firm footsteps on the flagstones heralded the arrival of Justinian, looking to share his usual frugal lunch with his beloved wife. He put his hands on her shoulders, leaned down and kissed the top of her shining black hair. “Come away, my love,” he said, “It’s much too cold out here.”
They both ate sparingly, and drank only a small amount of wine. His round peasant face was flushed and he was filled with energy. “Only forty-five days since it was burned down, and the rebuilding of the Church of the Holy Wisdom has already begun,” he told her. “Most of the rubble in the city has been cleared away. We are returning to normal.” He spooned up vegetable soup.
He had not, she saw, been shattered by the recent insurrection as she had been. Already his mind was focused on the future, a future he was certain of being able to direct and control. She cleared her throat and forced her voice to achieve a level tone.
“Who has done the design?” she asked.
“I am fortunate,” said Justinian, “in having two men of genius to work on this project. Anthemius – he’s difficult, but brilliant – and Isidorus, who’s practical besides being extraordinarily inventive.”
She frowned. “Are they not university men? My sister used to have them to dinner.”
“Yes, they are. They both know mathematics, and physics, and engineering. But I’ve hired them as architects. They’re not afraid to try new things. This will be a building such as the world has never seen.” He took a bite of fresh bread with his strong white teeth. “In a way, the destruction has served a good purpose. Constantinople can now be magnificently rebuilt.”
She nodded, saying nothing. His enthusiasm had not kindled hers as it usually did. He put a large hand over her small one. “You are very quiet, my love.”
“I am still … somewhat … staggered by what happened,” she said. “It was so dreadful. I can’t believe that the people … that they … have come to hate us so much. We meant to do so much good, for the city, for the Empire …”
“Mistakes were made,” he said. “And mobs have no judgement. They become animals, truly. The slaughter in the Hippodrome was drastic, but it was necessary, to restore order and retain the throne.”
“They were all traitors, weren’t they? Cheering the usurper! I fail to see how they could have dreamed of accepting Hypatius,” she said. “A complete nonentity, and a coward to boot.”
“Well, he’s gone for ever, and so is Pompeius. Nothing more to fear from them. And now that we have stabilised society, we can continue to reign with assurance.”
“Yes. But I feel that there is a wound in the civitas.” She used the Latin term from St Augustine, rather than the Greek they usually spoke, like most of the population. “We have been sundered from our people. It is not good.”
“We will carry out our great projects. Then they will understand that we have their interests at heart.”
“Justinian. We have always striven for the greater good. That’s true, isn’t it? What did we do to deserve such … such …”
“You must look forward, my love. There is no use in looking back. There is much work to be done. It will heal,” he said, “in time.”
Theodora confided in Narses, as she so often did. “The Emperor tells me we must look forward, and of course he is right. But I … I don’t know. I just feel … I need … Oh, I wish my mother was still alive! I need to talk to her.” Despite her effort to remain calm and controlled, two tears slipped down her cheeks.
Narses looked anguished, as always when she was miserable.
“One has heard,” he offered, “of an exceptional sibyl. It is reported that she has remarkable insights. Perhaps, Despoina, it might help to talk to her.”
“A fortune-teller, do you mean? The Empress of Byzantium can hardly consult a common gypsy!”
“More of a clairvoyant, and not a gypsy. One is told that she is of aristocratic descent. She is reported to have given many clients valuable advice.”
“She’ll recognise me at once, and then she’ll simply tell me whatever she thinks I wish to hear. And demand a fortune for doing so.”
“She will not recognise you, Despoina.”
“Even in a veil …”
“Despoina,” said Narses, “she is blind.”
“Oh. Well, then … But she can’t be brought to the palace. And I can’t be seen to go to her … rooms. Everyone will …”
“I can arrange a neutral venue, and you can be discreetly transported to it,” said Narses.
“Well … perhaps … What will you tell her? About me?”
“Merely that you are a lady of standing in society, who has a desire to consult her about the best route to the future.”
Theodora sighed deeply. “Very well, then. Arrange it. I’ll go.”
“Despoina,” said Narses, “do not allow your ladies to apply your attar of roses. Nor any unguent containing myrrh. It will betray you as a very rich person. One would not want to provide clues.”
Theodora walked alone through an archway into a small room that was shuttered against the daylight and peering eyes. An oil lamp made a dusty gold patch in the resultant gloom. The sibyl was seated at a round table, her hands folded on the linen cloth that covered it. She lifted her head with its braided crown of white hair and tilted it alertly.
“Ah,” she said. “Good day.”
Such hearing she must have, thought Theodora. I have stepped very softly on thick carpet. Surely she could hear a canary breathe. There was the scent of incense in the air, and burning oil from the slightly smoky lamp.
“Good day,” said Theodora. “I give you no name. Call me Kyria. What should I call you?”
“I am Alicia, Kyria. You should please be seated, and give me your hands. That is how I work.”
“So I have been told,” said Theodora, doing as she was instructed, with some trepidation.
The woman’s touch was cool. The milky pearls that were her eyes seemed to be directed over Theodora’s shoulder, perceiving images invisible to ordinary sight. She turned Theodora’s hands palms up and moved her fingers across them, then gave a slight shiver.
“Kyria, your life has been an extraordinary journey. A journey of extremes. You have experienced the heights and depths of fortune. Much travail and pain, and also great joy.”
Theodora made an indeterminate sound, having decided not to offer responses that might provide clues to her real identity.
Then the woman said: “Three. A number of supreme importance in your life. For instance … You are one of three.”
“Sisters,” said Theodora inadvertently.
“Ah. Yes. One of three. Also … You have been … previously … possessed by three.”
Three men, thought Theodora, but she did not assent. Before Justinian. Yes, three. The champion charioteer who had taken her virginity had never possessed her. But after that she had indeed been a courtesan, kept by three men in turn. “Ummm,” she murmured.
“Then there are three others who have recently been important in your life. In the position of … servants, perhaps? No, officials, I think.”
Eudaemon, Tribonian and Cappadocian John, thought Theodora. All sacked at the demand of the rioting mob. “What of them?” she asked.
“One of them is treacherous. Powerful and treacherous. If you do not rid yourself of him soon, it will come to a showdown between the two of you.”
Cappadocian John, thought Theodora immediately. He’s the