Queen of lies, p.4
Queen of Lies, page 4
Everyone knows that the Eunuch can’t stand Vardas. And Vardas must be uncertain of his future role, left undecided by Theophilos. Theoktistos, always a cautious servant of the Throne, lives to smooth things over. He is the very antithesis of Vardas, who desires to provoke.
“Naturally, there will be absolutely no need with your protection …” Theoktistos says, slipping between Vardas and the doorway, with his usual caricature of a bow.
Vardas holds out his arms. Theodora drops Michael in the lap of a woman and allows Vardas to embrace her. Petronas joins in.
“Dear sister,” Vardas says. “Theophilos will be missed by some, less so by others, but we are well prepared for what may come our way, thanks to your hard work and foresight.”
“Missed or not, he is not to be remembered as an Icon hater,” she replies, escaping his embrace and straightening her cowl. “By his own will he kissed the Theotokos as he lay dying. Several of us witnessed it.”
“Did he now? It must be a miracle,” Petronas ventures. “Was he perhaps too far gone to realize…” he starts, but goes no further. No point in stating the obvious – Theodora’s devotion to the Icons was always a thorn in Theophilos’ side.
Vardas takes the infant and gently hoists him into the air, catching him on the way down, to giggles and chirps of delight. But there are important questions to be answered. Even the Augusta knows that some talk of business is necessary, especially with her kin right there, wanting to help. This isn’t going to be easy for her.
“I hope you have not forgotten Theophilos’ intentions in all of this,” Theodora says, “following Michael’s crowning? You were there, at the meetings with the Senate, the Generals, and the Patriarch.”
Petronas and Vardas exchange glances. They probably weren’t expecting to get to the point so soon. The mettle of their sister never ceases to surprise them, or me, even to this day.
“Then you know,” she says, “that we have decided to act in accordance with the Emperor’s wishes, on the little one’s behalf. By we, I mean me and the Logothete.”
The brothers look at each other. Then Petronas takes Theodora’s soft hands in his lean fingers. “Dear sister, know that we are yours and this young Emperor’s. Just let some danger stand in his way, and we shall cleave heads from shoulders.”
As they embrace, the window panes behind Theodora glow in the sunlight, lending the appearance of a halo to her cowl. But she is no saint, I assure you.
† † †
As much as I grew to hate Theodora the Augusta, I understand why she did what she had to. Though I will refer to her from now on as the Regent, for that is what we called her ever since I can remember.
This is why I tear out Photios’ pages and pollute his fine script with my crossings out, and my unpracticed, womanly scrawls. I don’t deny that he fills in the story for those who will not have heard of these events, and that he does so in a manner infinitely more accomplished than I could ever hope to achieve.
But the women in this tale belong to me. For what would a solitary man like him know of us and of what makes us persevere when men would undoubtedly fail?
They say the Regent had a dream. She stands bathed in golden light, reflected from marble looming all around her, rising to the semicircle of bronze bars that form the top of the Chalke Gate, the entrance to the Palace. Framed in these bars is the great image of our Savior, hewn in stone and made holy by blessed, golden mosaic, the harsh late morning sunlight transformed into a beacon by His piercing gaze. At least this was how the gate looked before our Iconoclasts had their way with it.
Perched high on the bronzed bars, a figure daubs plaster over our Savior, covering up the eyes with sticky white. The figure turns to look at her with vacant sockets and slips. A skeleton tumbles to the ground. She hears herself screaming.
Now she looks down to find herself clothed in a white toga with the black trimmings of a juror. The courtyard swims around her; on steps in front of the arch, jurors stand in similar attire – only these are grizzled, pompous graybeards, rolls of parchment in their arms.
Sounds of harsh clanking and screaming ring out, followed by the slaps of a whip. The gate swings open, a crimson glow suffusing the entrance. She peers into the brightness – a machine is being dragged through the gates. In its wake, a crew of pale, dirt-streaked Thulians drives a bloodied sod forward. They are naked, save for giant wings that caress the darkening air as lightning flashes from the sky. The source of the man’s pain is evident – the blood drips from wounds covering every inch of his pale, sinewy body.
Theophilos! Theodora recognizes her ravaged husband’s body now, a body she once knew and longed for. Part of her rejoices that he has returned – that, finally, she has the chance to save him. Another part is aroused by the pain he is in. But mainly she bristles with rage. Who are these fools to do this to her charge?
She shouts out in indignation but other words slice through the air at her. The ground buckles with thunderbolts. The graybeards drone as one.
“Theophilos of Amorion, you have been brought before with charges of blasphemy and heresy. You have destroyed this image of our Lord – as you have wrought destruction in the hearts of Romans everywhere.”
He is dragged to the rack and manacled to it. But who are they to do this? She and God are his only rightful judges.
“He has repented!” Theodora tries to scream above the thunder. “Did he not embrace the Icons as he lay dying?”
The voices boom back at her. “His actions were vain and weak. Did Bishop Euthymios not die at his hand? How many monks and priests suffered at his command?”
The rack is drawn tighter. Theophilos screams and weeps, his splintering limbs and torso tearing beyond their limits.
She wants to rush over to him but cannot move – her limbs are like lead. “His actions were great and noble,” she shouts back. “Look at how he has built up your great City, heaven on earth.”
“His cruelty was greater,” their booming voices respond.
Christ has returned to this world – at least here. Theodora weeps with joy and awe as the plaster covering the mosaic glows and begins to crack away, flakes spattering like rain onto the pavement below.
This gives her the strength to shout back. “Only because he believed what your priests told us – that we were worshiping idols. But all who walked the streets of Vyzantion knew that he loved the people.”
Lightning crashes, or is it the sound of their voices? “So say you, woman. But did he not try to crush you when you conducted your own affairs? When you sought to enrich the state through your own pursuits? Did he show you affection then?”
How do they know this? Who are they? Theodora rages. “He did not mean any harm!”
Theophilos gags as blood seeps out of his mouth.
“Did he not have your own brother whipped? Why do you plead for him?”
Theodora’s throat is raw. But she still manages to speak out: “This is not justice. His heart was great. His name must be praised, and will be as long as I live! You must absolve him. Or to hell with the lot of you!”
The Christ sculpture has softened into flesh. Its hands reach out to her with young Theophilos’ hard face smiling in eternal youthfulness. Its gaze, no longer stern, but inviting, seductive, blinds her, leaving her convulsing, sobbing, her groin strangely damp.
“Take me, Lord – but absolve him!” she screams, and rolls over on her bed, sweating and tousled, her heart thudding with the dark realization that her husband has left her forever. She is now truly alone, the pillows strewn on the floor her only consolation.
† † †
Theoktistos the Eunuch comes to get the Regent from her bed. That morning she seems to be exhausted, but it would not be appropriate to ask why. After a hasty breaking of her fast, she agrees to leave the comfort of her quarters for a stroll.
“You will have to get used to starting early,” Theoktistos says. “I think we will have to move you to the Emperor’s chambers, close to the Throne Rome. The business of the day waits not even for a Regent! Of course, I will do what I can from now on to smooth this path for you.”
I am sure his mind is racing with ideas. Together they walk along the dew-covered pavement, up gleaming steps, and then through the passage lined both with trees and columns that leads to the Magnaura.
“We will have to deal with yet more bickering today between the abbot of the Stoudion and the bishops,” he begins.
“Of course,” Theodora replies. “There is much anger to be overcome. Those who abhorred the Icons now find themselves accused. But let those who are without guilt cast the first stone. And let us not forget that I have forgiven the worst of them.”
Theoktistos must be moved at her conviction. What she says makes perfect sense as usual. Which is why he seldom feels compelled to disagree with her, and neither did most of us, at least most of the time.
“It is not so much guilt, as fear,” he continues, “fear that those who once persecuted, or did not stop the persecution, not only deserve to be punished, but must be punished.”
“So what do you suggest?” she frowns, her eyes dark. They have arrived at the doors to the Magnaura. The guards stand aside to admit them. This is another drafty place which never seems to warm up, even on the hottest summer’s day. The cold of the night barely has time to yield to the sun before the latter disappears, in spite of the windowed dome that hangs heavily above.
“I think … that we might need to call together the bishops,” the Eunuch says. “We might want to consider some sort of a conference, but include others as well as those in power. I am referring to their followers as well.”
“To ensure that everyone is in agreement? Like the Councils of old? I see. But what would we hope to achieve?”
“We keep it very simple. No issues of doctrine. No statements of position. We reconcile.”
Theodora is nodding. “I agree,” she says. “We look to forgiveness rather than accusation. We do not judge whether they have sinned and neither do we allow them that luxury with each other.”
“Absolutely, Worthiness, no harsh punishment or retribution – only ways to redress the balance.”
Then the frowns return as they leave the building. “Who would lead it?”
The Eunuch’s silence says it all.
She smiles thinly. “But,” she pauses on the path back. “You know how hard it will be. I must act as an Emperor would … and more; with the clear, demanding mind of a man – but the robes and forgiving heart of the Theotokos herself.”
† † †
How is my fine young Vassilis? Tossed this way and that, does he curl up like a worm and await the final crushing footfall? Hardly! It takes him a moment to realize that the stinging pain reaching inside him is sheer cold. He lifts his head and sees sticky scarlet oozing into the snow, but his temples ring with such agony that he drops back into the snow.
A door creaks open and Vassilis tries to look up. A shaft of light silhouettes a craggy shadow, from which a cautious eye peers out. The shadow reaches out to touch him. Then someone is leaning over him, muttering.
“Water,” croaks Vassilis from between frozen lips, gesturing.
“Who are you? Why are you here? Let’s get you in,” the shadow speaks.
Vassilis imagines he hears a foreign tongue. He feels himself being lifted toward a fire. Then he hears someone speaking Greek. Has father returned to help him? Or perhaps his brothers have found him. He invokes Saint Vassilis. The blackness swims across his eyes again.
He comes to his senses in warmth, a strange, old man beside him. The man reaches for a bowl and lifts it for Vassilis to drink. He tries to sit up but collapses back onto the bunk.
Then he wakes up to find the old man rubbing rags across his face. A woman stands behind him and comes closer. She touches her fingers to his mouth and droplets moisten his lips. But the blackness returns.
Vassilis comes to yet again with a burning bowl brushing against his cheek. He gulps down some hot broth. Eyes now wide open, he looks at the space around him, comfortable but simple, just like the home he once knew. A fire burns under a bubbling pot, wood lies stacked in the corner, and colorful rugs cover the floor and a wall.
The man leans over him, white bristles erupting sparsely from his marked face. Vassilis wonders why he mistook this man for his Father. Earlier days flood into his thoughts, the time spent with his brothers in the forests, amid mountain springs.
The woman returns. She is so beautiful, just like his mother. “Are you an angel?” Vassilis says.
“Greek!” she says. “The child is one of ours!”
The old man carries on in Greek. “The riders left you here, didn’t they? I wonder why?”
“They probably want him for something,” she says, “and will come looking for him again. But right now you need someone to take care of you.”
Vassilis reaches for the old man and tries to embrace him. “You have helped me. I won’t forget this.”
“Come now, sit back,” the woman says. “You must rest, you are in safe hands. My name is Maria, and this is Tervel, my father.”
“I thought I would never hear Greek again,” Vassilis manages, though his throat is on fire.
“We lived in Thessaloniki for many years,” she says. Her words caress him. “But where are you from? Anyway, you must rest now.”
She pushes Vassilis gently back down onto the bunk as he tries to answer her and moves over to the fire to stoke it more.
As Vassilis drifts off, his father, or perhaps it is Saint Vassilis, appears over him. They embrace. He hears the words `‘unless you have me in you, you will never know what you are.” The words quench his frustration like a deep draft of wine from the altar. He need not fear – Father and Mother are right here beside him.
Chapter 5. Oh, Fortuna!
c. 843 AD
John the Grammarian will be patriarch for only a little while longer, and he knows this. He deflects the contemptuous stares and hard looks as he enters the antechamber of Theoktistos’ home, striding through to the main hall with great dignity, his robes billowing, his features set as if in plaster – not unlike the plaster he ordered laid over our beloved Icons!
Photios is here, as is Leo. Not you, little one! Your namesake, Leo the Mathematician, former Metropolitan of Thessaloniki, one of our greatest teachers and a close friend of Photios, though his Iconoclast sympathies are well known.
John chooses not to take a couch. Instead, he moves to a pillar at the far side of the hall. In the middle of the room, Theodora stands in intense conversation with Petronas, Vardas, Photios and of course, the Eunuch.
Theoktistos leaves them, moving back to the antechamber, this time to welcome the obvious candidate, the wizened Methodios, in most deferential style. Bishop Ignatios bursts through the curtains and struts toward a brace of Stoudite monks on the other side of the hall. John is probably worried that he is about to humiliated by the Iconodules. Surely Ignatios is not a serious contender?
Theodora calls the meeting to order. Photios writes that Michael fidgets and shuffles, his hand clasped in hers, such a little rascal already. The ritual obeisances are waved aside – her free hand rests on old Methodios’ arm.
Theodora speaks calmly, but her hands quiver, not quite hidden in their drooping sleeves. “We have decided that the Chalke must shine as before. It came to me in a dream. The face of our Lord will return to its former glory.”
She pauses, obviously expecting a response, but the Iconoclast bishops are too afraid to utter a word, and the rest of us are wondering what the judgment will be.
The Regent steels herself. “First we must thank our noble Patriarch John for his devotion, and for his acceptance to allow others to lead the restoration of our faith from the patriarchal throne.
This must be a shock for John to hear it spoken; to hear the public confirmation that his work has been for nothing.
Then Ignatios’ high-pitched tones ring out. “All praise to Your Worthiness – but that is not enough! The heresy must never be allowed to happen again. Need I remind everyone that your great predecessor, the Augusta Irene, has trodden the very path you take and moved to turn back the Iconoclast heresy? But her actions came to nothing when the hard hearted soldiers chose to ignore her. What actions will you take to prevent this from happening again? At the very least, surely, we must remove all the Icon-haters from office, not just the Patriarch!”
Sandals shuffle apprehensively.
“I turn to the forgiveness of our Lord,” Theodora begins, “as you must.” But she blushes as she says this. With Ignatios anything is possible, and she knows it. Wasn’t all this already agreed? Why does Ignatios choose to rake about in old wounds?
“We should look to the noble actions of the heretics themselves,” calls out Vardas, perhaps too casually. This gets a buzz, but he continues regardless. “It is true that they expressed contempt for the Icons. And that we have suffered many defeats over the past years. But let us not forget how the Iconoclast Emperors after the Holy Irene led countless armies in turning back the Bulgar and the Abbasid, and preserved our City as a result – with the Theotokos’ help, of course.”
The monks are now in full protest. Ignatios glowers in indignation. “How dare you speak to us in this way – you have no right to discuss religious matters!” Turning to Theodora, “Your Worthiness – why do we have soldiers here – especially those covered with the filth of their deeds before the eyes of God? They have no…”
The Eunuch cuts in before Theodora can register indignation at the slight to her family. “That’s enough. We are not here today to wallow around in the misery of the past, but to restore the natural order of the Kingdom of Heaven. We must rise above the past, or risk sowing the seeds of misery and resentment that will grow into more suffering for all of us.”
