Chapter 40

 

Imperial Palace, August, 450

 

PULCHERIA FACED THE FULL COUNCIL in her Augustal regalia, trying to suppress her towering rage. This Consistory had been the site of so many of her victories: when she took over the council from Anthemius at age fifteen, concluded the Persian War at twenty-two, ordered the heretic Bishop Nestorius banished to barren Petra at thirty-six... She tasted gall at this defeat, in such familiar surroundings. At least she managed to have the scoundrel Chrysaphius executed before the council brought her their odious proposal.

Marriage! They wanted her to subject her body and rule to a man! She shuddered to think of it.

The faces around the ebony table reflected her relationship with them. Her friends blushed with guilt, her enemies hid smirks, those on the fence exhibited neutral looks. She steeled her own roiled emotions behind a chilly mask.

“I’ll carefully consider your proposal, gentlemen. You are dismissed.” She rose. The men bowed as she exited. At the door she turned, as if in afterthought. “General Aspar. Attend me. I have some questions about Attila’s movements.”

She led the general to her favorite sitting room, dismissed her women and all but one servant to provide food and drink.

Taking a goblet of wine, Aspar raised an eyebrow. “You have a report of Attila’s movements. I can add nothing to it.”

“Whose idea is it that I marry?” Pulcheria nearly spat. “My brother is barely cold in his grave. His mourning weeks are not done, and the council ‘requires’ my marriage. I am a pledged virgin. That is the font of my power with the people and the Church.”

“Augusta, you know a woman cannot rule Rome.” Aspar spoke with quiet authority.

“I ruled Rome for all but ten of thirty-five years.”

“In your brother’s name. Women cannot hold magisterial powers, and the emperor is the chief magistrate of the land. The council and the generals reject your nephew Valentinian as sole ruler. They want you…with a husband.”

“A husband they think they can control, unlike me!” Pulcheria slumped in her chair, feeling every one of her fifty-one years. Did she really want to continue this everlasting battle? Fighting for her place? Theo was dead. She was tired. She rubbed throbbing temples. “I thought, in this perilous time…? For an interim…? Later, I could adopt a suitable male successor, as did the early emperors.”

“Augusta, I am one of your oldest friends and allies. If it were possible, I would back you with my armies. It’s not. The council, the Church, the people will not follow a woman alone.”

“Ungrateful wretches!” Pulcheria brooded. “After all I’ve done for them. I’d retire to Hebdomon and leave the council to rip this country apart, but I know how much horror the people would suffer. The poor always pay for the follies of the rich and powerful. I cannot abandon them.”

“Augusta, we all want you to govern. Choose a husband and do so.”

“And who do I choose?” She flung herself out of her chair and paced. “One of the council? It would tear itself apart in jealousy. A rich noble? I have plenty of money. More than I can count, with the legacies of my sisters and brother. I’ve observed that a taste of power goes to a noble’s head. I’d be pushed aside, if not dead within a year. A military man is too used to command and will seek to subjugate me and his fellow generals, which would cause jealousy among the ranks.”

“The right military man might not.”

“Are you putting yourself forward, General?” Pulcheria smiled. “I might consider you, except you are already married.”

“No, Augusta. I would not presume.” Aspar laughed. “But I do have a candidate in mind. You’ve met him. General Marcian.”

“Your second in command from Thrace?” She leaned forward. “What recommends him?”

“He has no family but a daughter, and no sponsors at court, so he brings no blood ties or patronage obligations to complicate the marriage. His loyalty is to me, and mine is to you.”

“There will be no children. Even if I were capable of bearing, I will not violate my vow of chastity. Any husband must honor that vow.”

“This will be a chaste marriage of convenience. You continue to govern…in both your names, satisfying Roman law. He continues in the military. The marriage allows you to settle the succession in the next few years to your satisfaction and avoid a civil war.”

“What of General Zeno?” The Isaurian had accumulated much influence since being promoted by Chrysaphius, especially among those who resented being by ruled by a woman.

“I believe he will back Marcian in exchange for some honor or promotion. Consul, perhaps? Or Patrician?”

Pulcheria eyed Aspar speculatively. “You’ve given a good deal of thought to this, General. Could you not have warned me of the council’s plans?”

“I suspected something like this might come up, but not so soon. I thought the council would wait at least until the mourning period was over before making any proposals.” Aspar bowed. “I’m sorry, Augusta. My plans are in early stages. I wanted to have something more concrete for you—if the need arose. There will still have be considerable negotiation if you approve of Marcian.”

“I will consider it.” Her stomach soured, but Pulcheria was a practical woman. The council and the generals would never coalesce behind a rival candidate. She would take advantage of their weakness. If she had to have a husband, at least she would choose for herself. First, she would have to know this man better.

 

*****

 

Hebdomon, September 450

 

THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Pulcheria travelled to her suburban palace in Hebdomon, supposedly to escape the late summer heat in the city. In reality, she came to secretly meet her prospective husband. If she approved the General, she would negotiate with Zeno and the council. If not? Maybe she could convince the council to let her adopt rather than marry, though she still had no candidate.

Pulcheria waited for Marcian in the apple orchard outside the palace. She rejected the cool white linen robes suggested by her wardrobe servant for the day. White was the color of virgin youth. Instead she chose her favorite dark blue—the color of the Holy Virgin—for the interview.

Guards ringed the orchard. One of her oldest, deafest ladies occupied a nearby chair, dozing in the sun, providing token chaperone duties. Pulcheria plucked a red apple from the branch and bit into the ripe fruit. Sweetness filled her mouth. The heavy scent of fallen ripe apples filled the air, accompanied by the buzzing of bees and wasps feasting on rotting fruit. Pulcheria made a note to reprimand her gardener for not gathering the harvest in time.

“Augusta?”

A male voice startled her. She had heard no steps on the path. Pulcheria turned to greet General Marcian in civilian dress—a simple tunic and traditional toga, edged with gold embroidery. His erect carriage and slightly bowed legs signaled his martial profession. Seven years her senior, with gray-shot light brown hair and hooded green eyes, he seemed in robust health.

She tossed the half-eaten apple aside and wiped her hand on her dark robes. “General.” Pulcheria eyed her prospective husband. “Do you know why I asked you here?”

“General Aspar told me.” A slow smile stole across Marcian’s weathered face. “I did not believe him.”

“I understand.” She indicated a bench under a further tree. “Come sit, General. It is cooler in the shade.”

They settled on the bench. Pulcheria waved over a hovering servant. “Cucumber water? Or do you prefer wine?”

“Water is fine for me, Augusta.”

The slave served them, then retreated to a respectful distance.

“Do you not believe Aspar is your friend?” Pulcheria looked at Marcian over her goblet. “Do you believe he would lie to you about such an important matter?”

“Apologies, Augusta. I cast no aspersions on my friend and superior.” A slow flush crept up his neck. “My point was, I did not comprehend what could possibly recommend me to you as a husband and emperor.”

“It was my brother’s deathbed wish. He named you his successor.” Pulcheria wanted to see how the man would respond to such a claim.

“Forgive me, Augusta, if I think you misheard, or the emperor was not in his right mind. He barely knew me.”

A blunt and honest answer. Pulcheria tried another test. “You may think as you like, as long as you support my words in public.”

The smile disappeared from his face. “I am a plain-spoken man and pride myself on my honesty. I value honesty in others. May I speak freely, Augusta?”

She nodded.

“I understand your need, since a woman cannot rule Rome. Nothing about me, or my past, recommends me for this honor. I come from no great family; bring no wealth, prestige or connections. I have no head for statecraft. My heart is with the military. My one great ambition is to serve the empire faithfully.”

“All you say perfectly suits my needs,” Pulcheria explained. “No one will object. The nobles will be glad I did not choose from one of their opponents’ factions. The military has one of their own and will approve, again, because I did not elevate one magister militum over the others. Since you have no ambition or inclination to govern, the Church and people keep me as their champion. The empire avoids a civil war of succession.”

“I do not feel court life would suit me—the ritual and ceremony.” Marcian shuddered.

“All the more reason for you to escape to the troops. An absent martial husband suits me very well.” Pulcheria had not thought she would have to persuade the man to marriage. His very reluctance told her Aspar did, indeed, provide the perfect candidate. “Come see the design from the mint for our marriage coin. It’s quite ingenious, with Christ between you and me, giving his blessing to our chaste marriage.” She pulled a piece of folded parchment from her belt.

“I have no choice in the matter?” Marcian rose and took a soldier’s stance, as if receiving orders.

“Not if you truly want to serve the empire. General.” She dropped the paper on her lap. “Marcian. I could threaten you with exile and ruin, but I won’t. If you truly don’t want to serve in this way, I will let you go with my blessings. But I implore you to accept the diadem from my hands. This is the greatest sacrifice you could make for the empire.”

Marcian dropped to his knees, bowing. “If it is truly your wish, Augusta, I will serve.”

“I have some conditions.” She hesitated.

“I would never ask that you break your vow of chastity. I understand this marriage is for reasons of state, not dynasty.”

“There’s one more.”

Marcian looked up, curious.

“It was my legal right, as an unmarried woman, to leave all my wealth and worldly possessions to the poor. As my husband, my estate should go to you. I ask that you honor my current will. As emperor, you will have a private income from imperial lands and factories. You and your daughter will not be left destitute, if I should die before you.”

“I will do as you wish.” Marcian stood. “I have a condition of my own.”

“Yes?” What did he want? Lands? A prestigious marriage for his daughter? All doable…to a degree.

“You have suffered many personal losses over the last few years. I know I cannot take the place of your brother or sisters, but, to the extent you can, I hope you regard me as a friend. I have always admired you, your piety and steadfastness, your cleverness and kindness. I would know the woman behind the Augusta and serve her as well as serve Rome. Do not dismiss me as a figurehead only. Use me as a confidant. I vow to keep your counsel.”

Tears prickled the back of her eyes. Since Marina’s death, she had no one to confide her most intimate thoughts to. Even during her reconciliation with Theo, she kept many things to herself, fearing to open the newly healed wound in their love.

“I will think on it.” Pulcheria hoped she could trust this man. It remained to be seen.

“That is all I ask.” Marcian swept her a deep bow. “May I see the mint’s design?”

She handed him the drawing.

He frowned. “Doesn’t look a thing like you or me!”

Pulcheria laughed at the familiar complaint. Yes, this marriage might work.