Presenting herself at the Chalke or ‘Brazen House’ from its great bronze doors — the grand entrance vestibule of the imperial palace — she produced her letter of introduction. ‘You’ll be lucky,’ grunted the porter after briefly scanning the document. ‘His Nobilissimus ain’t receiving visitors these days — not since he got back from Arabia. Suppose there’s no harm in trying, though. Ask at the Magnaura — that’s the main audience hall.’
Entering the sprawling collection of buildings and gardens connected by porticoed walkways, Theodora, with some difficulty, eventually tracked down the Magnaura. The silentiarius on duty in the corridor outside, studied the letter then shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a journey for nothing,’ he declared in tones of polite regret. ‘The Count of the Domestics — His Most Noble, the Patrician — is unable to see anyone at present.’
‘Oh, please,’ Theodora entreated, assuming her most winning smile, ‘it’s about something that’s very important to me. He may be the only person who can help, I think.’ Feeling in her purse for an obol piece with which to tip the man, she remembered, just in time, that these were gentlemen ushers, who would be greatly offended if offered a gratuity. Something of the charm and force of personality that had so affected Timothy seemed to penetrate the armour of the usher — member of a tribe of past masters in the art of administering courteous rebuffs.
‘Wait here,’ he said with a wry grin, shaking his head. ‘God knows why I’m doing this.’ And he set off down the corridor. Returning after a few minutes he declared, ‘The Patrician will see you now,’ and conducted her along a maze of passages to a porchway opening onto a small colonnaded garden. Chin resting on his hands, a solitary figure sat beside a fountain.
‘Theodora — the protegee of Macedonia of Antioch, Patricius,’ announced the usher, and withdrew.
The seated figure rose and smiled at Theodora, who was immediately struck by several things about him: tall and good-looking, the man had a quiet presence; his affable expression suggested a kind and gracious personality; but dark shadows beneath the eyes, and lines around the mouth, hinted at some secret and deeply troubling worry.
‘Macedonia — a charming lady, as I recall,’ the man said, his voice low and pleasant, yet with a note of underlying sadness. ‘One of our chief suppliers of olive oil and wines. I would gladly be of service to one who is her friend.’
Theodora explained how, with help from Macedonia’s business plan, she had started her wool-spinning project and staffed it with unemployed actresses, thus saving them from having to sell their bodies to make ends meet. ‘But what I have really set my heart on, Patricius,’ she went on (copying the form of address the silentiarius had used), ‘is to do something to help those whose only livelihood is prostitution.’
‘I don’t wish to appear hard-hearted,’ said the other gently, ‘but if that is what they choose to do, why should they be helped? Though Augustine might disagree, God, as Pelagius points out, has given us all free will to make our own decisions.’
‘But Patricius,’ declared Theodora passionately, ‘the girls who work in brothels are not there from choice! Let me explain. Prostitution is big business, providing for a certain loathsome type of parasite a chance to make a quick and easy living. These pimps travel round the provinces, persuading poor families to part with their daughters for a few gold coins — a fortune to penurious coloni,* often saddled with crippling debt. The inducement offered never varies: a promise of a better life for the girl in Constantinople or some other big city, working as a governess or maid or such like, to some wealthy aristocrat. Once they arrive at their destination however, a cruel surprise awaits the poor, duped girls. Sold on by the pimps to brothel-owners, they are asked to sign a contract; of course they’ve no idea what they’re letting themselves in for, thus legally binding themselves over to a life of prostitution. No fine clothes or rich food, no light domestic work plus a good salary with which to augment their parents’ income. Only a wretched and degrading form of slavery, from which the only escape is to become too old or worn-out to be of further use to their master — when they’re thrown out onto the street to fend for themselves’
‘That’s appalling!’ the Patricius exclaimed, appearing genuinely shocked. ‘I confess I’d no idea such a thing went on. Thank you, Theodora, for bringing it to my attention. Be assured, I’ll speak about this to my uncle. Between us, with the help of one Procopius — a brilliant young lawyer who has done good work for us — we will make a beginning: draft measures which, hopefully, will eventually become legislation.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ declared Theodora, hardly able to believe that her appeal had produced such an immediate and positive response. ‘Dare I ask, Patricius — how long?’
‘Unfortunately, Theodora, such things take time. From what you say, the practice would seem deep-rooted and widespread, involving ruthless men with vested interests. But imperial decrees have cracked tougher nuts before. Have no fear that something will be done — just as soon as we can get the wheels of law to turn. Come to me next week — same day, same time — and I’ll tell you what we’ve managed to do.’
Delighted to have made such progress, Theodora left the palace (Region I) and returned to her workshop in Region VIII. In the course of the short journey, she recalled something which caused her heart to lift. On parting from the patrician, she had noted that the signs of worry on his face appeared to have lifted somewhat. Her imagination? Or the result of her having provided him with a positive interest to help take him out of himself? That it was an altruistic cause he had taken up convinced her that she was dealing with a good and conscientious man, who would back his words with action.
During the next few weeks, Theodora had regular meetings with the patrician. At first, their discussions were confined to juridical details regarding the legal status of prostitutes. But over time, discovering a mutual interest in theology and certain aspects of philosophy as they impinged on law, these topics were included in debate. When Theodora (thanks to her voracious reading in Timothy’s library in Alexandria) was able to quote Isocrates* in the latter context, Justinian was visibly impressed, and took to consulting her opinion on various matters on a regular basis.
This enabled Theodora to put in a good word for the Monophysites. ‘The people of Syria and Egypt are your loyal subjects, Patricius,’ she pleaded, ‘who wish only to be allowed to worship in their own way. By continuing to persecute them, you run the risk of alienating half the Empire. I ask you — is it worth it? And is it right that brilliant minds like Timothy and Severus, good men and ornaments of Rome, should be made to suffer for their faith?’
‘You’re fast becoming a Seneca to my Nero,’ replied the Patricius with a smile. ‘Hopefully the young Nero — before power went to his head. As always, Theodora, your words give food for thought. You have a point; I daresay in our concern for uniformity my uncle and I may have erred on the side of being overzealous. I’ll mull over what you’ve said.’
Without either being consciously aware that such a thing was happening, a deep friendship began to form between the two — something at last openly acknowledged when the patrician invited her to call him by his name, Justinianus. So it seemed entirely natural and unobtrusive when, one day (during a bout of the depression which visited him periodically), she found herself asking, as a concerned friend would, if anything was troubling him.
Justinian looked up, his face a mask of misery. ‘I’m glad you asked me that,’ he said. ‘For far too long I’ve kept my tribulation to myself. But you, I think, alone of everyone I know, will understand — even perhaps be able to offer me advice.’ He paused, then went on in a whisper, ‘I’m cursed, you see, Theodora. It seems I have the gift of inspiring others to wish to follow me; a fatal gift, I fear, like that vouchsafed to Midas. Only with me, it’s not myself I harm, but others.’ It all came out then, as though gushing from some deep well of sorrow and regret: the deaths of Atawulf and Valerian, the duel with Nearchus in his student days, his near-fatal hesitation before recommending Roderic for emperor to the Senate. In each case, cowardly irresolution on his part had prevented or nearly prevented him from acting, leaving his conscience permanently scarred.