Thus far however, Theodora had, she allowed, little cause for complaint. She had fine clothes, jewels, slaves to attend her, a beautiful home, delicious food and plenty of it (and she did love her food). All that was expected of her was to entertain guests (for which she discovered she had a natural talent), and endure the occasional sexual encounter with the governor — mostly a drunken fumble ending, as often as not, with him falling asleep before achieving penetration. So it was perhaps perverse of her, Theodora admitted to herself, that she found she missed Constantinople with all its colour, excitement, and vulgarity, despite the insecurity and privation that a life on the stage entailed. Compared to the capital, Cyrene was inexpressibly dreary — respectable, provincial, uneventful. As for Hecebolus, he was pompous and dull beyond words; having to pretend to be interested while he rambled on about tax returns or the cost of repairing the city drains, was, to her, sheer torture.
Interminably, it seemed, the play dragged on throughout the long, hot afternoon, with the audience growing increasingly bored and restless. At last the curtain descended* for the final scene, with Antony, ridiculous in buskins and enormous helmet-plume, confronting (with scant regard for history) the freshly expired form of Cleopatra. Hand upon heart, and casting his eyes imploringly around the audience, he exclaimed, ‘Alas, what shall I do?’
Theodora just couldn’t help herself. Displaying to the full the gift of bawdy repartee for which she had been famous in the capital, she called back, ‘Have her, while she’s warm!’
Uttered in the tones of someone offering helpful advice, the obscenity floated into the auditorium, creating a charged and spreading silence, like concentric ripples from a stone dropped in a pool.
Then, like a pricked bubble, all the pent-up boredom of the audience released itself in an explosive gale of laughter. Even the principales — Cyrene’s leading citizens, struggling to maintain expressions of shocked disapproval, cracked at last. Tears streaming down their cheeks, they held their sides and howled with helpless mirth.
Hecebolus alone, it seemed, was not amused. With a look of outraged fury, he grabbed Theodora by the wrist and hustled her from the theatre.
‘You foul-mouthed little guttersnipe!’ he roared, sending her reeling with a hefty slap across the face. ‘I should have known better than to take you on. Not only have you ruined the first performance of a potential literary masterpiece, you’ve made me — the governor — look a fool.’
‘Oh please, Gaius, don’t be angry,’ pleaded Theodora, her face stinging from the blow. The enormity of her gaffe began to register. ‘I’m sorry, truly sorry; it was thoughtless of me — unforgiveable. I swear I’ll never let you down again.’
‘You needn’t think you’ll get the chance! Go — I never want to see your face again!’
‘But you can’t just send me away, Gaius,’ protested Theodora, appalled by the prospect of sudden destitution. Where will I go?’
‘Not my concern. Perhaps you should have thought of that.’
‘My clothes, my jewels — ’
‘I bought them — same as I paid for everything you’ve had since you became my mistress. You’ve no claim on me. Now get out of my sight, whore, before I call the magistrates.’
Alone, without friends, a thousand miles from the only place she knew as home, with employment on the local stage barred to her (Hecebolus would see to that), Theodora, in the only other way she knew, earned enough to keep body and soul together, plus the fare for a voyage to Alexandria. In that great metropolis she would surely find employment for her theatrical talents, and be able to save enough to return to Constantinople. Meanwhile, she swore that never again would she depend upon a man for her livelihood. In fact, from this time on, the less she had to do with men, the better.
* In the Greek and Roman theatre the curtain rose from below, instead of falling from above, as in modern times.
FIVE
Though separate by nature, fire and iron come together in the one entity that
is a red-hot ingot
‘To insist that Christ has two natures — human and divine, is to deny that the Virgin Mary was the Theotokos, the Bearer of God, as Cyril, Patriarch of Alexandria, made clear at the Council of Ephesus ninety years ago.’ Irene, abbess of a remote religious community in Egypt, smiled at Theodora and sighed apologetically. ‘Forgive me, my dear; why should I assume that a lay person such as yourself should share my concerns about the true nature of Christ?’ The two women were standing at the rail of Argo — a small merchant vessel two days out from Apollonia, the port of Cyrene, and bound for Alexandria. Like other passengers, they had had to bring their own food and bedding, sleeping at night in a deck-house. This was divided down the middle by a thick canvas sheet, separating the men from the women.
‘But I find it all fascinating,’ insisted Theodora, who had found, rather to her surprise considering her lack of formal education, that conversations with the abbess concerning religious topics had proved intellectually stimulating. She wondered briefly if this perhaps owed something to her Hellenic heritage (both her parents were of pure Greek stock from Cyprus), which had given the world some of its greatest thinkers and mathematicians. Although the victim of a sudden and traumatic reversal of fortune, Theodora felt strangely calm, almost happy in fact, as she contemplated an uncertain future. Her decision that, following her dismissal by Hecebolus she would henceforth lead an independent life, had left her feeling somehow stronger and with her self-belief enhanced. Simultaneously, her intention to recoup her fortunes by exploiting her talents as an actress seemed to have lost much of its original appeal.
‘If, as you say,’ Theodora continued, ‘Mary gave birth to God, then Christ, her son, must surely be divine? Which is what I’m told the Monophysites of Syria and Egypt believe. Yet our new emperor, Justin, backed by the Patriarch of Constantinople, tells us that this view’s now heretical. It seems we must now accept the decree of the Council of Chalcedon — that Christ has two natures: a human as well as a divine one.’ Theodora gave a wry smile. ‘Confusing, to say the least.’
‘It’s all totally unsatisfactory,’ declared Irene, shaking her head. ‘By reviving Chalcedon — held seventy years ago under Emperor Marcian — Justin has split the Empire: north and west for Chalcedon, south and east Monophysite. Fortunately, Justin seems to have had the good sense not to push things too far. Monophysite Egypt, which, significantly, supplies the Empire with its corn, has not been targeted for persecution; and anti-Chalcedon so-called heretics have been permitted to seek refuge there.’
‘What an incredibly bright star,’ observed Theodora, indicating a brilliant, steady point of light on the southern horizon.
‘That’s no star,’ laughed Irene, standing beside the other on the Argo. ‘It’s the Pharos — the lighthouse of Alexandria; they say it has the brightest flame ever produced, on top of the tallest tower ever built.’
The flame’s light quickly faded in the brief sub-tropical dawn, then the sun rose on a stupendous vista of turreted walls, beyond which rose a glittering frieze of domes and columns, obelisks, temples, and palaces; and in the foreground, towering impossibly high above the city’s Great Harbour, rose the fluted column of the ancient lighthouse.
During the week-long voyage, Theodora had become firm friends with Irene, to whom she had confided her predicament. Sympathetic and nonjudgemental, and also impressed by Theodora’s keen if untutored intellect, the abbess before parting furnished the girl with a letter of introduction to Timothy, the Patriarch of Alexandria — a Monophysite sympathiser, and a wise and great-hearted man, she affirmed. The archbishop, she assured Theodora, would help her in her quest for a new direction in her life.