“You appear to spend a lot of time talking with malcontents,” John put in. “I hear you recently interviewed Menander again.”
“Poor Menander. Very sad news. I’m sure he still had many interesting stories. There was one he began to tell me, about a garden in the palace quarters occupied by the empress. A concealed garden, no windows overlooking it.”
Procopius licked his lips and pitched his voice lower. “This garden contained a number of large carved stone phalli, and Theodora was in the habit of taking moonlight strolls in it. But was Menander your house guest, Lord Chamberlain? What was he doing in your bath?”
“Don’t you know, Procopius? You seem well informed on most matters.”
“I only know the tales Menander related, which naturally never involved him personally. He was a careful man. He stored up anecdotes as well as treasures. He enjoyed showing them off in the same fashion. A prelate’s nasty predilections here. A pious lady’s dark little secret there.”
“And perhaps an illegitimate son of the empress?”
Procopius’ broad forehead furrowed. His gaze met John’s. His eyes were dark. They did not seem to catch the surrounding effulgence. “That? A cheap bauble, not worth bothering about.”
“Did Menander repeat the tale to you?”
“I have heard about this alleged son but you will appreciate I cannot divulge my source. If someone were to take this libelous information seriously the fact that someone possessed it might be, shall we say, misinterpreted.”
John thought a man might find he could divulge his sources quite easily when questioned in the emperor’s dungeons. It was, however, a reasonable excuse for concealing information.
“I am being honest with you when I say I know little about Menander,” Procopius continued. “He was an excellent source of gossip. He spent years living in the Copper Market among others who had once enjoyed the comforts of the court. Every sordid tale they are afraid to whisper while at the palace they are happy to bellow forth once they have been disgraced. They thereby prove they were indeed unworthy of our esteemed ruler’s loyalty. By their own vile tongues they demonstrate the emperor is not a petty and vindictive tyrant, casting them out on the flimsiest of pretexts. He is merely prescient. They are fortunate to be still alive.”
“Would you say any of them might be inclined to do more than just talk?” John asked.
“As I have already indicated, it was nothing but talk. There is no doubt that Justinian has set too many enemies loose. He forgives his opponents too readily, as everyone knows. An admirable trait for a Christian, but one that’s dangerous for an emperor. Yet the scoundrels have so far not risen against him. Thanks, perhaps, to the protective hand of God.”
Anatolius sniffed. Faint vapors snaked through the glowing air, eddies in a haze of incense and lamp smoke. John felt his eyes beginning to burn.
Procopius went on. “I form no opinion on matters for which I have no evidence, such as what we are discussing. Your legal friend will agree with me that is the best policy, Lord Chamberlain.”
“Indeed. Now, tell me about a matter for which you have no evidence. The matter of Theodora’s illegitimate son.”
“If you insist, I will tell you the story although it pains me to repeat such slanderous tales about our dear empress.” The sparkle in Procopius’ eyes gave the lie to his pious words. “While Theodora still lived in Egypt and performed on the stage, she accidentally became pregnant by one of the many men with whom she is said to have dallied. She realized her misfortune too late on this occasion and her efforts to abort the child failed.”
He leered at John. “I find it incredible that a woman of such reputation should either have failed to notice her condition, or that she did not possess the artifice to rid herself of what must have been a frequent inconvenience. Yet that is what some evil persons would have us believe about our devout empress.”
“I do understand that you do not approve of this story, Procopius, or believe in its veracity. Continue.”
“Thank you, Lord Chamberlain. I would not want to be thought disloyal. It transpired she was forced to bear the child. She was beside herself with rage and exasperation. How could she care for an infant and maintain her accustomed activities? Wantonness and lust left no room in her for motherly love. Even common whores, I am told, shed tears over their abortions and plead that the children they do bear not be sold as slaves. The father suspected, no doubt rightly, she would do away with his son before too long. So he took the baby and sailed to a far-off land. John was the name he gave to the boy.”
“The commonest of names,” John observed. “Is anything known of the father of this mythical child?”
“Nothing, except that the boy was supposedly told about his mother when the father was on his death bed. The boy was around fourteen by then. Theodora, as we all know, had repented her sinful life and made her way from the brothels and stages of Alexandria to the bed of the emperor in Constantinople as his devout and charitable wife and benefactor of the city.”
Procopius sighed. “It’s said the boy set sail for Constantinople as soon as he’d buried his father. Wouldn’t you, if you suddenly discovered you were the son of the empress?”
“Not knowing Theodora as I do,” John stated.
“Surely you do not give any credence to those who would have us believe she is now less than a Christian paragon, Lord Chamberlain?”
“No more than you do.”
Procopius may have smiled. It was hard to tell. “To finish the story,” he continued, “the young John presented himself to the empress’s chamberlain. When informed of the child’s presence, Theodora was stricken by fear. What if Justinian found out about the lad? Many had opposed his marriage to a former actress in the first place, and an illegitimate son would be fresh proof of her immorality. Gossip is one thing and easily ignored, but a young man in the flesh is another matter entirely. He’d also present a political liability, and then there’d be Justinian’s reaction when he discovered what had been concealed from him.”
“If he did not already know,” John replied. “The same sort of problems would arise if he were to reappear today.”
“Indeed. However, despite the rumors there is no chance of that happening. Theodora summoned this John to an audience. If the poor child expected some show of motherly affection he was sadly disappointed. The empress put him in the charge of a servant, a fellow employed for his loyalty, discretion, and brutality. The boy was never seen again. No one knows by what means he was removed from this world. No decent person would want to know.”
John’s lips tightened. “You are wrong, Procopius. I want to know. I am beginning to believe this tale is partly true, that Theodora’s son was removed from the palace, but not from the world.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
There were within the empire many former actresses who had planted Christian crosses upon their doors. Most such doors were modest affairs of unfinished wooden planks, opening onto the stark cenobitic cells into which many of these fallen women had retreated in search of salvation.
The cross-emblazoned doors to Theodora’s quarters in the Great Palace were altogether different. Massive, elaborately worked bronze portals-beyond them lay a glittering maze of corridors, reception halls, and sumptuous private rooms, some unglimpsed even by the emperor. They might have been the doors to a splendid church or the servants’ entrance to heaven.
The Lord Chamberlain was known to everyone at the palace and passed into the outer realms of Theodora’s environs without challenge.
He had sent Anatolius back to the courts. He wanted to conduct the interview he sought on his own, for he knew he would be uneasy and he did not want to display it to a friend.