt the scales in favour of accepting Justinian’s proposal. Her efforts to alleviate the plight of prostitutes would be immeasurably strengthened. Why limit that to prostitutes? The status of all women throughout the Roman world was circumscribed by laws which favoured men. As Justinian’s consort, she would be in a position to change that for the better. Then there was her family — her two sisters and her mother; at a stroke, their lives could be lifted out of poverty into security and comfort. And what about the Monophysites, especially her dear friends Timothy and Severus, at present suffering under unjust persecution? She had made a good beginning there, in getting Justinian to see the benefits of toleration. But think how much more she could achieve, as his wife.

‘May I dare to hope?’ asked Justinian softly, with a gentle smile.

‘I must be frank with you, my dear,’ replied Theodora, taking him by the hand and looking fondly into his face. ‘I cannot love you in the way that is usual between a woman and a man, for such is not my nature. But I love you, or at least I think I do, in the sense that Plato means when he says, “The true lover loves the beauty of the soul rather than the beauty of the body”. If you can accept me on those terms, Justinian, then I will gladly marry you.’

Was it relief that she saw in his eyes — relief that was more than the joy of the accepted suitor, hinting that his love for her was of the same kind that she felt for him? If so, theirs should be a happy union indeed, their kind of love the strongest bond of all — agap, the pure love that blossoms between soul-mates.

During the weeks when she was getting to know Justinian, one incident occurred which marred, momentarily,