Theodore is the fictional memoirs of England's most unlikely archbishop. Saint Theodore was a homosexual Byzantine monk with heretical tendencies, and a taste for Platonic philosophy. He was born during Europe's darkest age, when the Byzantine Empire was overrun by pagan invaders, weakened by civil war, and divided by religious controversy. He sought certainty, and love, among monks, soldiers, philosophers, and barbarian horsemen. He wandered ceaselessly, fleeing war and persecution, pursuing wisdom, searching for security in a collapsing world. In the East, he saw brutality and destruction. In Constantinople, he was drawn into court intrigue. In Italy, he found love, then lonely exile. Then, almost by accident, he was given the task that changed his life. Though greatly learned and widely experienced, Theodore disliked authority, and was undermined by conflicting desires and religious doubts. Despite these obvious disqualifications, he was chosen by the Pope as Archbishop of Canterbury, and sent to England to civilise the semi-pagan Anglo-Saxons. He proved an unexpected success, and, with help from his partner Hadrian, established the Church in England in a form that has lasted, in many respects, until today. Even so, he is less well known than his ineffectual predecessor Saint Augustine, or his bitter rival, the sack-cloth politician Saint Wilfrid.

published by Dedalus £8.99

ISBN 1 873982 49 6

Theodore, Christopher Harris

£8.99

Chapter 1

Canterbury A.D. 680

"Theodore?" It was Hadrian. He left the door open as he stepped in, allowing bright light from the courtyard to flood into the room. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

"Are you awake?" he asked. Hadrian's words, or perhaps the tone with which he said them, reminded me of the time we first shared a bed, nearly thirty years earlier, on the pretext, not entirely false, of studying Plato's Symposium.

"Of course I am awake," I said. "I may be old, but I don't sleep all day. I was thinking."

"In the dark? With your eyes closed?" He stood just inside the doorway.

"I find it helps." I got up from my bed and took a few careful steps towards him. Beyond the doorway I could see cracked paving, mottled with dry moss and lichen. The afternoon sun cast strong shadows among the pillars that edged the empty courtyard. Elsewhere, in cool rooms, lessons were being taught, and books read or copied. Perhaps some of the monks, like me, slept quietly between prayers. But they would wake, and their work would be done. There was no need for harsh discipline or self-mortification. There was barbarism enough outside. The monastery was a small, enclosed space, that Hadrian had made civilised, giving us a refuge from which he could spread learning and I could govern the Church. It had been our home for fifteen years. Sometimes, in the still heat of summer, when the stones feel warm even at night, it is possible to imagine oneself back in the South. But only in the summer. In the winter, when the moss is green and the stones are slippery and wet, I know that I have come to the world's misty northern edge. I should have some rosemary, lavender and thyme planted. Even in winter, their scent would remind me of the Mediterranean.

"I am sorry to disturb you," Hadrian said. He knew very well that I had been asleep. "But I have just heard. Wilfrid is back." The expression on his dark face, lit from behind, was impossible to make out.

"In Canterbury?" I asked. It was not good news.

"No. He has landed at Rochester."

"That's close enough."

"He wouldn't dare come here," Hadrian said. "He knows he lied about you."

"He probably believes every word he said. Liars usually do."

"Even he couldn't believe that it was your idea to send Dagobert back to France."

"Did he say that?"

"He swore it on the holiest of his relics."

"His retinue must look like a funeral procession with all the saints' bones he collected in Rome."

"Whether it was with bones or oaths, he must have impressed the Franks." Hadrian paused for a moment, then took my arm and helped me into a chair.

"The Franks let him go," he said. "They wouldn't let me go."

"It was a long time ago. Can you not forget?"

"No."

"I didn't like leaving you," I said.

"But you did."

"I had no choice. And I spent most of that winter worrying about you."

"Did you really worry about me?" He drew up a stool and sat beside me.

"Of course," I said, taking his hand. "Nothing I have ever done has caused me more pain than leaving you behind in France. I knew you were ill, but not how to cure you. Despite my reputation, my medical knowledge is limited. I don't know how to cure a man overcome by melancholy."

"You once told me that you cured the Emperor's melancholy."

I had forgotten I had told him that. "I was lucky," I said. "His melancholy had a cause, which I correctly guessed. But I did not know the cause of your melancholy."

"Cause? Must everything have a cause?"

"Of course it must."

"A cause that you can see?"

"Not see, perhaps, but infer."

"Then what do you infer about my illness?"

I was surprised by his question. Hadrian had never been keen to discuss his illness and the changes it had made in him. I thought for a moment before answering.

"I infer that it was caused by some shame or failure. As soon as you came to Rome, I saw that you had changed. But I didn't know what was wrong. I should have asked you then, not left it until it was too late. By proposing me as archbishop, you made sure I had no time to think about anything else. And then there were our difficulties in France. You were quite ill when we reached Sens. You were almost raving."

"It was a fever," he said firmly.

"It was more than that. You said we were being punished for what we had done."

"Did I say that? Surely not."

"You did. And when I rode on to Paris without you I felt doubly guilty."

"It wasn't your fault." Hadrian let go of my hand.

"Then what changed you?"

He stood, and walked over to the window, then slipped the wooden peg from its slot, opened the shutter and looked out. From the chapel, I could hear inexpert chant. Hadrian waited for a while, thinking or listening, before returning and giving me an answer. "It was when they made me Abbot, I suppose."

"Were you unwilling?"

"No. It was an honour. At the time I thought it was entirely deserved. But not everyone agreed. There was a party that thought me too young."

"Was that all?"

"Perhaps they disapproved of our friendship."

"Did they say so?"

"It was not what they said, but what they did." He cupped his face in his hands. For a moment I thought he was going to cry, but he rubbed his forehead, gently pressing with the tips of his fingers, then lowered his hands and looked at me calmly. His face, once as smooth and brown as a nut, had sagged and wrinkled like a bletted medlar. His hair was grey. But his dark eyes were still bright with the intelligence that had impressed me when we first met. That, at least, had not changed. He drew breath, but before he could speak, the doorway darkened and he turned to see who was there.

"Archbishop?" It was Titillus, my secretary. "And Father Abbot," he said, seeing Hadrian. "Are you busy?"

"Is it important?"

"I have just heard that Wilfrid is back."

"I know. Hadrian has just told me."

"I am sorry. But I thought you ought to know. He has been spreading more lies about you."

"Hadrian has told me."

"But it's so unfair," he said, hesitating in the doorway. His yellow hair stood like corn-stubble round his tonsure. "I saw the results of his lies in Rome," he said. "Everyone there believes him humble, innocent and virtuous. They think you are capricious and corrupt. Now he will spread the same lies in England."

"He is better known here. He will not be believed so quickly." I turned back to Hadrian, but his expression had changed. I could see that he would reveal nothing more. Titillus was still waiting uncertainly. I thought his trip to Rome had cured him of his youthful awkwardness.

"Sir?" he said.

"Yes?"

"Why should Wilfrid be allowed to get away with his wickedness?" His face was flushed and indignant.

"Titillus, I am touched by your concern, but remember, you are only a clerk. You should not speak ill of a bishop."

"I am sorry, Sir. If I have done wrong, then you must give me a penance. But I was only speaking the truth. I saw how Wilfrid behaved in Rome. Thanks to him there is a judgement against you in the Papal archives, and all France and Italy believe you to be a liar and a schemer. He is sure to make more trouble now."

"I don't think it is quite as bad as that," I said, though it probably was. Hadrian had picked up a wax tablet from the table, and was reading some notes I had scribbled on it.

"Archbishop?" Titillus tentatively took a couple of steps into the room.

"Yes?"

"You must tell your side of the story."

"I already have. I wrote to His Holiness, but he didn't believe me."

"You must tell how you advanced Wilfrid, and how he betrayed you. You must tell of all your deeds as Archbishop. Then everyone will be able to judge between you and him."

"It might be more dignified to stay silent."

"But you have often talked of your life." Titillus stepped forward again and gripped his tunic with both hands, steadying himself before continuing. "You have seen such a lot. Now that I have seen Rome, I know that there are more wonders there than you told me of. You have spoken of the East, and of Constantinople and Antioch. They must be full of wonders too."

"If you want a tale full of wonders, listen to your English bards."

"Pagan wonders perhaps, but they mostly sing of battles."

"I have seen battles, as well as what you call wonders."

"I know. I have heard you talk of the war against the Persians."

"That was a long time ago." Titillus paused, aware, perhaps, that he had said more than he intended. Then he gripped his tunic again and said: "You must write it in a book. The story of your life."

"Who writes his own life?"

"Saint Augustine did," said Hadrian, looking up from the tablet, which he had absent-mindedly rubbed smooth. He knew how much I disliked the Confessions.

"Most men wait until they are dead, then let others write their lives. If they are worthy."

"But Sir," said Titillus "The lives of saints are written by men who knew them. Who can know the whole of your life when you are dead?"

"I am no saint. I am far from perfect. And I am very tired. I think I would like to be left alone." Titillus looked disappointed, but he left, stumbling clumsily over the uneven paving as he tried to walk respectfully backwards. Hadrian led me to the bed.

"Shall I stay?" he asked.

"No. I will rest."

I lay on the bed, not sleeping, but brooding. Though Titillus sometimes seemed awkward, he was no fool. In his clumsy way he had planted a powerful idea in my mind. However, knowing little of literature, he did not know how novel it was. Few men have written of their own lives, and those who have, have had some ulterior purpose. Caesar wrote to justify his actions, but revealed little of his character. Was that what Titillus expected me to do? Saint Augustine wrote to glorify himself, not God. His Confessions are boasts. Those who catalogue their sins in public wish the world to know that they have virtue to spare. A long time ago in Constantinople, while staying in the house of a rich man, I saw myself in a mirror for the first time. Of course, I had seen my reflection before, but distorted in the rippled water of the washing bowl. When I held up that disc of polished silver I saw myself clearly, as others did. I met my own gaze, as only lovers do. I looked, curiously, wondering what my reflection revealed. But it revealed nothing. In a way, I was as much a stranger to myself as anyone else seen for the first time. Yet Titillus was right. No one is better qualified to describe my thoughts and actions than I am, and if others are better qualified to describe the times I have lived through, none has done so. But is my life worth remembering? If I have brought orthodoxy and learning to England, the English will be orthodox and learned after my death, whether they remember me or not. But Wilfrid claims the credit for what I have done, and he will make sure he is remembered. He will make himself seem better than me. Before the Pope sent me here to govern the English Church, I wandered, driven by events, distracted by books, deceived by ideas, shamed by inopportune lusts. It is not much to boast of. If my life is of any interest, it is for what I have seen, not for what I have done. I lay uneasily, wavering between pride and modesty. If I told my story, it would have to be done without boasting or complaining. The facts might inform, if I told them plainly. I might even set an example, by avoiding the archaisms, extravagant metaphors, forced similes and irrelevant allusions to Homer that disfigure so many of the writings of this decayed age. By the time I rose for Vespers, I knew that I would do it. I would write the story of my life.

Christopher Harris, 1999

The Dark Age of Sexuality

(The historical background to Theodore)

The early medieval period was not just a Dark Age in terms of historical events, but also in terms of sex and sexuality. I discovered that when I decided to write a novel based on the life of St Theodore of Tarsus, the seventh Archbishop of Canterbury. There is plenty of information about the sexual proclivities of the ancient Greeks and Romans. The Renaissance was notoriously licentious, as Chaucer and Boccaccio record. But in between, all is silence. Even a diligent researcher might conclude that sexuality disappeared with the fall of Rome, to be rediscovered only when fourteenth century scholars read about it in old books.

Of course, Augustine wrote movingly about his own sexual awakening, and showed remarkable psychological insight, even as he condemned lust as evil. But he was a late classical rather than a medieval figure, and, until much later, few followed him in analysing what the Church would rather have repressed.

When I tried to recreate Theodore’s personality in fictional form, I had little to go on but the lives of saints. Hagiographies can be unwittingly informative. St Wilfrid, for instance, sounds utterly awful, even when described by his greatest admirer. I adopted him as a villain and continued my research. To find out about Theodore, I turned to Bede, who tells an odd story about how the archbishop was appointed. An English candidate had died of the plague as soon as he arrived at Rome. The Pope, casting about for a substitute, picked Hadrian, an African monk and scholar. But Hadrian, thinking himself unworthy, refused. More candidates were proposed and rejected, until Hadrian suggested his friend Theodore, a Greek-speaking monk from the heretical eastern fringe of the Byzantine Empire, who happened to be living in Rome.

The Pope was doubtful. He wanted England firmly incorporated in the western, Latin Church, not misled by possibly unsound Greeks, however scholarly. But no more candidates were forthcoming, and England was sinking back into paganism and savagery, so the Pope agreed and appointed Theodore as archbishop. But only on one condition: Hadrian was to go with him as his assistant and advisor on Latin usage.

Several historians have pointed out that there is something unconvincing about this story. I read it again and again, wondering what reality it might conceal. Bede, an accurate and impartial historian, was careful not to say more than he meant. Eventually, I understood. Theodore and Hadrian were gay. Hadrian had refused the archbishopric, not because he was unworthy, but because he did not want to be separated from his friend and teacher Theodore. Once I realised that, I had my story. As well as retelling what we know of Theodore’s life and times, I would explore the conflict between his faith and sexuality.

My novel begins with Theodore’s youth in Tarsus, and ends with his old age in Canterbury, where he succeeded unexpectedly as archbishop, spreading Christianity and literacy, despite the machinations of St Wilfrid. On the way, he wandered the East, searching for faith, encountering various heresies, wrestling with forbidden desires, seeing war and destruction, and being drawn into Byzantine intrigue, before finding love and happiness in a monastery.

To find out more about medieval sexuality I went back to hagiographies and read between the lines. Celebrations of virtue reveal much about what must be avoided, just as monastic Rules, by listing what is forbidden, tell us what was most tempting. I concluded that medieval people were much like modern people, full of desires and fears and conflicts between the two. I hope that Theodore is a convincing demonstration of that.

Christopher Harris, 2000