Epilog

 

Constantinople, July 453

 

THE SKY MIRRORED THE MOOD of the people, gray and dreary, with frequent showers. A sturdy woman with graying hair stood along the route to Constantine’s mausoleum, clutching the hand of a nine-year-old girl.

“The angels weep for our dear lady.” The woman wiped away the tears and rain mixing on her face, then pulled her daughter closer, under a cloak.

Troops of soldiers cleared the way down the wide avenue, pressing the grieving people back under the stoa.

The little girl wriggled out from under the cloak. “I can’t see anything, Mama!”

“Stay close, Ria. I don’t want to lose you. When she comes, I’ll lift you up on my shoulders.”

The woman watched a seemingly endless stream of holy men and women process, carrying censers and chanting prayers. She couldn’t see them directly over the heads of the crowd, but she heard their voices. The sweet scent of incense warred with the smell of wet wool and unwashed bodies.

“Why is everyone so sad, Mama?” The little girl looked around her with wide eyes at the adults crying.

“The Augusta was a great lady, child. She fed the poor and tended the sick, when she could have stayed in a warm palace and eaten her fill. She didn’t have to get her hands dirty, but she did, because she loved her people and gave her life for them.” The woman clasped her child closer. “I named you after her. She saved your life, Ria, and helped our family start the shop.”

The little girl eyed her fingers. Bored by a story told frequently in her home, she wanted to put the middle two in her mouth but knew her mother would slap them out. She sighed, cuddling closer. There was little to do but bear the tedium and try to stay dry.

Anticipation rippled through the crowd.

“I see it!” someone shouted. Chants started to coalesce. “God’s peace for the soul of the most pious Aelia Pulcheria Augusta, most beloved by her people.”

As the cortege got closer, the woman made out the wagon carrying the plain porphyry sarcophagus, pulled by a matched team of four black horses, caparisoned in purple and gold. The coffin rested on purple silk, protected from the rain by a gold tasseled awning.

“Now, Ria!” She struggled to lift her daughter to her shoulders. “Can you see now?”

“Yes!”

The rain let up briefly. A stray ray of sun shone through, lingering only long enough to accompany the cortege past the woman and girl, before disappearing in a light drizzle.

“The emperor follows, Mama!”

The woman trembled. “You’ll have to come down now. I can’t hold you longer.” She leaned over. Her daughter jumped off her shoulders.

Flavius Marcian Augustus, in his purple cloak and gold diadem, followed his wife’s sarcophagus on a black stallion, looking grim and sad. Almoners followed, throwing coins into the crowd. The little girl scrambled to pick up a few brass coins. Her mother stood straight, watching the wagon until it was gone from view, an ache in her heart, tears streaming down her face at the loss of her beloved Empress.