Chapter 5

 

Imperial progress through Constantinople, September 410

 

PULCHERIA’S CONFIDENCE IN HER ABILITIES to rule lasted until her progress with Father Marcus the next morning. The abstractions of hypothetical future battles with Huns and Goths in distant lands were replaced with the reality of a city teeming with people struggling to feed and clothe themselves.

Pulcheria’s heavily guarded entourage progressed to the small harbor named for her grandfather on the southern Propontis Sea. She and Father Marcus traveled in a smaller covered litter rather than the conspicuous imperial wagon. However, the palace guards, in their white uniforms and purple cloaks, made it evident a personage of note was about in the streets. People gathered in knots, speculating on who might be behind the closed curtains.

Pulcheria peeked into the street. Her stomach fluttered. Was this venture a mistake? She turned to her companion. “Father, I need your advice.”

“Of course, Princess. How may I help?” Father Marcus leaned forward; hands clasped in his lap.

“I know how to comport myself at court, but I’ve been isolated from the people of Constantinople. Anthemius and Antiochus keep us immured in the palace. I don’t know how to act with the people of the city.”

“You are an imperial princess. Why is it important to you?” Marcus’ tone was reminiscent of the classroom.

“I’m curious. If we are to rule the people, we should know them and their needs. That’s why I wanted to inspect the bread distribution.” She paused. “Also, the Lord commands that we care for the poor and the hungry, the sick and lame, but I don’t know how.”

“If you wish the people to like you, be your active curious self. Ask questions. Show interest in their lives. If you wish the people to love you, make their lives easier.”

“The first is easy, the second harder. I can do little on my own. You’ve spoken frequently of my grandmother Aelia Flacilla and her ministry to the people. I want to do that. I want to honor God with my service.”

“Remember the verse in the old part of the Bible? ‘To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.’ In time, Princess, you will come into your own. Trust in God to lead you down the right path.”

“Thank you, Father. You are a comfort to me as well as a teacher.” She learned back and considered when her time might come.

At their destination, Pulcheria alighted behind a dense screen of guards.

The Master of Harbors, a thin dapper man of middle years, approached with a worried frown. He bowed low. “Welcome, Princess. May I escort you to my offices for refreshments?”

“I did not come here to eat, but to inspect your operations, Harbormaster. Those ships,” Pulcheria indicated a small fleet moored at the docks, “are they from Africa?” She strode toward the docks, surprised adults scrambling to catch up with her.

“Princess!” the Harbormaster puffed, “The docks are no place for a ch–uh–for a person of your rank. Let me take you inside for a repast.”

Pulcheria stopped abruptly, causing a comic pile up of retainers as they tried to avoid her and each other. The Harbormaster’s face wore an expression of disappointment and anxiety. What was wrong? She was being her curious self, asking questions.

“Give some consideration to the Harbormaster, Princess,” Father Marcus whispered in her ear. “No doubt he has several family members and a number of clients in his office who wait to meet you. For many, even a glimpse of a member of the imperial family gives them status for the rest of their lives.”

“Really?” Pulcheria muttered.

Father Marcus nodded. She turned to the Harbormaster with a warm smile, favoring him by touching his arm. “Forgive my enthusiasm, Sir. I do not often escape the palace. I look forward to sharing food with you…after you have shown me the ships.”

The Harbormaster’s face relaxed. He smiled back. Father Marcus gave her an approving nod. So small a gesture to reap such cooperation. She turned toward her goal once more as the entourage untangled itself.

They approached a line of men, bowed down with heavy sacks of grain on their shoulders, trudging from the ships. They filled waiting carts, then moved more slowly back to the dock for their next load. Pulcheria once observed a line of ants carrying food back to their nest in much the same way. “Would it not be faster for the men to form a line and pass the sacks from one to another, as the fire vigiles do buckets?”

“Likely not, Princess.” The Harbormaster wiped sweat from his brow with a limp rag.

“It would be less work, since the men would stand in one place. They could move the bags faster.”

The Harbormaster stood slack-jawed at the suggested innovation, then replied, “This is the way it has always been done, Princess.”

Only a few of the dull-eyed, scrawny men mustered the curiosity to look up at the girl dressed as a holy woman, accompanied by palace guards. All sported a brand on their cheeks, indicating they were imperial slaves who worked in public factories. “Who are these men? Where do they come from?”

“Captives, debtors, criminals.” The Harbormaster shrugged. “No one you need be concerned about. We use them to unload the ships and grind the grain to flour.”

“They seem malnourished. Would they not work harder if they were better fed?”

“They would indeed have more vigor, but that would make them more difficult to control. We would need to employ many more guards if they were less docile.”

Pulcheria frowned. What the Harbormaster said made sense, but it didn’t seem right. Except for violent criminals, most slaves were freed after some time in servitude. Men shouldn’t die of starvation for a debt or petty theft. Everyone was redeemable in the Lord’s eyes. She would discuss this with Father Marcus later.

The Harbormaster motioned to one of the men. “You there, bring your sack here, and be quick about it.” A youngish man with dark eyes and missing front teeth, shuffled to the group and put down his burden with a sigh. The Harbormaster untied the neck of the sack and lifted a fistful of fat brown seeds, letting them trickle through his fingers. He said, with a touch of pride, “We have barley from Alexandria today, enough to feed a whole district for a month. Grain is the lifeblood of the empire and it all comes through my harbors.”

“Where is it stored?” Father Marcus broke in.

“We have five stone cornstores up the hill.” The Harbormaster indicated behind them with a vague headshake. “Inspectors certify the grain’s purity and volume. From there, it is issued to the mills, which supply the bakeries. We also store a surplus in case of emergencies.”

“How much surplus do we have on hand?” Pulcheria asked.

“Enough for six months.”

“You could feed nearly a million souls for six months?” She looked at the dulled-eyed man with his ribs prominently showing. It must be torturous to carry grain day in and day out, knowing others would benefit by having the bread he was denied. Pulcheria remained silent as the Harbormaster pointed out the construction of the stone docks.

A light breeze blew from the northeast, freshening the usual harbor smells of rotting seaweed and dead fish. “The deep harbors are on the Golden Horn side, Princess, but the consistent northeast wind makes rounding the peninsula difficult, so we established these small harbors just to handle the grain ships from Africa.”

After they met briefly with a ship captain, the Harbormaster escorted her back to his offices where, indeed, a small crowd waited. She had a cup of watered wine with the Harbormaster’s portly wife and nibbled the delicacies on which the good woman evidently spent enormous effort. She chatted with several merchants about their businesses, noting the looks of surprise many were unable to conceal at her more discerning questions. After observing the required courtesies, she caught Father Marcus’s attention, raising an eyebrow.

“It is time we moved on,” he said, fanning himself. “The Princess wishes to see the bakeries. We should be there before the sun gets too warm in the heavens.”

The Harbormaster started to protest.

“Thank you, but we must go,” Pulcheria cut in.

His wife approached a final time to bow low. “Bless you, Princess. Not since your sainted grandmother, Aelia Flacilla Augusta, has anyone from the palace honored us with their presence. Please know that you may call on us at any time for any reason.”

Pulcheria took the woman’s hands in her own. “Bless you and your family for the important work you do here. I return the favor. If you have any needs, send word and I will look into it.”

In the litter, bumping their way to one of the twenty bakeries that provided government bread to the citizens of Constantinople, Father Marcus gave her a thoughtful smile. “Well done, Princess.”

“In what way, Father?”

“Your respect for the people and their work. People saw your genuine interest and concern and love you for it. You may not be able to pass laws or lead armies, but the love of the people is no small thing. That power, used wisely,” he shrugged, “can be just as effective in ruling.”

Father Marcus’ words jolted Pulcheria. She had thought of her curiosity as an aid to ruling, and her service a gift to God. She hadn’t considered the power it could bring. Power had always been the ability to get your way through station—you had command over others through birth or position—or brute force. “The abstract has become concrete,” she muttered.

“What?” Father Marcus looked puzzled.

“I counsel Theo frequently about keeping the love and consent of his people and the army. But those are just words. What do they mean? How does a ruler act? History shows, without the support of the people and the army, an emperor will fail—sometimes forfeiting his life.” She shuddered. “I now have a more concrete idea of how to protect my brother and sisters. You have given me much to ponder, Father.”

The smell of baking bread permeated their litter, masking the usual smells of sweaty bodies and horse dung. Pulcheria’s mouth watered despite her recent meal.

They halted. Her captain opened the curtains to help her alight.

A pair, the opposite of the Harbormaster and his wife, greeted Pulcheria with low bows and elaborate greetings. The baker was a rotund man; his wife whip thin. Both faces flushed red from the ovens and streaked with flour, which they had vainly attempted to brush off.

“Welcome, Princess!” The Masterbaker ushered Pulcheria, Father Marcus and a contingent of guards into an enormous rectangular space, blazing with the heat of dozens of dome-shaped ovens. Boys stoked the fires under the ovens, taking wood from stacks covering one long side of the enclosure. Men and women shoveled large round loaves in and out of the ovens on flat paddles, transferring the finished loaves to baskets. The men wore only brief loincloths, the women short sleeveless tunics. All glistened with sweat.

“These people have no brands. Are they not slaves like the dockhands?” Pulcheria asked the Masterbaker.

“No, Princess. These are members of my family and others of the bakers’ guild. Bakers maintain their own craft. Those born to it stay with it.”

Like a princess born to the purple, birth is destiny among the craft guilds, Pulcheria realized. “What are they doing now?” She indicated a boy lugging a full basket away from the ovens.

“When a basket is full, the underbaker signals one of the boys, who carries the basket to a back gate. An imperial inspector counts the loaves and checks for uniformity of weight. Then the boy deposits his basket in a cart which takes the bread away for distribution.”

Sweat popped out on Pulcheria’s forehead, soaking through her head covering. Trickles started down her ribs. She felt a bit faint. “How do they stand the heat?”

“We are just finishing the day’s bake. We try to do most of it in the cool of the morning, before the sun rises and reaches its zenith. They also drink plenty of water and eat salt fish for breakfast.” The Masterbaker indicated the short end of the courtyard, covered by a peristyle. “Let us watch from there, where it is cooler.”

It was much cooler out of the sun and away from the immediate vicinity of the ovens. A dozen women worked there, mixing the bread and shaping the loaves. The Masterbaker’s wife evidently supervised this area. She stepped forward to explain. “Every loaf must be the same weight and quality. We are at the end of the process for the day. This batch of dough is done and we will make our final loaves. My daughter Marcia can demonstrate, if the Princess has time?”

“Oh, yes!” Pulcheria watched a girl, not much older than herself, pull a portion of dough from a glazed bowl. With deft strokes of floured hands, she pulled and patted the dark dough into a round loaf shape on a flat stone. Her mother tied twine around the circumference of the loaf to check for size, then cut shallow grooves in the top to make eight perfect wedges.

“I should like to try shaping the dough.” Sheltered from the mundane details of everyday living, Pulcheria had an abiding curiosity about how things worked. How was bread baked, a wall built, fish caught? How did water get from the cisterns to her bath? With these and thousands more questions she pestered her tutors and attendants, so was surprised at the shocked look on Marcia’s face.

“Oh, no! The princess mustn’t—” The girl clamped her mouth shut, with a frightened look, realizing she spoke her thoughts out loud.

“My daughter didn’t mean to offend.” The Masterbaker’s wife bowed low. “She only meant the Princess shouldn’t soil her hands with such work.”

“I hope my hands won’t soil your good bread.” Pulcheria smiled, raising her hands for inspection. “They are usually covered in ink. You do such a fine job shaping the dough. I only wished to see how it feels.”

“By all means, the Princess shall do as she wishes. Marcia, show her how it is done.”

The girl said, with a shy smile, “The Princess might want to roll up her sleeves.” Pulcheria did as bidden. “Now cover your hands in flour, so the dough won’t stick.” Marcia picked up a handful of dark flour from a small bowl on her right and rubbed her hands together. Pulcheria followed suit. “Now take your dough from the bowl and pat it into shape.”

Marcia slowed her motions for Pulcheria to see, but the princess still struggled to produce a specimen as fine as the baker girl’s. Dough stuck to her fingers and her loaf remained stubbornly lumpy, but the sheer joy of doing something ordinary lightened her mood. Her days were filled with study and planning. The opportunity to pound yielding bread dough and get covered in flour was a luxury.

The Masterbaker’s wife appraised her effort with a critical eye. “Not bad for a first try. After you have been making loaves for a few days, you’ll be as skilled as Marcia. We produce four thousand loaves a day here. She has lots of practice.” Marcia continued to make more loaves while they talked; there were now nine perfect loaves and Pulcheria’s misshapen one waiting for the ovens. “Does the Princess wish her loaf to be fired? She could take it with her.”

Pulcheria looked at the lumpy loaf with regret. “I am afraid we cannot wait for it to bake, and I would not have it wasted. I am sure it would not pass the sharp eyes of the inspector. Please, Marcia, make it perfect, like yours.” The girl added more dough and straightened the loaf in a few seconds. Pulcheria could not tell which was hers except from its position on the stone. “Thank you again for the opportunity to try your trade.” She dipped her hands in the bowl of water used by the bread girl and wiped them on a coarse cloth. “It’s been an education.” She left amid shouts and acclamations from the workers for her good health.

“That was fun!” Pulcheria crowed back in the litter.

“And another success, Princess. The people were impressed.”

“But I didn’t do it to impress them!”

“All the better. Your natural impulses are good. The people respect that. Most people will spot false actions.”

They next traveled to one of the bread steps, where a portion of the eighty thousand government loaves was distributed each day. The head of her guards brought the litter to a halt and opened the door to say, “I’m sorry Princess, but we should not stop here.”

“What is the problem?” Pulcheria asked impatiently.

“There seems to be some disorder at this step, Princess.” The captain dipped his head. “I believe we should go to another or preferably back to the palace.”

“What is the nature of the disorder?”

“The bread seems to be delayed. The crowd is restive. If it does not arrive soon, I fear they may grow violent.”

“Then I must address their concerns.”

“You must not, Princess!” The captain’s horrified look was echoed in his tone. “It is not safe. Regent Anthemius would have my head if any harm came to you.”

“As he should.” Pulcheria’s spine stiffened. “Send a soldier to find out where their bread is.” Her blood rose as he hesitated. “Now, Captain! I will feed these people from the palace kitchens, if I have to.”

To her surprise, the captain bowed and turned to his troops, dispatching a couple on the bread-finding mission. She used that commanding voice with her servants but feared the captain might balk and override her wishes.

“Are you sure about this, Princess?” Father Marcus asked with concern. “You’ve had two successful encounters. Going back to the palace seems the safest course.”

“These are my people. They are not yet violent. If I can prevent injury and death through my actions, I must act. Besides— ” she smiled, “—did you not tell me just hours ago to trust God to show me the right path? Perhaps this is the season I can care for the people.”

They proceeded to the bread step where the captain announced her presence. Pulcheria stepped down from the litter. Her guards surrounded her. “Captain! Let me be seen!”

He reluctantly ordered his men to her side and back. Pulcheria made a note to praise the captain to Antiochus. After this trip, she planned many more. Having a compliant man in charge of her guards would come in handy.

She turned to the hungry crowd. The people prostrated themselves before her, shouting her name. Most wore rags and were barely better nourished than the dock slaves. This bread might be their main meal for the day. Her heart hurt at the sight. These were her people. They needed food.

She addressed them in her best rhetorical voice. “My people, I understand you have no bread today.”

A jumble of shouts arose from the crowd.

“Yes.”

“No bread.”

“My children starve.”

She put up her hands for quiet. The volume lowered to an occasional mutter. “The Good Lord and the Emperor Theodosius will provide. I have sent officers to investigate and will stay here myself until you receive your share. You will not go home without!”

Cheers from the crowd were interrupted by angry shouts from a rat-faced man, holding the hands of two dirty urchins. “What will you do about Felix? He’s the reason the bread ain’t here more days ’n not.”

“Who is this Felix?” Father Marcus asked.

“He’s the agent that runs this step.” The angry mutters increased. “And he’s crookeder than a dog’s hind leg. He steals the government bread and sells it in the market for profit. I seen him.”

“I will not tolerate theft of my people’s portion. Be assured I will look into this. If your accusations are true, Felix will be punished most harshly.” And anyone else engaged in this corruption. Does Prefect Isidorus know? Anger rising, Pulcheria turned to her captain. “Find this Felix person and bring him to me.”

Within moments, a guard dragged a cowering man from the step offices. He wore fine clothes and flashy jewels, but the look on his smooth face at being confronted by an imperial princess was of blind terror. He prostrated himself gibbering before she could even ask a question. “It’s the carters, Your Highness. They’re the thieves. Half the bread doesn’t make it from the bakeries, and the people blame me.”

The rat-faced man shouted again, “Who splits the take with the carters? Where’d you get yer rings?”

“My wife has money of her own. These are gifts.” Felix pleaded, “Please, Princess. I did no wrong!”

“Guards, take him into custody. We will sort it out later. For now, the priority is to get these people their bread.”

Even as she spoke, hooves clattered on the paved street. Cheers broke out at the back of the crowd. “It’s here. The bread’s here. God bless Princess Pulcheria!”

“Father Marcus, please join me.” With her guards, they passed out bread to the hungry crowd. Pulcheria silently thanked the Lord for the speedy recovery of the bread and the favor of her people. Up close, Pulcheria saw the rheumy eyes of the aged, touched the boney hands of starved children, smelled the unwashed bodies of street beggars. Not a one snatched at the loaves. All blessed the hands of the giver.

When the last loaf was given to a widow with three small children, Pulcheria blessed the woman and gave her a few copper coins. She was tired but elated. The afternoon’s tasks left her with a feeling of euphoria at having served her people well.

That feeling didn’t last.

On the way back to the palace, Pulcheria scowled.

“What is it, Princess?”

“Isidorus will hear of this.” She huffed. “As city prefect, he should have been aware of this corruption and taken steps to see the guilty parties punished. Did he get some gift for looking the other way?”

Father Marcus shrugged his shoulders. “Many government officials grow rich from such graft, but you have no reason to believe Isidorus is one of them.”

“You’re right, Father. Something about the man sets my teeth on edge. I have no cause to believe he is stealing from the poor, but I will watch to see he does his duty to stop it.” She sighed, leaned back, and gave in to the soothing swing of the litter. She had been so excited about the procession, she’d gotten little sleep the night before. “Thank you, Father,” Pulcheria said, with a barely concealed yawn.

“What for, Princess?”

“Your wise counsel. Without it, I would have embarrassed the Harbormaster, disrupted the bakers, and not had the righteous courage to help the mob at the bread step.” Her head nodded, eyes closing as she murmured, “I think I know now…how to help…brother…people….”

She didn’t notice Father Marcus pull a cloak around her shoulders and smooth the hair back from her forehead.