REGINAVERE: A 'TRUE QUEEN' OF THE FIFTH CENTURY

The Empress Card, Rider-Waite Tarot Deck

Jung was right.  We have all within our individual psyches certain archetypes, stereotypes, caricatures, tarot cards, whatever you want to call them.

The “Warrior” does our fighting for us: on the street, in the boardroom, in the shops with that rude salesgirl who won’t put down the phone to wait on you.  The “Priest/Priestess/Hierophant/Sage” is the brains of the outfit.  I have one friend who describes her frugal, penny-pinching, budget-making self as the “Hooker”.

The Fool Card,
Rider-Waite Tarot Deck

Then there is the “Child”, or “Fool”.  I won’t even go into that one, except to say that you see it on the street every day when someone’s trying to drive and talk on a cell phone at the same time.

And the “Empress” is the homemaker, the nurturer, the queen of the household, and sometimes, the “belle of the ball”.  This post is about the “Empress” aspect of Guinevere.

Just as we have different archetypes, we also have different names.  We all have a first name, one-if-not-more middle names, and a surname.  Roman citizens had three names as well: the praenomen (first name), cognomen (family name), and agnomen (nickname or title).

The Hierophant Card,
Rider-Waite Tarot Deck

Many of us also have nicknames, whether they be sacred titles, like “Reverend”, “Bishop”, or “Archbishop”.  Or secular titles such as “Captain”, “Supervisor”, or “Professor”.  Some of us have nicknames we earned in childhood, like “Smiley”, “Red”, or “Junior”.

The fifth-century Romanized Celts had them, too…in abundance.  Sure, they had their sacred titles, which weren’t much different than our modern ones: “Bishop”, “Archbishop”, etc.  They had their secular titles: dux bellorum (duke of war), rex (king), Imperator (Emperor).  And they had their nicknames.

The Emperor Card,
Rider-Waite Tarot Deck

In fact, nicknames seem to have been “a thing” with them, like an extremely prevalent inside joke.  From what I can tell, these people loved making plays on names, and it seems to have been one of their favorite japes.

One of their most beloved honorifics was “the Great”.  Ask me, I know.  I've spent the last twenty years thumbing through the old names, and you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a Mawr (Welsh) or a Mór (Old Irish).

Red Cloud of the Lakota

With their colorful meanings, these Latin-Picto-Celtic monikers read like a list of Native American names.  The warriors: the Firebird, Iron Fist, Great Spear, Hard Steel, Long Hand, Cut Brow, Brave Hound, Warrior, Stallion, Bear, Boar, Owl, Fang.  And the women: White Hands, Daylight, Born-of-the Sea, Red Oak, Sound-of-Song, the Hind, Sun, and Star.

Owl Woman of the Cheyenne

Or else it sounds like a cast of characters from a fairy tale.  The monsters: Giantess, Dragon, White Phantom, Brownie.  The ladies: True Queen, Heroine, Beautiful Saint, the Druid’s Daughter, the Fair.  And the knights-errant: Prince, King’s Son, Overlord, King, Noble, Warrior, Chieftain, Champion.

Illustration for Beauty and the Beast, by Warwick Goble, 1913

Looking at Arthurian legend through the names of its characters, it is easy to see why the authors of the Middle Ages “Romanticized” these ancient barbarians.  And since the Celts – and probably the Picts, too – were an animistic, totemic, tribal people much like the Native Americans whose religion and lore I grew up reading, it made it easy for me to relate to them…and to write about them.  Or easier.  Writing is never easy.

I’m telling you all this because you may be wondering how many names I’m going to produce for Guinevere.  The famous queen was no exception to the multiple-name-rule of her century.  She might, in fact, be the poster child for it.

Guinevere boasts a laundry list of names: sacred titles, secular titles, first name in several languages, family names, honorifics…and some nicknames that were not so…“honorific”.  Nasty, negative propaganda nicknames.  The good, the bad, and the ugly, as they say.  She had ‘em all.  Typical public figure.

Justice Card,
Rider-Waite Tarot Deck

Here’s one more: Reginavere, or Regina Vere.  It’s more of a title than a name, and believe it or not, more of a nickname than a title.  Or, at least, it became a nickname, later in her lifetime.  It means “True Queen”.

Because of a family dispute that became a national dispute that became a legend (over which of two half-sisters was Arthur’s lawful wedded wife and legal queen), the title Reginavere, which may have been the origin of the names Guinevere and Jennifer, seems to have become a by-word of sorts.  A symbolic argument.  A standing joke.  Like the modern Benifer or Brangelina.

Since the meat of this blog is really about the function of a true queen of the fifth century, I thought I’d use a couple of really good, contemporary examples.  One of them is Galla Placidia: daughter, half-sister, wife, and mother of four emperors, and in the son’s case at least, the real power behind the throne.  In her first marriage – to a barbarian Visigoth who captured her in the sack of the Eternal City, her own horrifying travail closely resembles some of Guinevere’s life experiences.

The other is the sixth century Empress of Constantinople, Theodora.  A woman of formidable taste and intelligence, she was a true helpmate to her husband, the Emperor Justinian, who wept disconsolately when she died.  And rightly so: Theodora, though relentlessly vilified by her political enemies, was an active, energetic ruler who did much for her people.

I have to stop here and explain something about the fifth century, or the Dark Ages, or the Early Middle Ages, or whatever you like to call it.  (People seem to like to argue about that for some asinine reason that eludes me.  Probably to make themselves sound more intelligent.  It doesn’t).

Anyway.  Yes, there is a certain dearth of contemporary written material, especially where Arthurian personages are concerned.  Yes, there are fewer archaeological remains than in some other eras due to the fact that contemporary hillforts were built out of biodegradable items like wood.  (And before some know-it-all jumps all over this statement: Yes, there are still some contemporary accounts and archaeological remains, just FEWER).

To continue.  Yes, sometimes we have to embellish or “fill in the blanks” when we’re writing historical fiction.  And, this is where I get to the point.

The Planet Neptune and its Largest Moon, Triton

This example really only works for those of you who have seen “Star Wars: Attack of the Clones”.  It’s the scene where Obi-Wan is looking for his “missing planet”.  He goes to see Yoda, who advises him to consider “gravity’s silhouette”, which, though no planet is to be seen, still outlines the planet’s orbit.

It’s like that with many Arthurian characters.  Though some are still extant in the historical record – often under names other than those recorded in medieval romance – most are difficult or nearly impossible to find.

I’ve done a pretty thorough job of locating some of these historical personages and of combing through other authors who have researched this material, but some still remain “missing in action”…except in the pages of the likes of Chrétien de Troyes and Marie de France.  Old sources to the modern eye, but not even approaching proximity to the fifth century.  In fact, Chrétien and Marie were as divorced from the fifth century as they are from the present day.  I mean, look out your window: how many medieval knights do you see walking down the street?

You have to know that some of the customs and costumes those authors saw in their source material were simply unrecognizable to them.  Often, they dutifully recorded the culture as they found it; or else they might turn the strange description into something their medieval audience would find funny or grotesque: a dwarf, a mermaid, a giant.  Otherwise, they might make of the strange custom something salacious, like the affair between Lancelot and Guinevere, to please their aristocratic benefactors.

But “gravity’s silhouette remains”; and so, if you know how to interpret it, you can decipher it.  I’ve spent the last twenty-one years becoming proficient in deciphering the Arthurian code.  I’ve made a lot of mistakes…and corrected them.  I’ve had a lot of practice.  I’ve taken a lot of notes.  (Just ask my fingers: I now type 95 words a minute.  That didn’t happen by accident).

I do not now and never will claim to know everything about a subject; I learn new things every day and love it.  But I’ve been working on Guinevere’s silhouette for a while, and I’ve gotten a fairish idea of what some of it at least must have been.  About what was required of a true queen of the fifth century.  About the “job description” and “educational background”.

I’ve “contacted” some of her fifth century “references”.  People like Placidia and Theodora.  People who held the same job title.  People who had “been there and done that”.  People who know.  And people we know.

Poor Guinevere.  No one doubts their existence.  No one argues that maybe they were only a fairy tale.

Everyone knows.  They were there.  Their monuments and their likenesses are still part of the public record.

We know what they looked like.  We know what they wore.  We know how they lived, what they did, who hated them, when they died, and to a degree, what killed them.  They are perfect examples of the strong, fifth-century, female ruler.

So, why not take a closer look at them?

Possible Bust of Galla Placidia
or Byzantine Woman,
Musée de Saint Raymond de Toulouse

Galla Placidia, as previously mentioned, was a close relative of four emperors in her lifetime.  But in 408, when the Visigoths laid siege to Rome, she was only the daughter and half-sister of two.  Not only was she inside the Eternal City during the two-year siege, but also, sometime during that period, she was taken prisoner by the Visigothic leader, Alaric.  She witnessed the Visigoths’ brutal sacking of Rome on August 22 of the year 410, which event must have left severe scarring on the psyche of anyone who survived it.

The Visigoth Sack of Rome,
22 August, 410;
by J. N. Sylvestre, 1890

Two years later, when the Visigoths departed Italy for Gaul, they took the Roman princess with them.  In Gaul, their chieftain, Alaric, died of an illness, and his brother, Ataulf, assumed his mantle.  Around this time, Ataulf solicited and obtained permission from the Emperor Honorius, Placidia’s half-brother, to marry her.

Steel Engraving of Alarich the Visigoth

As she had been his captive for at least a year or more, this seems like an unnecessary formality.  Something other than political expedience must have prompted Ataulf’s superfluous solicitude.

Could it have been fear of Rome?  Although Galla Placidia was the daughter of the reigning Emperor of Rome, it was a Rome that Alaric had just sacked, and the emperor was now keeping chickens in Ravenna.  We can rule out “fear of Rome”.

Maybe it was Placidia’s great beauty?  Or her force of personality?  Had she simply earned the big barbarian’s respect?

Possible Portrait of Aelia Galla Placidia

Was Placidia beautiful?  I haven’t found documentation stating that she was, but – with the way the male mind works – the historiographers of her day certainly would have mentioned it if she was a famous beauty.  Unfortunately, the only two certain likenesses that I’ve seen of her are in the form of coins, which usually followed a standardized pattern.  In other words, coins were designed as positive propaganda for the ruling party, not as a form of lifelike portraiture.

Oh, well.  Cleopatra wasn’t known for her beauty either; hers was a charm based on cunning, raw sensuality, political acumen, and street smarts.  Maybe, so, too, Placidia.

So, we’re left with “force of personality”.  Over a lifetime of politics, she certainly proved that she possessed that in spades.  But, at this early stage, maybe the thing that swayed Ataulf to the left of conservative was something else?

There is some scant circumstantial evidence that Galla Placidia and the Visigothic king conducted a love affair prior to their engagement.  One author suggests that the two may have become lovers in 411, a full three years before their betrothal.  In other words, their marriage may have been as much a love-match as it was an arranged, political union.

They were married with great pomp on January 1, 414 in a formal Roman ceremony.  A classical wedding speech was delivered at their nuptial feast.  Sumptuous wedding gifts were given to Placidia, taken directly from the Goths’ extensive cache of plunder.

Votive Crown of Visigothic
king Reccesuinth, c. 672

This seems like a lot of trouble to go for a captive slave, who could have easily been compelled to marry where she did not love, or even simply raped.  Or did Ataulf really respect and, gulp, love Placidia?

There’s more evidence of a mutual exchange of affection.  Galla Placidia traveled with Ataulf.  She accompanied him to Spain.  She bore him a son.

That son was named Theodosius, after Placidia’s father.  The child died in infancy and was buried in a silver coffin, surely a sign of love and esteem...a mark of respect not accorded the son of a slave.

And Placidia remained faithful to Ataulf until 415, when he was murdered.

In late August or early September of the year 415, a man named either Dubius or Eberwulf killed Alaric in his bath.  Dubius/Eberwulf then placed Ataulf’s rival, Sigeric, on the Visigothic throne.  Along with a crowd of other captives, Sigeric forced Placidia to walk twelve miles on foot before his horse.

The sufferings of the Roman princess, once more a captive, became a rallying point for the followers of Wallia, a relative of her dead husband.  Wallia eventually killed Sigeric and took his place as leader of the Goths.  In 416, he returned Placidia to her half-brother, the Emperor Honorius, in Ravenna.

In all this – her fortitude, her dignity under pressure, her marriage-by-capture, a commonplace but not unremarkable fifth-century practice, and the fear, respect, and love she engendered in those around her – Placidia resembles her contemporary, Guinevere.  She may even have provided a role model for her.  This is how a queen conducts herself.  This is how a queen lives.

Roman Laurel Wreath, Gold, Cyprus, 4th-3rd c. BC

For years, she was the power behind the throne.  Once returned from Spain, her half-brother married her against her will to Constantius III, who assumed co-Emperor duties with Honorius.  They both died while her son was too young to ascend the throne.  So, Placidia acted as regent for Valentinian III from 425-437, a period longer than the reigns of many actual monarchs.

She waged an ongoing political tug-of-war with Flavius Aetius, the magister militum of Gaul, which eventually resulted in his downfall and imprisonment, if only temporarily.  She bested most of her rivals and detractors, including the formidable Aetius.  The point is, this powerful, fifth-century woman out-muscled – and outlived – most of the men surrounding her.

She constructed a cathedral for herself and her children, but they say she never reposed there.  Where her body lies remains a mystery to this very day, but her beautiful basilica remains to us, evidence of the remarkable force-of-nature that was Galla Placidia.

Good Shepherd Mosaic, Ceiling of Mausoleum
of Galla Placidia, Ravenna, early 5th c.

Guinevere, too, suffered a marriage by capture.  It was not an arranged marriage…not at first.  It was not a medieval love-match.  It was not a picnic.  Apparently.

Marriage is hard enough, without enduring the lopsided humiliation of a non-consensual bond of expedience to a hated enemy.  At least, that’s what my friends tell me.

When Arthur occupied her castle of Caer Iudaei, Guinevere was forced to negotiate.  And, like many other fifth-century heiresses, negotiate she did.  It appears that she had a hand in her wedding contract.  She may even have drawn up the document herself.

Norma Lorre Goodrich states that the queen’s dowry stipulated that Guinevere – the only one of the bridal couple who was literate – would design their dual, royal sarcophagus, and that she would write Arthur’s annals: the traditional chronicles of a king’s reign.

So, it looks like what started out as a marriage-by-capture was mitigated to an arranged marriage, and then degenerated back into a “War of the Roses”-type spat on a royal scale.  At least, he didn’t make her walk twelve miles in front of his horse.  Not that we know of.

Empress Theodora and Attendants, Mosaic, Basilica of San Vitale, Ravenna, 6th c.

The Byzantine Empress Theodora was not born to the manor born.  Nor was she “to the manner” born.  She was born the daughter of a bear-keeper in the Coliseum in Constantinople, the lowest of the low classes.  In her teens, she became an actress.  After, or along with, that profession, she became a courtesan.  Some say she became a common prostitute.  But, there was nothing common about Theodora.

Detail from Mosaic of Emperor Justinian,
Basilica of San Vitale, Ravenna, 6th c.

Her future husband, Justinian, though lowborn himself and a soldier, was the nephew of the reigning emperor and therefore next in line to be emperor himself.  And sure enough…not long after he married Theodora, his uncle died, and Justinian ascended the throne of one of the most illustrious kingdoms on earth.

Unlike Galla Placidia, we do have an image that is positively identified as Theodora.  Her countenance is both magnificent and mesmerizing.  And even her most virulent detractor admits that her petite beauty was remarkable.  There is reason to believe that Justinian fell in love with his future empress at first sight.  We know that he loved her until, and even after, her death.

Theodora’s primary resemblance to Guinevere, aside from the obvious fact that she was a tough, intelligent, more-than-competent woman and queen, is that she gets a lot of bad press.  The culprit behind this negative propaganda is a weaselly little h8r called Procopius.

Procopius was a contemporary of Theodora’s.  That is not to say that he was an objective contemporary of Theodora’s.  (He hated her husband, the Emperor Justinian, too, by the way).  That is to say that, like most of us, Procopius had his foibles, his flaws, his ulterior motives, and his opinions.  His writings are full of them.  And in them, he SLAMS Theodora.

According to Rap Master P, she was a whore (professional), a slut (in her down-time), a nymphomaniac (all the time), a puppet-master (to her husband), and an all-around bad-girl.  Apparently, there was nothing to which this vile Medusa wouldn’t stoop.

Possible, but a little cardboard cutout for plausibility.  Especially when held up against the modern media with which we’re all so familiar.  I mean, everyone knows how to spin a story. I’ve caught myself doing it at dinner parties.  It’s not that tough.

Anyway, most people are multi-faceted.  Maybe she was a tough guy in the boardroom, a whore in the bedroom, and a softy when she could afford to be one.  That seems more likely than Procopius’ one-dimensional Theodora.  Plus, there is evidence that she did have a soft heart…for certain people.

Byzantine Wedding Ring,
Christ Uniting the Bride and Groom, 7th c.

And really, if she had been that bad, Justinian, who was no dummy, would never have married her.  His uncle would never have allowed such a union, either.  Justinian had to change the law in order for a former actress to be permitted to marry someone of his rank.  More accurately, he had to get his uncle to change the law.  If Theodora had been as notorious as Procopius liked to depict her, Uncle Justin never would have done it.

Like Justinian, the Emperor Justin was a practical man and a former soldier.  He would never have permitted his nephew and heir to marry a notorious prostitute.  And he certainly would not have knowingly handed his kingdom over to such a person.

Detail from Mosaic of Empress Theodora, Basilica of San Vitale, Ravenna, 6th c.

The one surviving, positive likeness that we have of Theodora is arresting…no other word will do.  It is the famous mosaic in the Basilica of San Vitale in Ravenna.  Probably originally done from a life-sketch taken in Constantinople, it was later completed by a master artisan in Ravenna.  In it, six female attendants, sumptuously garbed, accompany the empress.  Two priests flank her on her right.  But it is hard to really take in all these people, because the central figure, probably as intended, steals the show.

Byzantine Kamelaukion/Crown
of Constance of Aragon

Theodora is wearing a kamelaukion: a Byzantine-style crown weighted with giant pearls, dangling earrings also dripping with pearls and precious stones, and a glistening, purple robe of what appears to be embroidered silk.  She offers a fine, gold chalice to the priest directly to her right: a costly contribution to the Church.

Preslav Treasure Earrings, 10th c.

But, despite all the opulence and ornament, it is the face of that central figure that draws the viewer’s eye.  Theodora’s dark, deep-set eyes gaze penetratingly out from the colored wall, as though she is about to step forth from her sixth-century stones, as though she can see into the viewer’s soul.  Her gaze is, literally, mesmerizing.

The mosaic’s fraternal twin, another artwork in San Vitale depicting her husband, Justinian, also accompanied by priests and nobles, is almost as impressive.  Almost…but not quite, if only because it lacks that most titillating of all presences: that of a powerful female.

We have no such caricature of Guinevere.  Oh, sure, there are stories, paintings, drawings, books.  The films and television shows depicting her down the ages seem to be legion.  She is Julie Andrews.  She is Vanessa Redgrave.  She is Julia Ormond, Keira Knightly, Tamsin Egerton.

But, no contemporary rendering remains us.  No drawing from life.  Not even a biased one.  And none that shows us her gaze, her strength, her presence.  What a loss.

Though she could be ruthless and even cruel to her enemies (like Guinevere), Theodora was also an early feminist.  Remembering her own ignominious, impoverished childhood, the empress worked tirelessly for the betterment of women.

Through her influence, the laws involving them changed during Justinian’s reign.  Daughters were allowed to inherit.  Widows were permitted to reclaim their dowries.  Women were allowed to own property.  Marriage was redefined as “conjugal affection”, rather than “sexual relations”.

Byzantine Silk Shroud of Charlemagne,
Manufactured in Constantinople, c. 814

This reads to the modern eye as a remarkably “forward-thinking” policymaking…or at least, to our xenophobic, modern sensibility, it does.  Nowadays, we always think we invented the wheel.  But apparently, feminism didn’t start in the 1960s.  It began fourteen hundred years earlier: in the Byzantine era.  With Theodora.

She died on June 28, 548, of cancer.  Her husband sobbed at her funeral, and none of the contemporary chroniclers – Procopius included – seems to believe it was only for show.  Justinian sincerely mourned her.  He continued to honor her advice, her policies, and her works long after her death.  In fact, until his own.

Which is more than Arthur did for Guinevere, although he seems to have loved his second wife, who ultimately betrayed him.  He is described as devastated by her duplicity and prostrated at her funeral.  Much like Justinian.  It is ironic where we bestow our affections.

Anyway, what seems evident is that Guinevere was a great queen.  Though we have no portrait of her, no jewelry she wore, no buildings she constructed, no contemporary voice to tell us of her beauty or lack thereof, we do have the later romances, which recorded her deeds and to some extent, her character.  So we know that she was a great queen.

But, though we have no contemporary voice, we do have her contemporaries.  Galla Placidia and Theodora were great empresses who lived at the same time as Guinevere and shared some of her life experiences and character traits.  All three were intelligent, formidable women, remarkable even for their station in life.  All three were survivors.

Is it any wonder that their names have come down through the ages as those of living legends?