The Purple Shroud: A Novel of Empress Theodora (8 page)

‘Mistress, I’m sorry, no.’

Theodora moved closer to her friend and servant, emphasising her small stature. Knowing he felt uncomfortable leaning over her, she said, ‘And how will you stop me, Armeneus? Tie me up?’ She held out her hands, turning her wrists upward the better to suggest submission. He did not move. ‘No? Then will you physically hold back the Augusta? I know some say I’ve all sorts of tricks, from poisoning to witchcraft. What do you think?’

‘I think that a girl from the Hippodrome didn’t have much power of her own, so any she could conjure up through rumour was probably quite useful. And I think you like the rumours now because they make you seem more powerful. It’s occurred to me that you might even have started those rumours yourself.’

‘Nice theory. Are you prepared to test it?’

Armeneus sighed and shook his head. ‘You know I’m not.’

‘Good. Then come on, I’ll take Mariam and go out alone if you won’t accompany us.’

‘It’s for your own safety.’

Theodora stared at the young man in front of her. ‘You think Theodora-from-the-Brothel doesn’t remember what the people can be like? I know things are “difficult”, as you so coyly put it. The girls in Metanoia say there’s talk of replacing the Emperor. I can just picture Hypatius or Pompeius as puppet-master, and if I can, I’m sure the people can too. It’s simple, Armeneus: to whom do you owe your allegiance?’

‘We all answer to the Emperor. Who I serve on a day to day basis is not the point.’

‘Oh, I think it is,’ she replied. ‘Didn’t Mar say you’ll go back to Africa some day? Did he mean you to go this soon? I’m sure it could be arranged.’

Armeneus shook his head. The threat of exile was too great a risk. He went to fetch his cloak.

They followed the paths under the Palace into the deepest level beneath the Hippodrome, walking alongside the Imperial vaults. The City’s records were stored here, between old costumes and animal skins, alongside theatre props, ancient armour and weapons, as were Theodora’s memories of watching her father train his bears, watching her father killed by the bear he’d loved best. Now she walked swiftly, escorted by Armeneus acting the role of angry Palace official – hurrying the intruding refugee and her child through corridors where they should not have found their way.

Armeneus had no problem working up the semblance of
anger and took great delight in pushing her hard, poking her in the back, until Theodora finally turned on him.

‘That’s enough fun, eunuch,’ she hissed.

After that, he was more gentle in his prodding, but no less aggressive in his tone of voice. Theodora led Armeneus and Mariam up through the corridors beneath the Hippodrome until they came out at the northern entrance, where the four great Greek horses rose up, shining in the morning sun.

‘You see these horses?’ Theodora said.

‘Yes, Mistress,’ answered Mariam.

‘I don’t think I ever passed them in my youth without wanting to climb up and ride them through the city, pulling the whole Hippodrome behind. Now, when no one could stop me doing so if I chose, I have to stop myself.’

Armeneus looked sideways at his mistress, surprised again at the things she missed from her past and those she didn’t. He said nothing and they walked on, into the Mese, now choked with traders and salesmen, stallholders and shoppers. Armeneus slipped into the role of quietly solicitous husband shepherding his wife away from any impertinent gaze. Theodora pulled her cloak tighter to hide her face, and they walked out into the Forum of Constantine, Mariam between them, just like any other family new to the City, trying to work out where they were and what came next.

One youth from the Blues called to another; soon there were several standing together. The lads were close to the old triumphal arch, grouped around an elderly man. The first of the Blue youths bent down and whispered something, the old man, grateful, smiling, handed over his basket to the whisperer and took the arm of the second youth. They walked with him for a few paces and then, having exchanged a look over the man’s head, the first youth let out a call, the second answered
it, and the man was pushed over, his basket emptied in his face, bread and eggs and wine smashing around him on the cobbles. The wine jug cracked into five pieces, one of the shards cut the old man’s cheek, and three apples rolled, bruised, into the gutter. From the other side of the Mese, several members of the Greens saw the fuss, took it as a signal to fight and then the old man was forgotten. Knives were pulled, one boy cut another, a second intervened, a third yelped as the blade found his young skin, and the colour then was neither Blue nor Green, but red. It was quickly over, the local police marched several young men off to face charges, while others slipped into the winding side streets that churned away from the Mese, keen to fight another day.

Theodora shivered, watching them go. Her own childhood had spun from rejection by Greens after her father’s death, to the welcome embrace of the Blues. She knew the factions to be both fickle and volatile, but when she was a child the partisan fights were over racers or athletes, whose singers and performers were the best, surging chants from one side of the Hippodrome to the other. There had been street battles then too, but there was something about the scene they had just witnessed that felt different, sharper. One young man with a knife beneath his cloak was not new; several young men, each one openly carrying a blade certainly was.

On another street they saw three young soldiers outside a bar, arguing with the owner.

‘Boys, go home, you’ve only just got back from duty, your mothers must be missing you. And be honest, you know you can’t afford it.’

‘Then run up a tab for us.’

The second, nodding at his friend added, ‘We’re out there in those fucking mountains, the army can’t get us enough
armour or weapons, let alone feed us properly, and when we come home you won’t even give us a drink.’

‘Son,’ the bar owner answered, ‘I did my time, I was in Sicily, Carthage, and on the Persian border too. At least in the west you could be sure you were winning or losing, but out there in the east?’ He shook his head and spat on the ground, ‘That war’s been going on for ever, there’s nothing you lot will do to change it.’

‘Damn right, those Persians will never give up,’ the third soldier responded, kicking the wall with a dusty foot.

‘Nor will Rome, mate,’ said the first soldier, his tone cautioning his friend.

If the bar owner had been a military man there was no telling who his friends might be, the young soldiers didn’t want to be accused of demoralising troops if this innkeeper happened to tell one of their superior officers.

‘Yeah,’ the third continued, too impassioned to care what he said or who heard him, ‘but at least these old men were paid. Or their families were, when they didn’t come back. They treat us like dogs when we’re over there and worse when we come home, as if it’s our fault the war costs so much, our fault taxes are put up to pay for it.’

The bar owner looked at the three young men before him, frustrated, dirty and angry. Any one of them could easily take him in a fight, but they weren’t in fighting mood, they were too tired, too hurt for that.

‘All right. But you’re only getting the cheap stuff – watered. And leave my barmaid alone, she’s lazy enough without you lot distracting her.’

Theodora heard the same everywhere they went, all morning and well into the afternoon. Through the main markets, along the full length of the Mese, in the elegant porticoed shops, in
the bar where they finally decided to eat, against the advice of Armeneus, who was worried they’d be noticed if they stopped for any length of time.

‘You should have let me buy something for Mariam from the street stalls,’ he said, ignoring Mariam’s small sound of protest; she was not keen to be used in Armeneus’ argument with her mistress.

Theodora waved away his concern, ‘Street food would turn a Palace-fed stomach in no time. We’ll sit. The customers are drinking, we’re eating, you know who’ll be doing the talking.’

Theodora winked at Mariam and headed to the back of the room, taking a seat before Armeneus could stop her.

All around they eavesdropped on anger. Even among the drunk old men at the bar, the usual apathy was tempered with bitterness, irritation worming its way into each interaction. They heard housewives complain about the bread distribution and firemen denounce their ward managers, street preachers breaking their usual diatribes against the world to eat a few mouthfuls before beginning again with even more dire warnings of apocalypse to come.

When the plates of mutton stew were brought to their table, Theodora inhaled the aromas of her childhood. Nothing like the expensively spiced food of the Palace, this was solid, warming, workman’s food served with fat chunks of day-old bread, all the better for dipping. Nevertheless, Theodora pushed her bowl aside after a few mouthfuls, claiming a headache.

‘I’ll go outside for some fresh air.’

‘Mistress…’

‘Not so loud, Armeneus. I won’t be long.’

‘You shouldn’t go alone.’

‘So you all keep saying,’ she answered, ‘but I am going out,
and you will stay. We can’t leave Mariam alone with all these strangers, she’s just a girl after all.’

Theodora walked out as Mariam quietly reached for another chunk of bread.

Theodora walked along the harbour-front of the Golden Horn, revelling in the freedom. Even though the sun was close to setting, the City was still hard at work. At one dock, men unloaded a cargo of wine and garum fish sauce from Sicily, goods expected six days ago, the ship delayed by the fierce Mediterranean storms that were predictable only in their unpredictability. The captain stood on deck, the late delivery fee causing him to curse and bribe in equal measure. All along the docks Theodora watched ships unloading grain or spices, cattle or furs, taking on board the traders and merchants heading out again to do new deals.

At the point where the main waterside road turned uphill, winding back towards the centre of the City, to the Hippodrome where she had spent so much of her childhood, Theodora stopped to watch a group of whores. They stood around a brazier counting out their last night’s takings. One share for the taxman, another for their landlord, a third share for the young ex-soldier they used as guard and lookout, with not quite enough left for each woman. They stood close to the fire, the eldest of them plainly shivering even though the chill night winds that crossed the Black Sea from the north had only just begun. Theodora knew about the havoc of disease; the girls who worked backstage as actress-whores were protected from the worst illnesses, but most moved on to street work once they were older, and sailors and traders were as likely to leave disease as coin. Most of these women were never fully well, fully warm.

One of them saw Theodora watching and called, ‘No work
tonight. The storms last week mean all the ships have been delayed or their goods disturbed. The bosses are keeping their men hard at it.’

Theodora shook her head, wanting to say she wasn’t looking for work, but she kept her mouth shut, aware there was no other good reason for being out alone in the City at this time of day.

Another of the women, mistaking Theodora’s head-shake for incomprehension, added, ‘If the bosses keep them hard at it, there’s no time for them to go hard at us – yes?’

The women laughed then, a combination of resignation and tiredness, yet with friendship in their shared, forced jollity. A camaraderie that made Theodora catch her breath.

The eldest nodded. ‘You hurry home, girl, and tell your mother to find you a nice husband. Send him to work for you instead, there’s too many whores down here as it is.’

Theodora needed to come closer to their group to move past, and as she did so her cloak fell back a little, slipping away from her face.

A young woman took a long look at her, then reached out. Grabbing Theodora’s arm, she said, ‘I don’t know about a husband, but doesn’t she look like the Augusta?’

She pulled back Theodora’s cloak, fully revealing her face. Theodora jumped, began to wrench her arm away, her mouth already open to call guards, let out a command – but she stopped herself just in time.

The young woman held her more gently now, laughing. ‘It’s all right love, we’re not going to bite. You do look like her though, honest.’

‘Taller, isn’t she, the Empress?’ another woman interrupted, coming closer to peer into Theodora’s face.

A third disagreed, leaning a beefy arm across Theodora’s shoulder so the Empress caught the smell of the woman’s
unwashed body and the garlic she had been chewing all day to ward off the pox.

She pulled Theodora closer, ruffling her hair. ‘No, it’s all that ceremonial stuff they wear gives her height. The Empress was always short, strong, that’s why she was such a good acrobat.’

‘And everything else acrobatics is useful for,’ the second laughed again. ‘Can you act?’ she asked Theodora. ‘There’d be cash in the comedy for a Empress-impressionist! No answer? Scared of us are you, darling?’

Theodora shook her head. Her famous voice would betray her, so she simply stood there with no choice but to allow them to stare, to look at her more fully than anyone outside the Palace had done for years. Any reaction might confirm she was indeed the Empress, and the gossip would be all over the City before midnight. She could just imagine Pasara’s glee at the Augusta being found on the dockside, back among her own kind.

The oldest woman pushed the others aside now to get a better look herself. Theodora could taste the fumes from the heavy rose oil she wore on her thinning, wrinkled skin. She smiled broadly at Theodora, revealing a wide mouth with her four front teeth missing.

‘You’re not pretty but you’re young enough –’ she put out a hand and grabbed at Theodora’s left breast – ‘and there’s been no baby hanging off this, I can tell.’

Now her smile left her face and she moved in closer, her hand pinching Theodora’s breast, fingernails digging in. ‘The thing is, girl, there’s not enough work as it is.’ She removed her hand to pluck at Theodora’s cloak with her strong fingers. ‘And this tat you’ve borrowed from your maid’s fooling no one. We don’t need some fancy bitch down here trying to upset Mummy and Daddy, scare them so they’ll let you off
marrying whoever they’ve lined up for you. Take whatever they’re offering – he probably is beneath you, but at the moment you should be glad of any man. Now fuck off.’