by Marié Heese
“I am not,” said Anastasia, “some little person. I am employed here. I have admirers. I am known.”
“Ah, yes. An actress.” He eyed her up and down. “Well, now. Perhaps we might make an exception. In this instance. For a small consideration, of course. You do understand how things are. A man must live.”
Anastasia wanted to grind her teeth, but she nodded instead. “I cannot offer you any money. I have nothing. Our income has been taken away. But please …”
He rose from his chair and walked towards her.
She knew what he would say, and he did. “Perhaps we can come to an … agreement. Perhaps you can offer something I might want?”
She had known before she came, although she had hoped it might not come to this. But she would have to pay. She was always going to have to pay. In the only coinage she possessed, on her knees, in a miasma of onions and garlic and unwashed male loins. A hard hand grasped her hair so tightly that her eyes watered, hard fingers forced her head down, forward, and down, and down. She couldn’t breathe, she would choke, she would throw up, she thought desperately. But she closed her eyes and disengaged her spirit, rolled it up tightly in a small bundle to smother its whimpers, to stifle its howls. And she paid him.
It would suffice. They would be allowed in.
Theodora rather looked forward to their appearance in the Kynêgion. Her father had smuggled her in there too once or twice, to see some acrobats, so it was not entirely strange. She knew that her mother performed there. Now, she thought, they would perform together, all four of them. Her mother had washed their hair in rainwater and rinsed it with lemon juice. Comito’s long, wavy hair gleamed golden-brown in the sunlight and Stasie’s brown curls had red glints. Her own hair was black and silky and hung almost down to her hips. And their mother was as beautiful as an angel, all in white. Her white cloak looked like wings. Anastasia’s hair seemed to hold the sunlight in its thick waves and she wore it loose as she had on the day of the funeral.
Trading with a farmer’s wife, Anastasia had exchanged her delicious honey-cakes for fresh wild flowers that Fat Rosa made into white flower garlands and scarlet posies.
“Are you ready?” Anastasia’s hands shook as she positioned their garlands.
“We’re ready, Mother,” said Comito. “Should we sing?”
“No,” said Anastasia. “No, we’re sorrowful. No singing. Now put on your old cloaks to cover yourselves up and we’ll walk. Hold up your hems, your dresses must be spotless. Comito, hold Stasie’s hand.”
“Where’s Peter?” asked Stasie. “Will he come too, Mama?”
“No,” said Anastasia. “He’s taken vegetables to his parents.” They had never seen his family, who were not pleased with his sudden marriage to an older woman, an actress at that, who already had children.
The little band of females set off and soon reached the Kynêgion, since they lived nearby. It was a holiday and there were flowers everywhere, decorating window-sills, looped into garlands, strewn on the ground, pounded to a scented mush by the feet of sedan chair carriers. Mixed with the heady floral scent were enticing wafts of the hot pies being touted by hawkers and the sour smell of beer. Brilliantly coloured balls spun in high arcs as jugglers entertained the gawping crowds dressed in their best, out to enjoy the sunshine and the shows. A legless beggar scooted across the pavement, rattled a bowl at them and whined. Supporters of the Greens and the Blues yelled insults at each other.
They passed the Hippodrome, where chariot races took place, only not today. Theodora remembered how she had watched with her father and her heart, momentarily merry, grew heavy and sad and she remembered why they were there.
“Are you sure they will let us in, Mother?” she asked.
“They’d better,” said Anastasia.
They approached the gates of the big amphitheatre and a roar from the crowd inside rolled over them. Theodora wondered whether they too would be cheered. It must feel wonderful, she thought, to be cheered like that.
The guard at the gate seemed to have instructions, for he let them through. Their footsteps echoed as they walked along vaulted corridors. Smoking torches lit the way. Another roar from the crowd thundered all around them. They seemed to be right in the middle of the noise, a wave of sound that could push them back if they let it. Then they reached the end of the corridor, where there was a tall portal with a heavy green curtain across it.
They stopped. “Take off your outer cloaks, and your sandals,” hissed Anastasia. “We will go in barefoot.”
Comito helped Stasie, whose round brown eyes were huge with wonder. “Why are there only Greens and Blues, why aren’t there other colours too?” she asked. “Why not Reds?”
“There used to be Reds and Whites as well,” her mother said. “Now there are just the Greens and Blues, and they don’t just support their racing teams, they have power. Money, and power. We don’t, they do. So we have to make them listen. Make them sorry for us. Look sad, all right? Cry if you want to.”
A guard in a green cloak nodded to their mother. “Wait,” he grunted. “There’s a wrestling match on. It’s not over yet.”
The four of them held hands. Theodora felt her mother’s hand tremble in hers. Suddenly she realised that their mother was afraid. This made her feel terrified. They stood silently and clung to each other as they waited. A huge roar announced that someone had triumphed. The crowd shouted, whistled and stamped. The applause seemed to go on and on.
At last the guard gave a signal for them to move forward. He drew the curtain aside with a rattle of rings. They walked forward into the blinding sunlight, into a vast arena smelling of dust and surrounded by row upon row of curious men. Into a surge of sound that was not a roar but a buzz they walked, a buzz that swelled as all eyes were drawn to them. Theodora suddenly felt extremely small. It seemed to be very far to the other side, and the tiers of seats appeared to her to stretch right up to the sky. Her knees shook. Please, Lord Jesus, she entreated wordlessly, please, be with us, protect us, help us today.
“Follow me,” her mother whispered. “Towards the Greens, over there. Slowly. Remember what we practised.”
Forward they went with their heads bowed, taking small steps in the baked and trampled dust. Comito walked behind their mother, Stasie’s hand in hers. Theodora was last. It would have been easier, she thought, if there had been singing, as there was on the day of the funeral procession. They should have brought Fat Rosa, to help them sing. She imagined the washerwoman’s pure voice soaring and silencing this jabber-jabber-jabber. She was being pointed at, like a performing bear. She wanted to scream, and turn and run. But she walked forward, her red posy held tightly to her white chest. Please, Jesus. Please.
At last they reached the front ranks of the Greens. Their mother turned and nodded. The three little girls flung their posies, to fall just short of the row in which Asterius sat. Anastasia stretched out her right hand. The girls lifted their arms to the banked spectators in the pleading gesture that they had practised. Then they fell to their knees and bowed their heads. The sand was gritty and it hurt. The buzz died down and silence fell.
Anastasia spoke. Her voice shook just a little when she began, but it was a trained voice, trained to sing and to speak out in front of multitudes, for not all her performances were mimes, and soon it steadied and gained in clarity. She clasped her hands and her plea rang out:
Greetings to you, most Christian and most glorious Greens!
May your victories be many, may they be long in memory!
We thank you for this hearing, in this Kynêgion of Constantinople.
We are assured of justice and mercy.
You all did know Acasius, my late husband,
Who was a master of the bears.
He worked faithfully and tirelessly
For your entertainment.
Now he is dead, and we who have been left
Are bereft. A good man has taken pity on us.
But he has lost his work. He has
been dismissed.
We beg, we plead …
Here the little girls raised their arms again, imploringly, then bowed low once more. The sand felt like sharp bits of glass. Theodora thought her knees would bleed.
… we plead that he may have his post again.
He works well with the bears.
He will entertain you, glorious Greens.
We beg for mercy.
Anastasia too bowed her head.
Silence reigned. Please, Jesus. Please, Jesus.
Theodora raised her head slightly. She saw that Asterius had risen to his feet. His arms were folded across his chest, so that his cloak fell in straight folds like that of a tall statue. His head was thrown back contemptuously and he glared down his hooked nose at the trio of little girls. Then he turned his gaze on their mother, who stood barefoot and submissive in the dust. His mouth sneered. Nothing better than a slave, he seemed to say. Not worthy of attention. Not worthy. He swivelled and his arrogant stare raked the rows of silent men. Can you believe this, he seemed to ask, can you believe this insolence? He turned back to Anastasia and made a gesture of dismissal, such as one might make to a servant, one who was not worthy of a single word.
The three little girls stood up, clutching each other’s hands. Oh, no, thought Theodora in disbelief and horror, we have failed. No mercy, Lord Jesus, no mercy. Where are you? Where were you today? A sharp odour rose from the gritty dust. She looked down. Stasie had wet herself. They stood in a puddle of pee.
Chapter 4: A scarlet scarf
Weary and bereft of hope, Anastasia turned to go. She had tried her best. She had been daring and courageous, but it had not worked. She had been humbled. She had been punished for her audacity. It was over.
“Come, girls,” she whispered.
The terrible silence dissolved into a new buzz, a low murmur. Asterius sat down and arranged his cloak with a hugely satisfied smirk. He folded his arms again and stared around him complacently.
Then the unexpected happened. The man who served the Blue faction as Asterius did the Greens rose to his feet. His raised right arm demanded silence and the right to be heard. He quelled the chatter authoritatively.
“Wait!” he cried, in stentorian tones. “This is not right!”
Anastasia turned back, surprised.
“Advance,” he called and beckoned them over.
She straightened the garlands on her children’s heads. Stasie had begun the desolate weeping that was hard to stop. Let her cry, thought Anastasia. She’s the littlest one. Let her cry. Perhaps it may move them as my words could not. She led the trio across the wide expanse of dust towards the front rows of the Blues.
Their dancing master still stood. What was his name? she thought. She knew him, they had spoken more than once. Marius – that was it. He spoke again, projecting his voice to address the multitude.
This woman has called you
Most Christian and glorious, oh Greens.
But you have been neither Christian nor glorious today.
Anastasia was surprised. Normally Marius was a fussy, effeminate fellow. But today he had a dramatic presence, and the audience was with him. There was a rumble, part laughter, part hum of agreement, from the crowd. He continued:
Here we see the children of Acasius
Bereft of their father, begging for mercy.
Mercy they have not received.
The crowd rumbled again. He gestured towards Asterius.
These supplicants have put their case.
They have been received with arrogance, with silence.
He pointed dramatically at Asterius.
You, you who have not spoken with mercy,
Who have not shown Christian love –
May God silence your voice.
Asterius looked furious. Marius continued:
The plight of these three lambs, these innocents,
Must surely move the hardest heart.
“Throw up your arms,” hissed Theodora to her sisters, who stood and gaped at this new development. “Do the supplication! Then kneel!”
They did this as gracefully as they could. Marius nodded. He went on:
Their mother has not begged for charity.
She has merely pleaded for justice.
She has a husband who has useful skills.
He has been dismissed – for no good reason.
The rumbling assent grew louder. Many of the Blues directed disapproving glares at Asterius. He stared straight ahead of him.
But the illustrious Blues, as true Christians should,
Will give succour to these innocents in need.
We will stretch out our hands and dry their tears.
Anastasia wondered what would come next. Marius waited as the attention of the vast throng focused on him, Greens and Blues alike. Then his voice became more businesslike.
Our keeper of the bears is old, he wishes to retire.
We can use the strength and talents of a younger man.
He turned to face the tiers of men clad in blue cloaks that lined half of the Kynêgion behind him.
“Are we agreed?” he shouted, throwing up his arms. “What do you say?”
“Yes!” roared the Blue faction, and they drummed their feet loudly. “Appoint him! Down with the Greens!”
Anastasia was amazed at the sudden reversal of their fortunes. She had not thought that Marius, who was not as imposing as Asterius and much less arrogant, would have the courage to take such drastic action with such decisiveness. But she knew that he had suffered belittlement and scorn from the older dancing master, and he had seen and taken a marvellous opportunity to make the other look a fool – worse than a fool: greedy and lacking in Christian values.
She stepped forward and sank to her knees with her hands together prayerfully, her head bowed. “We thank the noble Blues,” she said, clearly. “We are most grateful for their Christian grace.”
The little girls imitated her gesture. The Greens growled. The Blues cheered.
“Girls, go home to Rosa,” muttered Anastasia. “Leave me to sort out the contract. Go now, leave, before the show begins.”
The children walked out hand in hand. Comito waved. Stasie had stopped weeping. Theodora gave a little skip. They had been saved, beyond all expectations, by the Blues. They could stay together, they would not have to be sold, or go hungry.
But all of them would henceforth hate the Greens.
As the weeks went by, their lives improved to some degree. As a beginner Peter did not earn a very big salary, but with the money their mother brought home they could keep going. Anastasia insisted that the two eldest girls should continue with the lessons that Acasius had begun with before he died. “Right now,” he had said, “it’s true that your prospects don’t look very promising, but you never know what the future might bring. You might advance in life, and my daughters should be prepared to take their places in better society.”
They could certainly not afford to hire a slave pedagogue, as more well-off families did, but Anastasia herself could teach them to read, write and reckon. In her previous life, of which her children knew nothing, she had been well educated. She could pass that learning on, which was fortunate. So whenever she had a free afternoon, their small table became a desk. The library in a better part of town loaned her codices; in her best cloak, her face wiped clean of make-up, she pretended to be a lady’s maid sent by a respectable matron with a love of reading.
Both girls were quick and able, but Theodora, especially, loved to learn. She was entranced by marks on parchment that miraculously told one stories, over and over, patiently, and even more astounded that she could make such marks herself. That such marks could turn into her own voice, speaking her very words. Also she loved numbers that followed each other in a particular order, that could be counted on to be predictable, that always came out in exactly the same way if you did specific things. Comito learned what she had to, quickly but without particular enjoyment.
“All t
he same,” said Anastasia, “you’ll likely both have to follow me on the stage. For that you’ll need to be trained.”
Fat Rosa was paid with honey-cakes to teach the girls to sing. Comito’s voice rang strongly, sweet and true, and she practised daily. “Can I have proper dancing lessons too?” she demanded.
“You’ll begin when you turn eight,” promised Anastasia. She understood that Comito’s one desire was to be the centre of attention, a special person instead of a little-regarded child.
Theodora’s ear was good and she could hold a tune, but her voice, though sweet, was small. Fat Rosa sighed and shook her head. “This one won’t be a star,” she told Anastasia. “I’m doing my best, but the voice is not impressive. And she’s so thin, and pale, and dark. She’ll not have the men on the edges of their seats. Comito, now …” Comito had the chestnut hair, burnished with brushing, lightened with lemon and bleached into a shining mane by sitting in the sun, that a future star of the stage should have.
Theodora said nothing, but she brooded about it. It was true that she could neither sing nor dance as well as her sister. But she wanted to be better than Comito at something. Something that Comito couldn’t even do at all. Something special, that was her thing. What this might be was at first not clear. Then one day, while she was waiting for her mother to finish a performance at the Kynêgion, Theodora saw a group of acrobats practising their stunts in a yard off to the side. It was a family show, with a father muscled like a statue, a limber, apparently boneless mother with a long plait of hair, and three nimble children who tumbled about and flung themselves through the air with joyous abandon.
Yes! thought Theodora. I want to be able to do that. I could do that. That could be my thing. She walked up to the father when he stopped to draw breath after a series of intricate tumbles. “Please,” said Theodora, “please will you teach me to do that?”
The man looked at her in amusement, his knotted arms and barrel chest slick with sweat. “It’s not as easy as it looks,” he said. “It’s actually not easy at all. It’s bloody hard work, and it’s dangerous.”