Theodora: Empress of Byzantium (Mark Magowan Books) (27 page)

Narses was probably the coordinator of a whole network of friends (or spies?) of the empress who relayed important intelligence or at least the news that she wanted to hear; they supplemented the official
channels of imperial functionaries and the information system supplied by her favorites, the Blues. Thus the women’s quarters in the palace nurtured another branch of power that had no ideology or government program. Out of personal fealty to the empress, it operated for her satisfaction and for the continuity of her rule. Only a few years earlier, Theodora had been happy to finally see for herself. Now, like Justinian, she also felt the need to control.

During this early period John the Cappadocian was introduced to the palace. He was an expert accountant and tax advisor who was to become Justinian’s favorite and Theodora’s one great political enemy, as we shall see. But the empress always looked kindly on a certain cultivated Peter, “an Illyrian by birth, but a citizen of Thessalonica,”
²²
who was a teacher of rhetoric in Constantinople; she liked him partly because of his innate deference. Instead of showing off his humanistic learning, he cultivated the art of homage: indeed, he dedicated his learning to paying homage to the imperial couple. He made light of his studies, as if they were no more than a private hobby, and this particularly endeared him to the omnipotent rulers.

Peter was reliable, an ideal envoy for diplomatic tasks and government business: he was entrusted with palace ceremonies as well as domestic and foreign duties. And he was erudite enough to help with the antiquarian aspects of the restoration: he was appointed to research and write historical works on imperial protocol. In later years, he was granted the rank of patrician.

Theodora understood that Peter’s humility hid a “hope of great rewards,”
²³
and she made use of him. One anecdote names her as the instigator and Peter as the orchestrator of the base murder of the Gothic queen Amalasuntha (discussed in a later chapter), insinuating that Theodora was “suspicious of her magnificent bearing … and at the same time [feared] the fickleness of her husband Justinian.”
²⁴
This episode is much disputed, but it documents Theodora’s strong bond with Peter, who did get protection, favors, and wealth from her. The other courtiers looked at him askance, but he remained one the favorites of the throne.

+ + +

Peter was probably the person appointed by the two Augusti to review the court ceremonies and introduce an important change, which allowed them to express their autocratic and theocratic ideal in both gestures and words. The imperial ceremonials already reproduced a “heavenly image,” and they became more exalted: they became a form of worship as they were in the enemy kingdom of Persia. And indeed, why should the Persian king receive greater homage than that paid to Justinian, when only Justinian was emperor by the will of the One True God, the God of the Christians?

Until this time, people admitted to the emperor’s presence had been required merely to bow to him. Patricians could incline their heads in the direction of the breast of the Augustus and receive his kiss; the other senators genuflected on their right knee. Now that the empire had such vast political goals and such lofty religious and moral dicta, all the ancient formal customs and deep-rooted meanings were being changed.

Senators and patricians ceased to address the rulers with the technical, essentially neutral terms of “emperor” and “empress.” They were to address them now as “lord” and “lady,” if not “master” and “mistress.” In other words, the technical appellation was supplanted by an admission of personal subjection; high-ranking dignitaries became “servants” if not “slaves” of the rulers. With this momentous change, the public affairs of the old Roman Empire became private affairs, the personal domain of the emperors.

The same potentates who had once avoided brushing against the garments of the “impure” former actress were now compelled to express their devotion to her with their body and even their lips. They had to prostrate themselves not only before the emperor but also before Theodora, their hands and feet stretched out on the floor, and kiss the foot of both Augusti before they could rise. Conservatives were scandalized by this innovation: they saw it as an unwise concession to external, “barbarian” or even Persian influences; but for the empress it soothed the memory of ancient rejections, of offenses suffered and suspicions endured.
²⁵

The emperor’s power was believed to come directly from God, and
he bestowed it on his wife as well. At his side, she gained more authority and influence: this empress received more homage than any
emperor
had gotten before.

The ceremonial protocol was designed to reflect the harmonious movement of the universe, and it inevitably had some anomalies, just as the sky has anomalous eclipses or speeding comets.

The obligations imposed on dignitaries and functionaries (not to mention commoners) were diametrically opposed to the freedoms granted by the Christian Roman Empire to those who rejected or left secular society in favor of a solitary relationship with the divine. These were the radical monks who lived in isolation, exemplars of an ascetic ideal interpreted in manifold ways by the many versions of Christianity. The anchorites were seen as variations or metamorphoses of the ancient role of “philosopher,” and their unique status brought them complete freedom of speech and action (
parrhêsia)
with respect to the emperors, freedoms that were not permitted to others. They did not worship the Augusti but were worshipped by them. Magistrates prostrated themselves before emperors, but emperors knelt before ascetics.

In 531, Saint Sabas, a ninety-year-old monk who was a tireless organizer of monasteries in the deserts south of Jerusalem and around the Dead Sea, left his arid, thirsty Palestine to travel to the “Babel” of the capital. He brought with him a number of petitions for the emperor, who welcomed him with all honors: rising from the throne, bowing before him, and kissing him on the head. The emperor was in turn blessed by the holy man. Justinian listened to his requests and, as he withdrew to deliberate, invited the saint to visit Theodora in her apartments and to bless her.

The empress prostrated herself before Saint Sabas. Although Sabas’s Palestine was a Dyophysite island between the Monophysite lands of Syria and Egypt, she acknowledged that his authority went beyond any dogmatic differences. Just as the holy man had petitioned the emperor, the empress now took a turn petitioning the monk. She spoke to Sabas as if to a “father,” asking him to pray for her, “that God might grant her the Grace of bearing a child.” It was the year 531, and Theodora was about thirty years old; she still believed that she could
bear a child. Justinian also believed it, although he was almost fifty years old and had been sick around 524. To Theodora’s plea, Sabas replied only: “God, the ruler and lord of all things, shall watch over your empire.” Theodora repeated her prayer of intercession for motherhood, and the Saint replied: “The Lord shall watch your empire in glory and in victory.”
²⁶

Sabas’s reply was
not
really a reply. Once again, the suppliant was weak. Like the widow and her daughters kneeling before the Green faction in the Kynêgion, like the patrician who had appealed to the empress to settle his debt, the empress found herself in a weak position right in her own palace, before someone who was considered an exemplar of sainthood. In their dialogue, the power went to the one who claimed the right not to speak directly.

The monk then explained his behavior. He said that he could not pray on behalf of a heretical woman who would have given birth to a Monophysite child. Theodora had up until then given only slight hints of her theological views, but Saint Sabas had figured her out—the ascetic was not blinded by the splendor of the palace.

(But not even this ascetic thought that he should blame Theodora or deny her anything on account of her theatrical past. For him—as well as for Timothy, Severus, and even Justinian—that past no longer counted. Theodora had once and for all resolved her earlier, controversial identity as an actress and remade her identity as purely
Christian
.)

A similar episode in Theodora’s later life, possibly even more telling, has implications not only for the story of Theodora and Justinian, but also for the relationship between sovereignty and “holy madness.” This kind of folly proved to be an enduring historical and cultural theme: Byzantine influence in the Slavic world brought the idea of holy foolishness as far as the courts of the czars in Moscow—a city that considered itself a modern third Rome.

Mār the Solitary, a Monophysite ascetic monk who had come to the capital under the protection of Theodora, was welcomed by both rulers together, but he did not do homage to them or even give them any respect. He didn’t even change out of his usual ragged tunic for the
occasion: its repulsive smell was proof of his devotion and his celebrated mortification. Mār the Solitary was not as old as Sabas: he was a vigorous man, an imposing figure, “an athlete of God” with tremendous physical strength. One of his biographers wrote that he was stronger “than ten criminals.”
²⁷

The Solitary did not come to the palace to bless or admire anyone, but to chastise. He reproached the rulers for their religious policy, which he believed was hostile to the Monophysites, despite Theodora’s position. And he did not just blame them: he insulted them, wounding them so deeply that the biographer’s quill hesitated to specify how. Protocol, the crown, and the purple mantle meant nothing to this anchorite, accustomed as he was to the emptiness of his lonely retreat in the desert.

His
parrhêsia
was met with surprising calm and majesty, like that of the ancient emperors—like Marcus Aurelius’s calm with Herodes Atticus. The rulers were not disturbed. They said: “This man is truly a spiritual philosopher,” just as the Roman centurion at Golgotha had said of Jesus, “Truly, this was the Son of God!”
²⁸
Theodora had the eunuch treasurer offer a remarkable quantity of gold to Mār the Solitary, but the visitor refused it, throwing the gift back at Theodora. “May your gift be damned just as you are!” he said, and fled. The rulers sent ambassadors after him to explain that the offer of money was not meant to buy his benevolence, but simply to aid in founding a monastery near the capital.

This frank monk, who lived “outside the world,” was the only person to whom the emperor and empress, “lords of the world,” ever felt the need to justify their actions.

All Nature, O Queen, ever sings thy might

For that thou didst destroy the ranks of the enemy,

For that after the evil broils thou didst kindle a light for prudent men

And didst scatter the civil troubles of the strife that loosed the horses.

OT LONG AFTER
January 532, a poetic courtier recited these verses (now found in the
Greek Anthology
, XVI 44), before Empress Theodora and her intimates. Was it a spontaneous inspiration, or had the poem been commissioned—and if so, by whom? Perhaps by Justinian, who wished to please his empress?

While the author is unknown, the meaning is clear. The empress is celebrated as the absolute mistress: her power is universal, acknowledged and acclaimed, worshipped just as the image of Christ
Pantokratôr
, the “Universal Master,” was worshipped.

Theodora’s power was no dogmatic invention: it was born from real circumstances. It was the result of a victory over enemies (“thou didst destroy … didst scatter”) inside the empire: for there had been “civil troubles” (“the strife”) right in the Hippodrome, a pivotal place in the fabric of Constantinople’s life, and of Theodora’s life in particular. And while ceremonial protocol forbade the Augusta from officially attending the games, still the poet saw Theodora’s shadow hanging over the arena like a symbolic icon.

And indeed it was Theodora who determined the outcome of the
Nika insurrection, the most violent and momentous urban riots ever to occur in antiquity or late antiquity. More than thirty thousand, perhaps even fifty thousand, people died in the riots: in the most important metropolis of the Christian world, a tenth or a twentieth of the population perished. Some say that these deaths were the cruel sacrifice paid to the new idol of the Christian world, Theodora.