Theodora: Empress of Byzantium (Mark Magowan Books) (17 page)

The so-called Syrian authors had attended similar schools, had similar careers, and might even have been collaborators or interlocutors of Procopius and of the other “pundits” of the time. They shared one belief that, crucially, kept their works from being passed down by medieval scholars, the Orthodox-Catholic Byzantines who worked in the Greek language. These authors shared a belief in Monophysitism, the doctrine
about the nature of Christ that had been banned as a heresy at the Fourth Ecumenical Council of Chalcedon, held in 451. Monophysitism was still the great unresolved religious and political issue on the Mediterranean stage, especially in the eastern part that was so vital to the Christian Roman Empire of Constantinople for both economic and military reasons.

In terms of political weight and influence both theological and cultural, Monophysitism was even more relevant than the Arian creed denying that Jesus was fully divine, which was embraced by the rulers of the Mediterranean West, the “barbarian” Roman kings (only some of whom were considered legitimate by the empire of the second Rome). The Monophysite dispute persisted from the middle of the fifth century through the middle of the seventh century in various forms, with a number of reversals, negotiations, victories, and defeats for each side, until new issues arose with the emergence of Islam (which the Christian theologians initially interpreted not as a new creed but as a heresy).

Not coincidentally, the Arab-Islamic expansion into the empire was particularly successful in those areas where Christian Monophysitism prevailed, such as Egypt and Syria. In fact, belief in that doctrine—in defiance of imperial and Roman orthodoxy, and even directly opposed to it—was a powerful feature of “national” as well as religious identity in the region, a response to the Roman empire that sought unity and uniformity above all else. Once Islam replaced Christianity as the ruling local belief, one could practice Monophysitism almost undisturbed in the melting pot regulated by the
pax islamica.

Thus, while Procopius vilified the former actress in Greek, Syriac texts produced by Monophysite authors
¹
—either translated from the Greek or written originally in Syriac—present a spiritual world in which Theodora is celebrated as the “pious,” the “saintly,” the “devout” empress. Her piety, saintliness, and devotion—her Christian example—were linked both to her influence on the development of Monophysitism and to her journey throughout the Mediterranean, that very same journey that the
Secret History
interpreted as an unbridled exhibition of diabolical lust stretching from Alexandria to Constantinople. Are these contradictory sources irreconcilable? Perhaps not.

+ + +

Banished by Hecebolus in foreign Apollonia, thrown to the bottom of the social hierarchy, without any legal protection, Theodora could count only on her youth and on some of her possessions. She was a total outcast, without nearby family or compatriots, in a time when patronage based on familial or regional roots was all-powerful. (In those same years, in the imperial palace, a certain cultivated John achieved great success. A native of Philadelphia in Anatolian Lydia, he would not have had such a brilliant career without help from the prefect Zoticus, to whom a relative had introduced him. United by ambition and by merit, the three of them were bound especially by their common roots in Anatolia.)

For Theodora, aid and solidarity came from a different source, primarily from the “public-welfare ministry” run by the Church, perhaps in Apollonia, the seat of an important basilica, or maybe in nearby Cyrene. Theodora might have heard Hecebolus mention the name of the bishop or of other prelates or clerics. She might have turned to them, maybe pleading for the right of asylum at the altar, as a suppliant. Any supplication had to be considered seriously, although there might have been some understandable embarrassment about her appeal. The Church elites were close to the political elites, personified here by Hecebolus, the highest local authority, who had driven Theodora out. And Theodora’s past surely did not match the paradigms of moral—specifically Christian—virtue that prevailed in late antiquity. Therefore, she was probably asked for exact words and concrete proofs of repentance and reform before her supplication could be taken into consideration. On the other hand, Theodora’s request was probably a simple one: she needed support and protection so that she could at least reach Alexandria, about three weeks’ journey away. There in the great Egyptian metropolis, she would try to connect with the city’s Blue faction, relying on the intercity network of factional solidarity.

Theodora seems to have passed the test of repentance that might have been required of her, and we have no reason to believe that her performance was only opportunistic play-acting. Although her life in
the world of show business and the Hippodrome had introduced her to astrological and magical doctrines, these were only superficial notions that had never become an alternative belief system contrary to her faith in Jesus Christ. She had grown up in that faith, as her very name testified. When she needed help, she turned to the Church.

Evidently, the prelate who had the responsibility of verifying her sincerity found nothing “pagan” in her. She was neither a “Jew” nor a “Manichean.” He must have accepted her profession of faith in the triune Christian God of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit: one God in three persons, equal and distinct, in accordance with the dogmas of the early ecumenical councils of the Church that had rejected the Arian doctrine. Theodora furthermore accepted the orthodoxy (literally, “correct faith” in Greek) that the Virgin Mary be called Theotokos, “Mother of God,” and not Christotokos, “Mother of Christ.” (Nestorius, an Antioch theologian of the fifth century and later patriarch of Constantinople, had favored “Mother of Christ” and was condemned by the fathers of the Holy Church at the Third Ecumenical Council held in Ephesus in 431.)

Maybe the prelate asked for more. Maybe he specifically questioned her about Christ, who had been resurrected to declare the New Covenant, and therefore was truly God. At the same time, He had died on the cross as a man and so He was truly a man. And yet He was worshipped in the Trinity as one person only. How many natures could one person have? One, or more than one?

It is possible that Theodora did not reply right away. She had probably heard arguments on the subject in Constantinople. She probably intuited that the question might be difficult for her, and she probably solved the dilemma by asking her interlocutor for enlightenment. He must have introduced her to the subject of the dual nature of Christ, which had been the object of the Fourth Ecumenical Council, held in 451 in Chalcedon, on the Asiatic shores of the Bosphorus. The council had condemned the doctrine of the monk Euthyches, the first to launch the theory of Monophysitism (from the Greek
mone
, “one,” and
physis
, “nature”).

For Euthyches and his followers, Christ had only one nature: He was divine. He had appeared on Earth as a man, had died on the cross,
and had been resurrected for humanity, but he was not consubstantial with humanity. He had a divine nature, with unique attributes, which had absorbed whatever seemed human about Him. The prelate must have acknowledged that Euthyches had radical ideas. It might seem as if he was denying the true humanity of Christ, just as Arius (founder of the Arian creed) and then Nestorius had denied or at least minimized His divinity. But what about the Council of Chalcedon’s position? Perhaps the council had bent too easily before the bishop of Rome, proclaiming that Christ—
one
person in the Trinity—had
two
natures at once, human and divine, each distinct from the other, and yet each perfect as well as indivisible. That, according to the prelate, was Dyophysitism (from the Greek
dyo
, “two,” and
physis
, “nature”).

Defending these tenets seemed difficult, especially for those who relied on the ancient patriarchal cathedral of Alexandria where the revered patriarch Cyril had declared, “There is only one nature, from two, in God, the Incarnated Logos.”
²
He did not subtract any of Christ’s humanity, but he allowed for no separations within that nature.

The prelate must have recalled that Mark the Evangelist, one of Christ’s apostles, had brought the Gospel to Alexandria. It was scandalous that the Second Ecumenical Council of 381 had demoted such an ancient apostolic see to being the subject of Constantinople, the new imperial capital and the birthplace of the suppliant who stood before him. He also found it abhorrent that Dyophysitism had prevailed in Chalcedon, for it posed a danger to Church unity and consensus among the patriarchates. He may have added that believers such as Theodora worshipped Christ because He was divine and resurrected, certainly not because He was human and crucified. This is why many regarded the see of Alexandria as the highest ecclesiastical authority, the stronghold of faith. (This was especially true in Egypt, among those faithful who knew little Greek or none at all.)

The broad spread of Dyophysitism was linked to the (possibly hopeless) dream of a perfect alignment between the second Rome of Constantinople and the first Rome of Italy. But the bishops of Rome were subject both to the kings of Italy, who were Arian heretics, and to the emperors of Constantinople. And yet the patriarch of Alexandria,
direct heir of Mark the Evangelist, could rightfully be called “pope,” just like the Roman heir sitting in Peter’s chair. In addition, the see of Alexandria spoke to its faithful not only in Greek but also in Coptic, the local Egyptian tongue. This brought Alexandria honor, but it brought dishonor to the Church, for the Church’s truth is to be found in unity, the prelate might have continued. “Let not man put asunder,”
³
he might have admonished, citing the Gospel.

His speech had by now become a monologue. He recalled the “pious” departed emperors in Constantinople, such as Zeno and Anastasius. Zeno had published the
Edict of the Union
in 482, wherein he accepted the Trinity as defined by the first three ecumenical councils, and confirmed the condemnation of Nestorius. He had declared that Christ was perfectly human and perfectly divine, without mentioning the Council of Chalcedon and the subject of the two “natures.” And yet he had not won out. On the contrary, the Church had been torn asunder. The current situation and the prospects for the future were all in God’s hands. It behooved them, the prelate said, to offer God their suffering and their witness.

Theodora must have followed the arguments, asking questions, asking to know more. Her mind, once used to the rapid-fire conflicts and plot reversals of the theater, might have lost its suppleness during the dreamy time spent with Hecebolus. She was probably now awakening to a wholly theological exercise. The prelate might have told her that in order to deepen her ideas and turn them into knowledge, she needed to go to Alexandria, the see of the patriarchate, and consult with learned men who could enlighten her. But he might have concluded with a reminder that Christianity was always a matter of faith and of charity above all, not only or not chiefly a matter of dogma.

While as a child in Constantinople Theodora had received a generic water baptism into the Christian faith, this meeting abroad, during her early maturity, marked her verbal baptism in theology. Throughout her life theology would comfort and encourage her.

The suppliant was thus most likely sent, duly covered in a black habit and wimple, with a group of prelates who were going to a synod in
Alexandria. Her worldly apparel and jewels were hidden in a bag. The cart must have followed an ancient route along the North African coast, protected from the threatening inland Berber tribes. They must have stopped at church buildings and military garrisons, for it was unbecoming for prelates to sleep at inns. During this journey, Theodora’s behavior was no doubt exemplary. She must have slept or listened quietly, or even tried to join the choir of prelates who were singing the
Trisagion,
the “thrice holy” hymn:

Holy is God

Holy and strong

Holy and immortal

God crucified for us

She might not have known the fourth line before this journey, proof, she was perhaps told, of her youth and the fact that she had always given little thought to religion. The fourth line—a recent Monophysite addition made during the reign of Anastasius, one of the “pious departed emperors”—had been opposed by the Dyophysite monks of the capital around the year 512. In due time, she would understand why. In the meantime, the epithet “departed” confirmed her suspicion that the emperor was no longer alive. Increasingly attentive, Theodora most likely attended every religious function, trying to grasp the meaning of formulas that she had once known only by rote, and memorizing other formulas for the first time. She might have carried with her a letter of introduction to a convent in Alexandria, asking the nuns to welcome her and give her assistance.

In the caustic prose of the
Secret History
, Alexandria was only one of the many stops along Theodora’s wanton and inflammatory journey through the Levant. We know, however, that it was
the
all-important stop. We do not know how long she stayed in that city, but we do know that it had a lasting effect on her life and, in the longer term, on the development of Christianity on three continents.

Instead of hurrying to sail from the Egyptian metropolis on the first
ship heading for the capital, Theodora chose to deepen the experience that the city offered her. Through the Church and other religious channels she was able to approach the two highest Monophysite authorities who lived in Alexandria, the theologian Severus and the patriarch Timothy.

Severus had been born in the city of Pisidia, now in southern Turkey, to a leading Christian family; he was a vastly learned scholar and a monk of exceptional character. In 512, when he was almost fifty, the pro-Monophysite emperor Anastasius had appointed him patriarch of the third metropolis of the empire, Antioch. It was a very lofty position in the Christian hierarchy.