Justinian

* i.e. two elements combining in a single entity — ‘as fire and iron come together in a red-hot ingot’, as Leontius puts it.

** The treaty was renegotiated in 545.

† See Chapter 19. To remind the reader: the Monophysites held that Christ had only one, divine, nature; the Chalcedonians that He had two natures — both human and divine.

* Both Palace and Gate are still extant. (See Notes.)

* Rome, rather than Constantinople, Antioch, or Alexandria, was held to have the final say in matters of theology.

** On 25 January 547.

* On 29 June 547.

* Issued on Saturday 11 April 548.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Enter into thy rest, O Empress! The King of Kings and Lord of Lords calleth thee

Salutation of the master of ceremonies at the funeral of Theodora, 548

Hurrying through the Palace corridors en route to Theodora’s bedchamber, Justinian was intercepted by Theoctistus, the imperial physician.

‘What ails the Empress?’ cried Justinian distractedly. ‘I had no idea anything was amiss. I–I came immediately I received your message.’ Grabbing the other’s arm, he stared with wild-eyed panic into the man’s face. ‘How is she?’

‘The Augusta sleeps, Serenity,’ replied the medicus, a grave-faced man of calm demeanour. ‘I have increased her medication. She is very sick, I fear. But, to spare you from worrying, she has insisted these past months, while secluding herself in her summer palace of Hieron, that you were told nothing. Until now, that is.’

‘Until now! What does that mean?’

‘Her sickness is terminal, I fear, Serenity. She has a cancer in her back — beyond my skill to operate.’

Theoctistus, formerly the army’s most brilliant surgeon, had saved the life of many a soldier whom other physicians had despaired of helping. When such a one declared a case hopeless. . Nevertheless, Justinian found himself clutching at straws. ‘A cancer — can that not be cut out?’ he gabbled.

‘Not in this case, Serenity. It is too deep. Besides, it has now spread,’ he added gently, his face creased with compassion, ‘The best that I can do is ease her pain with a potion I’ve prepared: an infusion of mandragora — poein anasthesian, as we say — to dull the pain. I should warn you, though; its effectiveness will soon diminish rapidly.’

‘How long?’ whispered the emperor, a terrible sense of impending loss replacing his initial shock.

‘A month at most, Serenity.’

‘Will she experience much pain, Theoctistus? Please be frank; I have to know.’

‘Very well, Serenity. She is already suffering bouts of severe pain at intervals, which she is enduring with commendable fortitude. These, unfortunately, will increase in frequency and severity. Towards the end, the pain will be unbearable. Unless — ’

‘Unless! You said “unless”, Theoctistus! Does that mean what I think it means?’

‘I can supply the means, Serenity, to ensure that death comes swiftly and without pain. As a physician, I am constrained by my Hippocratic oath which begins, “First, do no harm”, from administering it myself.’ Glancing keenly at the emperor, he added softly, ‘But perhaps another may.’

‘For her sake, I must be strong; I must be strong,’ Justinian repeated to himself as he entered the bedchamber. But, at the sight of that beloved face drained of all colour to a waxy pallor, his resolve crumbled and he broke down.

‘You cannot, must not leave me,’ he sobbed. ‘I myself, the Patriarch, all Constantinople, will pray for you. God, the All-Powerful, will surely heed our intercessions and restore you to health.’

‘Don’t torture yourself with false hopes, my dear,’ murmured Theodora, summoning a tremulous smile. ‘My time has come. I have accepted that, and so must you. We have been fortunate, you and I. Our married life together has been long and good; not many are so blessed. Besides, our parting will not be forever. Soon, I must be in Heaven, but you will join me there in God’s good time.’ Suddenly, she took a sharp intake of breath and winced, biting her lower lip with such force as to draw blood. After a few moments she relaxed, then whispered, ‘The pain — it strikes suddenly, without warning; but it is gone now. For a while.’

Cursing himself for being so blindly obsessed with implementing the religious aspect of his Grand Plan that he had been unaware that his wife was sick — Theodora, who had nursed him so devotedly while he lay stricken with the plague, his loyal helpmeet through thick and thin these twenty-three years — Justinian could only hold her hand and gaze at her with helpless love from tear-blurred eyes as she drifted into sleep.

The time had come. His heart pounding, his breathing shallow and constricted, Justinian was seized with a fit of trembling so violent that he could scarcely hold the phial that Theoctistus had made ready. It contained, in addition to Theodora’s usual medicine, a substance called arsenikon — in a quantity sufficient to cause the patient ‘to pass peacefully away within an hour’, as the medicus had assured him. The memory of the terrible agony he had witnessed Theodora enduring in the last few days had nerved the emperor at last to carry out the task he knew he must perform.

‘Time for your morning dose, my love,’ said Justinian in a broken voice, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Had she guessed? he wondered, as he poured the phial’s contents into a cup which he held to her lips. Steadying his shaking hand with hers, she drained the vessel in a single draught.

‘Don’t weep, my love,’ she murmured, her head falling back on the pillow. ‘We shall meet again in a place where there will be no more tears nor pain, but only joy and peace.’ Her eyes began to close, then opened suddenly. With a smile and a hint of her old spirit, she declared in a low but clear voice, ‘You and I — the barbarian from Thrace and the bear-keeper’s daughter from the Hippodrome, together we showed the world, did we not?’

‘We surely did, my dear,’ whispered her husband in choked tones. ‘We showed the world indeed.’

Stirring awake, Justinian took a few seconds to come to himself. Exhaustion from shock and the strain of the past days must have temporarily overcome him, he told himself. Then he realized that the little hand he held in his was cold. In sudden panic, he bent his ear to her lips, could detect no sound nor sign of breath. The awful truth hit him: Theodora was dead!* — had died while, unforgiveably, he had slept. He felt as though the central pillar of his life had suddenly been knocked away, leaving him, at sixty-six, bereft and utterly alone. The remainder of his life seemed to stretch away before him like a bleak and barren desert. What meaning had his Grand Plan now, when there was no Theodora to share it with?

A great cry of grief and loss burst from the emperor. To have taken Theodora from him, God must surely have abandoned him — no longer His vicegerent upon earth. The old morale-sapping conviction that he was somehow cursed came flooding back; those who had been close to him had always come to harm — now including Theodora. The dreadful thought occurred to him that, being the instrument of her passing, in the eyes not only of the law but of the Church, he was guilty of the cardinal sin of murder. That he had acted out of love and pity made no difference. For such a terrible deed there could be no absolution. Therefore, for him no entry into Heaven, and thus no prospect of a joyful reunion with Theodora to comfort his declining years. But was not God a kind and loving Father, who would surely stay His Hand from punishing one who had always striven faithfully to serve Him? And had not Christ His Son declared that he who repented should not perish? As he had done before, he would pray to God to give him a sign. On that occasion, his prayer had been answered; surely, this time it would be again. Hope and dread mingling with overwhelming sorrow, he kissed his wife’s cold forehead. Then, after summoning Theoctistus, he made his way towards his private oratory.

‘. . and all my life, Lord, I have tried to do Your bidding,’ intoned the emperor. ‘I have set about recovering