Doomed queens, p.5
Doomed Queens, page 5
After Odaenathus was assassinated in 267, Zenobia decided her personal loss was an opportunity for professional growth—she took charge of the Palmyrene Empire as regent for her young son, Vaballathus. Greedy for power and territory, the queen ambitiously invaded and conquered Egypt, Syria, and beyond, greatly expanding her empire—and treading on the Roman Empire’s toes. Rome took notice and decided to welcome Palmyra back into the fold.
Zenobia in chains.
Zenobia’s vision for her empire did not include Roman rule. Though an oracle warned that her army would be picked off by Rome like doves by hawks, Zenobia was too stubborn to back down. She personally led her forces into battle on horseback, her beautiful long dark hair rippling behind her on the wind as she charged forward…toward disaster.
Palmyra was captured. The Palmyrenes who refused to surrender were executed; those who remained were brought to trial, including the queen.
Ever wily, Zenobia batted her lush eyelashes and testified that she had been led astray by her advisers and didn’t know a thing about waging war. The Roman emperor Aurelian didn’t buy her story but decided she was worth more alive than dead. In Syria, the queen was shackled to a camel and paraded through the streets as a symbol of Roman victory; in Rome, she was forced to walk in front of Aurelian’s triumphal car, her comely body adorned in gold chains weighed down by lustrous jewels.
The Historia Augusta, a less-than-reliable third-century document, claims that after this humiliation Zenobia committed suicide in tribute to her ancestress Cleopatra. Another story states she succumbed to disease en route to Rome. However, the most credible accounts suggest that Zenobia’s only injury was to her pride. Unlike the queen of the Nile, she wanted to live—even if it was without a throne.
These accounts report that the rest of Zenobia’s life was most bourgeois. Aurelian freed her and, as a consolation prize, gave her a villa in Tivoli. The former queen decided that if you can’t beat them, join them: She married a Roman senator and spent her remaining years in considerable luxury. In time, she won renown as a philosopher and socialite.
Since nothing more is known of Zenobia, it is assumed that she died peacefully in her sleep after living to a ripe old age and surrounded by her loved ones, like that old lady in Titanic.
CAUTIONARY MORAL
It’s better to be alive without a crown
than dead with one.
Empress Dowager Hu
528
he life of Empress Dowager Hu was decorated with mind-twisting contradictions. As the concubine of an emperor, she was willing to risk death to bring forth an heir; yet she willingly participated in her son’s murder. Despite considering herself a devout Buddhist, she rubbed out those who displeased her without a qualm. One story relates that to eliminate a female competitor, Hu forced her to enter a Buddhist convent where she was welcomed by an assassin; the assassin had been hired by the empress to do her dirty work.
Hu’s blood-soaked rise to power began in the early part of sixth-century China, when she was a not so sweet young thing. Her beauty and sharp intelligence gained the appreciative notice of Emperor Xuanwu, who took Hu as one of his concubine consorts. Tradition held that consorts who had given birth to crown princes were executed to avoid future power struggles.
But Hu bucked tradition. When she discovered she was ripe with the heirless emperor’s child, she ignored those who warned her to end the pregnancy. Instead, she altruistically argued that it was more important for Xuanwu to have a successor than for her to live.
A BRIEF DIGRESSION
Empress dowager was the official title given to the mother of an underage emperor. Many empress dowagers ruled the nation until their sons reached maturity. Some of them gained so much power that they refused to cede control, leading to unstable political environments. For example, the Empress Dowager Cixi was so skillful with her political machinations that she was able to rule China for four decades during the early twentieth century. Others were content to merely bully their sons’ brides into submission—they were the stereotypical mothers-in-law from hell.
Hu’s big gamble paid off. After she gave birth to a son named Xiaoming, the emperor spared her life, perhaps out of appreciation for the risk she’d assumed to pass on his genes. However, the power struggles that many feared came to pass five years later, after Xuanwu suddenly died. Five-year-old Xiaoming was crowned emperor and Hu became empress dowager, ruling on behalf of her son.
Empress Dowager Hu was a mixed bag as a regent. She could be extraordinarily generous and progressive—as well as extraordinarily cruel. She set up regional offices where her subjects could safely air their complaints about governmental misdeeds; she also gave away tons of money to build magnificent Buddhist temples. On the other hand, her hair-trigger temper often snapped homicidal over the most piddling offenses.
All children, even sons of empresses, grow up. When Xiaoming turned fifteen, he relieved his mother of her rule. Hu was not pleased. She undermined Xiaoming’s reign by utilizing loyal government officials who would follow her will. To limit his mother’s influence, Xiaoming arranged for her lover to be executed. Hu retaliated by poisoning Xiaoming to death.
This time Hu had gone too far—even her fiercest allies withdrew their support. To save her skin, the empress hid in a Buddhist convent, where she shaved her head to take the vows of a nun. Nonetheless, her enemies tracked her down. They punished Hu with the only absolute that would stop her.
Empress Hu was drowned in the Yellow River in 528, almost two decades after her son’s risky birth. As a posthumous slap, Hu was granted the not so honorable title of Empress Ling—“the unattentive empress.”
CAUTIONARY MORAL
To hold on to power, be consistent in your dealings.
Amalasuntha
535
ucked within a scenic corner of Tuscany, Lake Bolsena lies inside the crater of a dormant volcano. It is a large lake—expansive enough to host several islands, and filled with pristine waters that plunge some five hundred feet down. The legends associated with Lake Bolsena are as dark as the lake is deep. One tells of the fourth-century martyr Christina who, after suffering the usual array of imaginative tortures necessary for beatification, was thrown into the lake while wearing a heavy stone necklace. She instantly bobbed back to the surface cradled within the arms of an angel. Two centuries later, the Ostrogoth queen Amalasuntha was exiled to one of Lake Bolsena’s more remote islands. Alas, no heavenly visitor manifested to save her life when she was strangled in her bath one spring morning.
It was a brutal end for a monarch whose main sin was an attempt to import the enlightenment of Roman culture to the war-loving Goths. Consider Amalasuntha a victim of Dark Ages anti-intellectualism.
Amalasuntha was the only daughter of Theodoric the Great, king of the Ostrogoths, and Audofleda, a Frankish princess. By all accounts, Amalasuntha’s education was extraordinary. She was educated in Ravenna, where the best of the Byzantine and Roman empires mingled in a high-culture cocktail party. She spoke fluent Latin and Italian as well as her native language. Besides being notoriously literate, the princess was noted for her political acumen and great beauty.
In other words, Amalasuntha had the whole package, if you were a man not intimidated by erudite women. She won the approval of Eutharic, a prince from neighboring Spain; he wed the princess, thus uniting the two branches of their tribes in holy political might. The contemporary historian Jordanes described Eutharic as “a young man strong in wisdom and valor and health of body.” Nonetheless, Eutharic died early in their marriage, leaving her the mother of a son, Athalaric, and a daughter, Matasuentha. A short time later in 526, Amalasuntha’s father joined her husband in the grave.
With the two big guys buried, eight-year-old Athalaric inherited the throne, elevating Amalasuntha as his regent until he reached maturity. It is here that most women of her era probably would have lain low to protect their assets—but not Amalasuntha. Instead, she decided to use her lofty position to refine the unwashed Goth masses. The best way to do this? Through King Athalaric, whom she determined would have the best Roman education available.
The public outcry was as if Amalasuntha had switched the channel from WWE to PBS mid-match—for their monarch, the populace wanted a vava-voom warrior, not some la-di-da student. Her best intentions were criticized as an attack on Goth values. After all, the Goths had conquered the Romans, not the other way around.
Undeterred, the regent hired the most eminent scholars of her time to shape her son’s mind. As for Athalaric, he embraced his studies with spring break enthusiasm and drank himself to death by the age of sixteen.
Amalasuntha was smart enough to read the writing on the wall; Jordanes wrote that she “feared she might be despised by the Goths on account of the weakness of her sex.” To protect her overeducated self, she arranged for three of her enemies to be murdered and invited her Tuscan cousin Theodahad to keep her company on the throne. This turned out to be a very bad move. Within several months, Theodahad pushed Amalasuntha off the throne and into exile in Tuscany.
Amalasuntha’s end arrived quickly. She lasted only a few days on that lonely island on Lake Bolsena before death visited as she bathed. After all, a clean corpse is a godly corpse.
CAUTIONARY MORAL
Don’t let your education
make you stupid.
Galswintha
568
nce upon a time there were two sisters who were beautiful princesses. The sisters were fathered by Athanagild, the Visigoth king of Spain, and given the fanciful names of Galswintha and Brunhilde. They were raised at the glittering court at Toledo, where it was assumed that they would marry brilliantly and live happily ever after. When the time came, their father agreed for them to wed two powerful brothers, tying the sisters in marriage as well as by blood.
And here is where the two sisters’ fairy tale went seriously awry.
Brunhilde, the younger sister, was the first to tie the knot in 567. She married King Sigebert, who ruled the realm of Austrasia, which was part of the Frankish kingdom (now France) ruled by the Merovingian dynasty. Sigebert, aka King Charming, was enchanted by his bride’s virtue, comeliness, and intelligence. The couple fell madly in love. As for Galswintha, she drew the short stick. She wed King Charming’s brother Chilperic, who ruled Neustria, Austrasia’s next-door neighbor in the Frankish kingdom.
Chilperic with Galswintha’s successor. She wasn’t as nice as she was pretty.
Chilperic was renowned as a libertine who had bedded and impregnated more than a few miladies at court; rumor held that he was especially tight with his latest concubine, Fredegund, who was originally a serving maid. The historian and cleric Gregory of Tours described Chilperic as “the Nero and Herod of our time.” Despite these less-than-stellar portents, Galswintha’s father agreed to the match so he could scoop up additional Frankish support for Spain. The king mollified his conscience by asking Chilperic to clean up his act around his daughter.
Galswintha and Chilperic were married in Rouen. Initially Galswintha was received with great honor as queen—Chilperic was delighted with the treasures she had brought in her dowry. However, this felicitious state did not last long. Fredegund reappeared in the king’s bed and grabbed every opportunity to harass the new queen. Poor Galswintha begged to return to Toledo, even offering to forfeit her dowry. Chilperic refused.
A year after the wedding, Galswintha was discovered lifeless in her bed—Chilperic, influenced by the urgings of Fredegund, had ordered a slave to strangle his wife. Though the king wept crocodile tears, everyone knew the deal. He also flaunted his passion for his coconspirator, which didn’t deter suspicions.
Several days later, the funeral meats coldly furnished the marriage tables—King Chilperic wed Fredegund, making her queen of Neustria.
* * *
or
A Tale of Two Sisters
(and Two Brothers)
Two sisters marrying two brothers sounds so downright jovial, like the denouement of a Shakespearean comedy. In this instance, brotherly love proved deadly for both sisters, Galswintha directly and Brunhilde indirectly.
* * *
CAUTIONARY MORAL
Once a rat, always a rat.
Brunhilde
613
he bonds of sisterhood transcend the grave. In the case of Brunhilde of Austrasia, it can also lead to it.
After her sister Galswintha’s murder in 568, Brunhilde was transformed from the wife of King Charming into a monarch with a mission—and the mission was revenge. To gain it, the queen of Austrasia incited a forty-year war between her realm and Neustria that made the Hatfields and the McCoys seem downright Merchant-Ivory.
How was a queen able to get armies marching over a victim of domestic violence? Ironically, it was Brunhilde’s happy marriage that did the trick. It was easy for her to sway her husband to her will, just as Fredegund’s whisperings had prodded Chilperic to uxoricide. It helped that King Charming wasn’t too fond of his brother in the first place. Nor were the rest of the Merovingian blue bloods, who joined en masse to dethrone black sheep Chilperic over the murder. One would have considered justice served, but Chilperic soon regained his crown, much to Brunhilde’s chagrin.
Every good fairy tale needs a wicked queen—Chilperic’s wife, Fredegund, made an exemplary one. As the conflict escalated, she revealed herself to be as unscrupulous in war as she was in peace. At one point, Fredegund sent a clerk to assassinate Brunhilde. When the clerk returned unsuccessful, she had his feet and hands cut off in punishment.
By 575, the war had claimed the life of King Charming—Fredegund persuaded two slaves to attack him with poisoned knives. Then Brunhilde was imprisoned in Rouen. All seemed lost until one of Chilperic’s excess sons from his philandering days visited her out of curiosity. Turned out that the queen still retained her allure, so he wed and bedded her. Before the forbidden marriage could be annulled by the church—after all, Brunhilde was his uncle’s widow—he helped her escape.
With Brunhilde free again to do as she wished, the war dragged on. As the decades passed, more royals lost their lives. Chilperic, the guy who started it all, was stabbed to death in 584, leaving Fredegund conveniently in charge. Then Fredegund died in 597, presumably of natural causes. Fredegund’s son Chlotar proved to be a chip off the old block when he took over his mom’s throne. By now, Brunhilde had lost any popularity she may have held—no one remembered the murder of her sister, only the copious bloodshed that had ensued.
In the end, Fredegund triumphed from beyond the grave over her old enemy: The armies of Austrasia and Neustria joined as one to overthrow Brunhilde. King Chlotar II arranged an execution for the conquered queen that would have brought tears of pride to his mother’s eyes. After torturing Brunhilde for three days, he paraded her on a camel before the entire army. Her limbs were chained to wild horses, who quartered her, and her remains thrown into a bonfire.
Thus was Brunhilde’s spirit conscribed to the great beyond. Hopefully she met Galswintha there, who high-fived her for her filial loyalty.
* * *
Drawing and Quartering
Call Brunhilde an unlucky exception to the rule: Women and royals usually weren’t executed by being drawn and quartered. This procedure was deployed on commoners guilty of various treasonous crimes. Nobles were granted the honor of a speedy death by beheading. Death by being drawn and quartered was far more prevalent in England and her colonies than in Europe during the Dark Ages.
The death was as horrible as it sounds. The condemned were usually hung before being dismembered by sword, rather than by horse—one would hope a much swifter and more merciful route to meeting the grim reaper.
* * *
Queen Brunhilde under stress.
CAUTIONARY MORAL
To keep your head,
quit while you’re ahead.
Irene of Byzantium
803
rene of Byzantium was a woman ahead of her time. Instead of using warfare to gain power, she waged a postmodern battle of symbols and images not dissimilar to those on Madison Avenue today. Though Irene’s strategy worked on the populace for a while, eventually it became apparent that this empress wore no clothing.
Irene’s origins gave little indication of the voracious drive that would make her the the first female ruler of the Byzantine Empire. Born of Greek nobility in 752, one story claims that Irene was an orphan doomed to a quiet life until her beauty caught the eye of Leo IV, the emperor of Byzantium. He married her in 769. Two years later, Irene did the good empress thing and provided him with an heir, Constantine. Nevertheless, their marriage was troubled. Irene was an iconophile, which was verboten by the Eastern Orthodox Church. Leo ceased marital relations with the empress after discovering her hidden stash—eternal damnation was far less appealing than the pleasures of the flesh.
A BRIEF DIGRESSION
Icon veneration was controversial in eighth-and ninth-century Byzantium. The iconoclasts believed icons violated the first commandment ban on graven images. The iconophiles found them useful tools for contemplating the divine—they thought icons represented the physicality of God as manifested in Jesus. In 754 the church ruled, “If anyone shall endeavor to represent the forms of the Saints in lifeless pictures with material colors which are of no value (for this notion is vain and introduced by the devil), and does not rather represent their virtues as living images in himself, let him be anathema!” Despite this, people—like Irene—still worshiped icons in secret.
