Mary Reed - Two for Joy

“And yet this small cell is as large as the Hippodrome compared to those in which many of our martyrs were imprisoned,” Theodora continued matter-of-factly, as if she had arrived to debate theology over a goblet of wine and a tray of sweetmeats. “Then again this little temporary lodging of yours is quite dry, I see, and seems free enough of vermin. Yes, many a beggar living on the street would consider this a fine dwelling place, preferable to sleeping under the chilly portico of the senate house or huddling in some rat-infested corner.”

Theodora’s smile was chilly as the ice that occasionally drifted past the harbor walls. “It is true,” she continued, “that even the poorest and most miserable people in Constantinople possess a rare treasure that you, Anatolius, for all your family connections, wealth, and high office, do not. Freedom. Although it is freedom at a price. There is always a price, is there not? In their case, it’s the endless struggle to keep body and soul united long enough to recreate themselves in their miserable children. To what end, I confess, I have yet to fathom.”

Theodora sighed, then went on in the same casual tones. “You are no doubt wondering if your freedom has a price and how high that price might be. Is it too high? Can a murderer such as you afford to haggle over the cost of his life?”

The empress stopped in her speech and looked at him expectantly but Anatolius remained silent. He reminded himself that he was a soldier of Mithra, that he had been anointed with the blood of the bull. He would not ask what ransom she had in mind. He would not give her the pleasure of forcing him to bargain for his life.

A look of disappointment momentarily marred Theodora’s perfectly painted face. So, thought Anatolius, she had thought he would grovel, beg for mercy, kissing the hem of her robe and weeping, like so many soft young men who had found themselves on the wrong side of justice.

Theodora, seeing he would not speak, went on in that husky whisper that some, and inevitably to their bitter regret, had found seductive but that others considered akin to the warning rumbling growls of the wolves that ran in the dark forests of Germania.

“You are such a handsome young man,” she remarked. “It would be a pity to see you executed. And of course the emperor speaks highly of your work for him. I know he relies upon you to keep account of his official correspondence and advise him on all those minute details of etiquette, how to address this ambassador or greet that statesman. Your duties for him are rather like those of your friend John, so far as that goes, but,” her tone hardened, “I hope you have never shared John’s desire to influence the emperor’s decisions.”

Anatolius could not hide his surprise at her mention of John.

“Ah, I see I have your interest at last! Well, then, to continue. As it happened, the emperor was originally of the opinion that it would be most unwise to allow the general populace to mistakenly conclude that a high born, handsome and,” she touched Anatolius’ chin lightly, “well-favored young man be permitted to murder with impunity. So he consulted those who are knowledgeable about these matters. They suggested that your punishment begin with the stripping of the skin from your knees right down to your toes.”

Anatolius felt faint.

“But as all his subjects are aware,” Theodora pointed out with a smile, “only Justinian as emperor has the right to wear scarlet boots, so of course he enjoyed their jest immensely. So much so that it persuaded him that, as a gesture of his renowned mercy, you will be granted a speedy death immediately after suffering the agony of being fitted for your new scarlet boots.”

Anatolius’ stomach heaved at her words. He silently invoked the name of Mithra, trying desperately to maintain control of himself. What was she saying now, something about signing documents giving his newly acquired estate to the imperial treasury?

“But surely it is the law that…” he croaked.

Theodora made a valiant effort to appear offended at the mere suggestion of illegality. She was almost convincing, having improved in the art of acting since her youthful years in the theatre.

“It would be a gift for the good of the empire and could well encourage others to follow your generous example. After all, who of your illustrious line will be left after you die? Your only relative now is your uncle Zeno, and he is aging and in any event rarely sets foot in Constantinople.” An unpleasant smile flitted bat-like across her face. “I seem to be unable to avoid the mention of feet, don’t I? But concerning your uncle, he will shortly be arriving in the city. I sent for him immediately you were arrested so he could arrange your father’s funeral rites. We must always observe the proprieties, Anatolius. It is regrettable that you cannot be present at your dear father’s funeral, but there it is.”

Was it an indirect threat against his uncle, Anatolius wondered, recalling the kindly old scholar who spent his days pottering about in his garden, a man whom John had once described as possessing eclectic credulity?

He could not be certain, but he would strive not to reveal his fear to Theodora. He would rely upon his god to protect him from those who dwelt in darkness and to give him the courage manfully to bear whatever obscene horrors awaited. He offered up a silent prayer that he would not succumb to the temptation of begging for death. Whatever path he took, he knew he was trapped in a snare as finely meshed as the gold chains spidering Theodora’s hair. He had no illusions as to his fate even if he agreed to sign over everything he owned to the imperial treasury.

It was as if Theodora could read his rapidly churning thoughts.

“Now it may be that you are relying upon the Lord Chamberlain to rescue you from this predicament, as he has done so often in the past. I hear that he visited you not long ago,” she said, moving towards the door. As she opened it, she revealed what Anatolius realized was the true reason for her extraordinary visit.

In a smiling Parthian shot, she said, “But my dear Anatolius, on this occasion and indeed for the rest of what remains of your life, the Lord Chamberlain can no longer assist you. The emperor, you see, exiled him. Another gesture of his boundless mercy, for he could have ordered him executed on the spot, but alas, it was fruitless. Word has just arrived that your eunuch friend was caught by the rabble. Apparently he sought to defy his emperor and remain nearby. I am supposing you begged him to help you, and perhaps that is why he disobeyed Justinian’s orders. Such a pity, really, and so predictable of him. He could not have saved you and now he is dead. It appears that his life ended neither quickly nor painlessly. I will spare you the details.”

The door banged behind her, the draft from its heavy closing extinguishing the small lamp’s flickering flame.

Dressed in elegant clothing, Peter stood on the grassy space in front of the shrine of St.

Michael, speaking with a similarly well-dressed pilgrim.

“Sarcerdus Rufus?” the man said, in response to Peter’s inquiry. “His wealth is exceeded only by his piety. He followed Michael from a distant land. In fact, it’s well known that Michael began his preaching on Sarcerdus’ very doorstep.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully and forced himself to stand upright, burdened as he felt by the unaccustomed weight of his embroidered robe.

The past hours had resembled a strange dream. First, he had fled Constantinople with his master. Then they had inexplicably disembarked from the ship taking them to safety and walked south alongside the Bosporos, back to the shrine. And finally John had insisted his servant pose as a wealthy pilgrim. At least this latter strangeness explained John’s sudden and final puzzling instruction to add a fine garment in the small bundle of clothing carried with them when they left the city.