by Marié Heese
“And there’s no one else? Not even a cousin?”
“Not a soul,” said Anastasia.
“Mmmm. I suppose you don’t earn enough yourself to keep out of the almshouse.”
“No,” said Anastasia.
“Convent for the girls, then. Or adoption, perhaps? It’s lucky they’re pretty,” observed Rosa judiciously, combing her fingers through Stasie’s brown ringlets. “Somebody’s sure to want them.”
“No!” yelled Anastasia. “No, and no, and no! I’ll not go to the almshouse, I’ll not go to a convent and I’ll not give my girls away!” She glared at Rosa.
“Well, excuse me, I’m sure,” said the woman, affronted. “I was just–”
“We’ll manage,” stated Anastasia. “Church charity will help. Even if I am an actress, and everybody thinks I’m a whore as well, I’m still a member of the church. And … I’ll … I’ll … think of something.”
Rosa had set the child down and hauled herself to her feet. She looked Anastasia up and down with a leer. “I’m sure you will,” she nodded and departed majestically. “Oh, no doubt, you will.” An aroma of soap and the goose grease with which she rubbed her hands remained behind.
“Cow,” spat Anastasia, and hurled a milk-jug at the wall. Stasie began to wail. Her mother gathered her up and held her tightly, rocking and hushing her. She didn’t feel able to cope with one of the child’s full-blown attacks of misery. Despite her brave words to Rosa, she had no idea what she might do. The steady centre of her precarious world had been ripped out. She had to hold the tattered remnants together with an act of will. Each night since her husband died, she had lain in her empty bed, alone and lonely, trembling with longing, helpless with fear.
Now she was suddenly filled with fury. “How could you do this to me, Theophilus?” she groaned aloud, using the old name for Acasius, his real name, the name that had belonged to a Syrian Christian priest who was a man of substance with standing in the community, not a lowly bearkeeper who earned barely enough to keep them from penury. Who had to humble himself before an upstart like Asterius the Dancing Master. Who had been torn to pieces by a bear, when he should have known better than to go so near to it. “Oh, God, I should have had a son!”
Comito, her eldest daughter, who had just turned six, looked at her with tears in her eyes. “Will we have to be adopted, Mother?” she asked fearfully. “Will we go to a … to a kind family? Will we?”
With Stasie on her arm, Anastasia dropped to her knees next to Comito and Theodora where they sat side by side on a narrow cot against the wall. She gathered all three her small daughters to her and inhaled their warmth, their scent of milk and bread and the goat’s cheese that had been their supper. She buried her face in Comito’s hair, a tousle of chestnut curls so like her own. Her hands curled themselves around the arm of one daughter, the solid little leg of another, as if to prevent them from being torn away that very minute. She would not allow it. Would not. She could no more survive losing these children than Acasius had been able to survive losing his arm.
“You will go nowhere,” she said. “We will find a way to stay together.”
“Promise,” said Theodora.
“I promise,” said Anastasia.
Chapter 3: Only silence
After a month Anastasia was desperately battling to keep her promise. She had tried to increase her income by extra performances, but Asterius was not keen to have one actress appear too often. Variety was essential, he told her, she would grow stale. Also, she had to depend on Fat Rosa to keep an eye on the children and she didn’t like to do that all the time. She received free bread, as did all the citizens of Constantinople, but they could not survive on bread alone. The Patriarchate of the local Christian church of which she was a member dispensed charity: a daily bowl of thin soup that stank of onions and poverty. It pained her to accept it, yet she often had nothing else to feed her children. And even that could not go on for ever. Sooner or later, she would be pressured into a convent, or the almshouse, and her children would be taken from her. She knew that.
She stood at her window and looked down at the street where a group of little girls played with a skipping rope, chanting an old skipping song. Their voices chirped like birds. As she watched, Comito darted forward and jumped under the swinging arc, with a determined little frown because she wanted to judge the moment perfectly; then a smile because she had succeeded. She continued to skip energetically without missing a beat, chanting all the while. Her chestnut curls flew as she skipped. She was already a beauty, her mother thought, she would be good on the stage, she had presence, she could already dance a few steps and sing several songs. But at just over six she was too young. Asterius would never allow it.
Not too young to be sold, though. Many a girl child of impoverished farming parents was bartered for some old clothes, or perhaps some oil, and not merely to work in their owner’s kitchen. The thought of her daughters having to service some horny old lecher made the bile rise in her throat. Oh, God, Acasius, she thought, as her eyes smarted with terrified tears. What can I do? You should be here. You should be alive, and strong. A deep sob shook her.
There was a hesitant knock. “Come in,” she called, and wiped her eyes.
The door opened to admit Peter, bearing a small parcel and a large cabbage. As he ambled in, he stumbled over a doll that Stasie had left on the floor. He peered at Anastasia with a worried frown.
“You’ve been c-crying,” he said, accusingly. “You sh-shouldn’t c-cry.”
“Well, what do you expect,” shouted Anastasia. “I’ve lost my husband, I’m dog-tired doing extra shows, and they’ll probably take my children away!” She wept furiously, her mouth drawn square like that of a distressed child, her chest heaving. She dug her fists into her eyes as if she could stem the torrent of tears, but to no avail. The heartache that had dammed up over the past weeks overflowed in a surge of anguish.
“Oh, d-dear,” said Peter. “Oh, d-dear.” He stood by helplessly as she wept.
At last her grief abated to some degree. She walked to a pail of cold water and cupped some to splash onto her face. He set down the parcel and the cabbage, pulled her over towards him and mopped her eyes with his cloak. “This is n-no good, you know,” he said. “Anast-tasia. What can I do?”
She looked at him, her face swollen and blotched. Considered. He has kind eyes, she thought. Kind eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Marry me,” she said.
“Oh, m-my,” said Peter. His round cheeks flushed. “I’d like t-to m-m-m-m … b-but I d-don’t have a p-proper job. I c-couldn’t …”
“You could get his job,” said Anastasia. “Bearkeeper to the Greens. Nobody has been appointed in his place. Ragu can’t do a show, not with his peg leg. In any case, he’s gone off with a band of Gypsies. If I’d had a son that his father had trained, he’d have taken over. If you marry me, you could do that. You know how.”
“Y-yes, I d-do.”
“And you like the children. Don’t you?”
“Y-yes, I d-do.”
“And I’m only a little older than you,” said Anastasia, untruthfully. There was a difference of almost ten years.
“It d-doesn’t m-matter,” he assured her. “You’re so b-beautiful. D-do you really m-mean it?”
“If you want to,” she said.
“Oh, I d-do. Of course I d-do. I’ve always l-loved you. All the t-time … but I never thought … I’m just an apprentice. But I’m good with the b-bears. I’m really g-good with the bears.”
“I know you are.”
They stood and stared at each other. There did not seem to be any suitable words. Lord forgive me, she thought, what have I just done?
He gestured helplessly, too humble and overcome to kiss her.
“What did you bring me?” she asked gently. “Besides the cabbage?”
“P-pork chops,” he said, eagerly. “You could c-cook them. For – for us.”
“I could do that,” she said. “It won’t take long. You sh
ould sit there. At the table.”
“Yes,” he agreed. He stood up straighter. Already there was something different in his attitude. He would be the man of the house. Master of the domus. Yes.
“Thank you,” she said.
Theodora did not welcome the addition to their household. Comito said, practically, that now they’d have better food, and oil for the lamps so that they needn’t go to bed the instant the sun set. Stasie swiftly established herself on Peter’s lap, thumb in her mouth, and allowed him to croon to her. This pleased him immensely and he spent hours singing a repetitive, tuneless song, that lulled her to sleep and even succeeded in drawing her out of the attacks of misery that frustrated everybody else.
“Works with the b-bears,” he said to Anastasia. “Works with her t-too.”
“Yes, dear,” said Anastasia, who was not sure whether the song was easier to stand than the tantrums. But at least the two of them were happy.
Theodora, however, who had liked Peter when he was merely a humble admirer, resented him intensely as a replacement for Acasius. The first time he had taken up his place at the head of the table, small and wobbly though it was, she had fixed him with a furious glare.
“You should not sit there,” she said, each word heavy with anger. “It is not your place.”
“Don’t be rude, darling,” her mother admonished her. “Peter–”
“Peter is not our father,” stated Theodora. “He should not sit there. Not. There.” Small though she was, she radiated such intensity of disapproval that Peter sheepishly stumbled to his feet, knocking over the milk jug.
“S-sorry. I’ll s-sit in the m-middle,” said Peter. “Then I c-can help S-Stasie.”
For a couple of weeks, Peter did the job at the Hippodrome that Acasius had done, and despite Theodora’s unflagging animosity, they survived. Then one day he clumped up the several flights of stairs in a rare state of anger. He flung the door open and stomped into the room that served as kitchen, sitting room and bedroom for the girls.
“Anas-t-tasia!” he bellowed.
“I’m right here,” she said. “Don’t shout.” He was so large that the room could not easily accommodate him in a turmoil. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Ast-st-sterius,” he stuttered. “He’s s-s-s-s … He’s d-d-dis …” He waved his arms in an attempt to articulate what his knotted tongue could not utter.
“Yes? What about Asterius? Peter, take a deep breath. Tell me.”
“D-d-dis. M-missed me,” managed Peter.
“He what? But that’s not … Why? What did you do?”
“N-n-n-nothing. I d-did n-nothing wrong. T-t-truly. The b-bears obey me, I’m t-teaching the young one n-new t-tricks. B-but–”
“Did you argue with him? You know he doesn’t like to be contradicted. Maybe if you apologise …”
“I d-did nothing, woman,” roared Peter. “He’s appointed a m-man p-put forward by the P-Prefect. M-must have g-given him … g-given …”
“Oh. Yes. Of course,” said Anastasia, mindful of the gold coins that had helped Acasius secure his post. Now, however, she had no such resources. She stared at the wrathful Peter, aghast. “But – but he will keep you on as an apprentice, won’t he? He will do that?”
Peter suddenly collapsed onto the narrow cot that served as a sofa as well as a bed. It creaked alarmingly. He put his head in his hands. “N-no,” he muttered. “No. I’m s-s-s-s …” He gulped. “Sacked,” he managed.
“Oh, God,” said Anastasia. Stasie, upset by the general distress, began to wail. “Stasie, please. Please don’t cry. You can have a date.” Anastasia picked up her small daughter and began to walk the floor with her. Well, soon there would be no more dates. Might as well have them all.
Anastasia lay awake and stared into the darkness. Most of the bed was taken up by Peter, whose breath fanned her neck as he snored. She had not married him for love, although she did feel grateful affection for him. Nor had she married him for lust. He was too much like an overgrown child, too much like a dog that slobbered adoringly and swept vases off tables with its wagging tail. But he had represented security. Now he could no longer offer that. Yet here he was, a large, warm, sweaty presence, exhaling wafts of beer. An intruder in her bed, she often felt, a stranger from whom she sometimes flinched. Her body still yearned for the caresses she had known, for the shape and smell and touch that were familiar and dear. She had to hold her arms tightly across her chest, where her heartache seemed to have created a real wound liable to ooze. She had to hold back her sobs. She had no place to weep.
Her new husband lay curled around her with one heavy arm around her waist. Even in his sleep he was possessive, she thought. She found his adoration oppressive, especially as he expressed it through constant sexual activity. Young and vigorous, he plumbed her body inexpertly but relentlessly. Despite the snores, if she moved at all she could feel a slight swelling against her hip. She shifted away. Not again. She couldn’t. She had to think.
When the pale morning sunlight slanted through the shutters, Anastasia had a plan. It was an audacious one. It would take courage. But courage was all she had. She would not tell Peter, because she was sure he would not like it. No, it was for her to do, and when it succeeded – she was sure it would succeed – he would accept it. Yes. She had a plan.
“I think you should go and see if you can find a few hours’ work at the market gardens,” she suggested to Peter when he awoke. “Sometimes the farmers can do with a hand from a strong young man. It would be good if you could bring some vegetables.”
“All right,” he said, listlessly. It would be a hard slog, in the sun. It was not what he liked to do. He liked to work with the animals. But it was something.
When he had departed, she called the girls together to tell them of his dismissal. They knew that it meant disaster. “But,” she said, “we won’t accept it. I have a plan. You mustn’t tell Peter. But you’ll have to help, all three of you. Together, we can do it.”
“Do what, Mother?” asked Theodora.
“Plead our case in the Kynêgion,” said Anastasia. “After the next wrestling match.”
“Not at the Hippodrome?” asked Theodora.
“It’s too big,” said Anastasia. “We’d not be heard, and we have no mandator to speak for us. The Kynêgion seats only thirty thousand men. They’ll hear me.”
“Plead with the Greens?” asked Comito doubtfully. “What use would that be?”
“They could force the Dancing Master to take Peter back. They have power, those factions. Even the Emperor pays attention to what they say and do.”
“Will we plead with the Emperor?” asked Theodora, her dark eyes huge. “Will he listen? To us?”
“No, dear, that won’t be necessary. We must make the men sorry for us. Make Asterius seem heartless. We’ll look beautiful, and pathetic. It’ll work, you’ll see.”
“I don’t want people to be sorry for us,” objected Comito.
“Nor do you want to starve,” said her mother, “nor go to a convent, nor be adopted. Do you? Do you?”
“No,” said Comito sullenly.
“Then, this is what we’re going to do. We’ll have to practise. Think of it as a performance. We are actresses. We must portray loss, and grief. Fear. Suffering. Make the Greens feel guilty. Make them insist that Asterius must take Peter back. Peter’s good with the bears. There’s no good reason to sack him.” She stared intently at the little girls. Comito, brown-eyed, beautiful, with chestnut tresses like herself. Theodora, pale and delicate, with her father’s black hair and big dark eyes. Small, sturdy Stasie, her round face framed by a halo of dark brown ringlets. “Are you going to help me, girls?”
Theodora squared her narrow shoulders. “Yes,” she said. “It’s up to us.”
They practised in secret for several days. They learned to walk as if in a procession, gravely, with dignity, with small steps, placing their feet just so. They learned the eloquent gestures that would communicate in the huge
arena where they hoped to plead. They held out their arms in supplication to an invisible audience. They learned to kneel and bow their heads, to rise again without over-balancing, with composure, with grace.
Fat Rosa washed their white dresses and helped their mother fashion small white cloaks from old sheets. Despite the size of her hamlike arms, she had remarkably deft hands.
“You think this is going to work?” she asked.
“It’s all I have,” said Anastasia. “Acting skills. So that’s what we’ll try. The men are used to mimes.”
“More bawdy, usually,” said Fat Rosa. “But it’ll look pathetic. Lucky the girls are so pretty. Well, you never know, it might wring their horny hearts.”
At last Anastasia decided that they were ready. “I think we can do it,” she said. “Even Stasie’s getting it right.”
“But Mother,” said Comito, “how can we be sure they will let us in? What if we go there and they don’t … they won’t …”
“We have a right,” her mother said, “to be heard. Appeals are heard, it’s the custom. Besides, I will make sure. I know the chief usher. I’ll … I’ll speak to him.”
The next afternoon, there was another performance of the Pantomime of Pasiphae. When it was over, Anastasia wrapped herself in her cloak and ran to the office of the chief usher. She smoothed her hair and walked in with as much dignity as she could muster. She intensely disliked the man, who was fat and unctuous and smelled of onions and garlic. But she was very polite as she requested a hearing the following afternoon. Before the scheduled wrestling match.
“A hearing?” he raised bushy eyebrows and leaned back, picking at a fibre stuck in one of his long, yellow teeth.
“A hearing,” said Anastasia firmly. “We have the right.”
“For what purpose?” He tried a thumbnail.
“For a … for a petition. We have a petition.”
“To put to?”
“The Greens. My husband has been unfairly dismissed. We have a case.”
He grinned and spat out the bothersome scrap. “My dear lady. No doubt you do, no doubt you do. But really, we can’t allow every little person who thinks they have a case …”