by Marié Heese
“Coming, Peter,” she called. She had made her peace with him. He had come back after her furious tirade that self-same night, so drunk that he must have forgotten all that had been said. He crept up the stairs and threw up into his vegetable basket. Then he crawled into bed beside his wife and filled the small quarters with rasping snores throughout what was left of the night. The next morning he was shame-faced and apologised humbly.
Life went on. They survived. Always precariously on the edge of destitution, dependent on the contribution of each one of them who could earn something. But they did survive.
Peter left the two girls at the dressing-room. It was a bustle of dancers preparing for a spectacular mime that involved birds. They walked into a warm miasma of sweating bodies overlaid with the pungent scents of stage make-up and the gum that was used to attach glitter and feathers to bare skin. The women wore very little clothing, but enormous feathered wings trailed from their arms and they were crowned with tall plumed headdresses. Sharp beaks were hooked onto their faces with loops around the ears. Comito was to play the part of a young princess who fell asleep and dreamed of birds.
“Meet Macedonia,” said Comito. “She alternates with me as the princess.”
A tall girl with a scarlet coxcomb on her head and white arm feathers nodded and went on applying glitter.
“This is my sister Theodora, girls,” said Comito. Multicoloured plumes inclined towards Theodora. Iridescent eyes stripped her and found her lacking. No competition, sneered the beaks soundlessly, turned away and twittered on among themselves. Theodora felt as if she was transparent. But one day they would see her clearly, she angrily promised herself.
A low circular wooden stage had been set in the centre of the arena and swiftly decked with trees and flowers in pots; a gilded scarlet throne on a snowy carpet awaited the princess. Comito ran on first, accompanied by her humble slave, who went to stand beside a tree. An appreciative roar greeted the appearance of the princess in her scarlet cloak over a filmy white tunic. She proceeded to dance a solo, accompanied by a trio of flutes that wove birdsong into melodies. She removed her cloak, using it to create brilliant waves of colour. She was a flame that rushed on the wind as she ran and leapt across the stage, expressing youth, energy, happiness, freedom. Cheers. Whistles. She turned into a spiral of scarlet as she twirled around and around. One last dizzying leap. Then a surge of applause as she mimed weariness and sank onto the throne where sleep would soon overcome her.
Comito imperiously gestured to Theodora to bring her the stool, that had been placed ready at the edge of the stage. All Theodora had to do was to walk over and fetch it. She did not have words to speak, steps to dance nor a song to sing. Dressed in a skimpy tunic with her long black hair in a thick braid, she walked towards the small round stool, turned her back on it and bent over backwards until she could grip it behind her head. Then she hoisted it up and over, set it down at her own feet and swung herself into a headstand on the red velvet seat. Her plait flapped down as her legs went up. She balanced and scissored her legs. Her movements were greeted with raucous applause and shrill whistles. Finally she righted herself, picked up the stool again and set it down with a flourish right in front of the princess. There, she thought: I made them notice me.
Comito settled her feet on the stool. She was furious. It was no part of her plan that Theodora should steal her applause.
“You need merely walk,” she hissed. “If I want acrobatics, I will order them. You overreach yourself, slave!” The audience could not hear her words clearly, but it was obvious that she was scolding the impudent girl.
Theodora hung her head in a pretence of shame. She stood with her legs together. Then a murmur ran round the huge amphitheatre. It became laughter. Men pointed. Comito stared at her contrite sister, whose shining bent head sank lower and lower in front of her eyes. Yet she didn’t seem to be moving at all. Then it grew clear: she was sliding her legs out sideways, while keeping her back straight. Down and down she went. The laughter turned to appreciative applause. She had done a complete split with her legs apart flat on the ground. She held her pose for a few counts, then smoothly drew one leg around and rose in a supple motion. Off she went to her humble station, bowing, to tumultuous cheers. That’s it, she thought triumphantly: I can make them laugh. That’ll be the key.
Now brassy trumpets heralded the entry of the dazzling flock of birds. As they pranced into the arena their plumes swayed, their wings waved gracefully, breasts such as no bird ever had bounced as they too leapt and twirled. The princess slept on, surrounded by the avian spectres conjured by her dreaming mind. She was a picture of vulnerable innocence in her white tunic as she lay back against the blood-red velvet.
An ominous note entered the music. Drums sounded. The birds began to converge on the sleeping virgin. Feathered heads bobbed up and down as they examined her from head to toe. They began to pretend to peck at her with their beaks, taking bits of her tunic between their teeth and ripping them from her motionless body. Theodora realised that the tunic must have been cleverly constructed of separate pieces lightly held together with loose stitches. Cheers and jeers greeted the removal of each bit of material. Thirty thousand men yelled encouragement, again and again: Aha! Aha!
Finally there was almost nothing left, except a small fragment that covered the still sleeping princess’s crotch. Along came the white rooster with its scarlet coxcomb. It circled the throne. Macedonia was a good dancer, thought Theodora. She probably also made a graceful princess. She strutted and preened as she ogled the sleeping Comito. The music swelled. The crowd bellowed rhythmically: Now! Now! Now! Drum roll. The cock sprang at the girl, pecked and pecked between her legs, and whipped away the last scrap of her garment. A roar went up – and then there was a concerted gasp, a sound almost like a stormy wind: on the white carpet under the throne, some drops of scarlet had appeared. The virgin was bleeding! The audience was delirious. This was extraordinary! This was high drama! They clapped and cat-called and whistled and stamped.
Theodora was astounded. What an effect! She wondered how it had been done. The princess awoke, saw the birds, and screamed. Then she saw that she was naked, and screamed louder. Laughter echoed around the amphitheatre. Oh, what sport! Now she noticed the blood, and her consternation was total. She grabbed the arms of the throne, and stared, and started. Put her hands to her face. Seemed to cower, to try to back away, to hide, perhaps? But there was nowhere to go. Gales of laughter. Uproarious applause.
Macedonia flapped her white wings and hopped comically towards Theodora, dangling the last scrap of material.
“Get her out!” she hissed. “Out! Now!”
Theodora suddenly realised that there was something wrong. It had not been planned, after all. Maybe her sister had somehow been hurt. But she held her pose, walked forward, picked up the discarded cloak, and threw herself into a forward flip plus a rolling somersault to end up in front of the throne. More applause. She bowed and turned to throw the cloak over the shaking girl. She mimed sympathy and comfort, patted the chestnut hair and almost carried her sister off, to the accompaniment of stamping feet.
Theodora managed to get her sister to the dressing-room and propped her, almost fainting, on a chair. Still she bled. Small, dark red drops fell to the ground. Comito burst into a storm of tears.
“What is it? Comito, did they hurt you? Was that beak sharp?” She knelt in front of her sister and tried to push the cloak aside to see what harm had been done, but her sister clung to it desperately.
“No, no …” she sobbed, struggling to catch enough breath to speak. “Didn’t … they didn’t hurt … not … not …”
“But you’re bleeding!”
“Menses,” sobbed Comito. “It’s the m-menses. It’s begun. In f-front of … oh, my God, oh my God! In front of thirty thousand men!” Her voice broke into a crescendo of wails.
“Oh, no! Oh, no!” Theodora understood the utter horror, the degradation of shame. She knew about the me
nses; her own had not yet begun, but their mother had explained it to them. They knew what to expect.
“I didn’t think … Most of the girls who have started … are … older,” sobbed Comito. “Oh, God, I’ll never show my face again! I’ll join a convent! Oh, I can’t bear it!”
There was a knock at the door. A man’s voice called: “Girls! Girls, are you decent?”
“Marius,” said Theodora, recognising the voice of the Blues’ dancing master.
“He can’t come in,” muttered Comito.
“No, wait – leave it to me,” whispered Theodora. “Here, throw a towel over your head. Stop crying. Sit still.” She put her foot on the drops on the floor. “Come in,” she shouted.
In came Marius, highly excited. “My dears! That was a show-stopper! That was a touch of genius! It was marvellous! Absolutely marvellous!” He mopped his brow, disturbing artfully arranged ringlets. “Comito?”
“She got gum in her hair,” said Theodora as she rubbed briskly.
“Oooo, messy. But how did you do it? You can tell little old me! Won’t whisper a word!”
“Chicken livers,” said Theodora shortly.
“Aha! The old whore’s trick! Very clever! Very clever! In a little bag, and the cock punctured it, yes? No pun intended!” He whinnied with laughter.
“Now you know.” Theodora smiled at him complicitly. “But you won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Oh, of course not! It’s our little secret! And you, my little darling, you were a brilliant surprise as well! Soooo acrobatic! I loved it, it worked!”
“We need to get tidied up now,” said Theodora, still rubbing.
“Of course, of course, I’m on my way! Night-night, darlings!”
“Goodnight,” said Theodora coolly.
“Goodnight,” said Comito in a strangled voice. “Glad you … liked the … um, surprise.”
“Touch of genius,” repeated Marius, and off he went.
Comito emerged from beneath the towel with swollen eyes and smudged make-up. “Chicken livers?” she asked. “Now where on earth did you get an idea like that?”
“I overheard Fat Rosa telling someone,” said Theodora. “Well, your trade secret will be all over town soon enough, you can count on that. And those he doesn’t tell, will think it’s paint. Trust me.”
“Now I’ll have to do it every time,” said Comito glumly. “Chicken livers! Ugh!”
The sisters stared at each other and began to laugh. Their laughter swelled hysterically. They laughed until they were exhausted.
Theodora was given some small roles, and she made the most of them. Yet even when all their wages were added together, life was never easy.
Then Anastasia woke up one morning with a wheezing cough. Peter brought medicine that did no good. After a week he fetched the aged apothecary who, himself out of breath after clambering up the stairs, shook his head.
“Gone to her chest,” he panted. “Keep her warm. Plenty of fluids. Make soup.”
“I have to go on stage,” Anastasia said huskily.
“It’ll be the death of you,” he said. “Might entertain the fans. But only once.” He cackled like a goose at his own wit.
A cold northwesterly wind brought winter to Constantinople. Laden with the odour of marshes rotting in their depths, it found every ill-fitting window, every loose roof tile; it rattled and slapped and shook the rickety building they lived in and then pelted it with icy sleet.
Chariot races were still run, but shows in the Kynêgion were so poorly attended that it shut down. Peter’s wages were stretched thin; he grew increasingly desperate and came home later and later, more often drunk. Soon Stasie also began a hacking cough. Since her eighth birthday she had shot up, yet she still looked lumpish. She was already almost as tall as Comito, but her skin was pasty and her brown curls had no lustre. She no longer had attacks of noisy weeping, but at times seemed to retreat into a state of wordless misery that shut her off from the world around her.
Then one day Comito came home with a basket of fresh fruit: hothouse produce, out of season. “There,” she said. “That should make Mother and Stasie feel better. And there’s plenty more where that came from.”
Theodora stared at the basket. “Comito,” she said, “where did that come from?”
“An admirer, of course,” said Comito, with an air of nervous bravado. “And, Theodora, you’ll have to help me pack. Not that there’s much to take, but I’ll have better clothes soon.” She bit into a juicy apple.
“You’ve accepted a protector! You have, haven’t you?”
“I have an admirer,” said Comito, “who has made me more than one offer. I’ve refused him several times. But now, well … I’ve agreed.”
“Oh, Comito, you couldn’t!” said Theodora. She shuddered to imagine her sister in the damp and desperate clutches of an elderly lover, one of those with a hairy nose, bad breath and a belly that sagged over his belt.
“What are my options?” demanded Comito. “Even at the best of times, the stage pays rotten wages, and now it’s closed down. Now what? We’re close to starving. No decent man will marry me, you know that. Everybody thinks I’m a whore, so I might as well be one.”
“You needn’t be what people think,” said Theodora. “They can’t force you to be what you’re not.”
“But what else is there? I could sleep with a whole lot of men, none of them paying very much, or with one rich man. So. I’ve decided I might as well be rich, and have a nice house, and servants.” She folded her arms defiantly.
Theodora was silenced by this brutally honest statement of facts.
“Come on, Theodora, don’t look like that.”
“There should be something … something else. It’s not fair. You’re so beautiful. Much too good for some gross, rich old man.”
“Oh, he’s not gross,” said Comito. “Really, he isn’t.”
“Who is it?” asked Theodora.
“Marcus Anicius Longinus. He’s a patrician and a senator. Late forties or so. Has a sickly wife who never leaves their country estate.”
“So what does he offer?”
“He’ll install me in his apartment here in town and give me a good allowance. He needs a hostess. Apart from … well, you know.”
“You have no idea how to give grand dinner parties,” said Theodora.
“I’ll learn. He has a good secretary, he says, who’ll guide me.”
“Rather sleep with the secretary,” advised Theodora.
“He’s a eunuch. But even if he wasn’t, he’s not rich.”
And that was the hard truth of it.
An agreement was made, and Comito moved to the best part of town. Her mother and her sisters kept their distance. The Senator would certainly not welcome his mistress’s disreputable relatives to his home. But Theodora was curious, and when Comito invited her over on a day when her protector rode out to his estate, she went eagerly.
As she had expected, it was a spacious apartment filled with scarce and precious things, with the plush and sensuous textures, the sheen and gleam, the sparkle and glow that only a great deal of money and the hard work of many invisible hands could create. It turned a solid back on the rowdy street outside, and held off the rude winter’s wind with shutters and velvet drapes and braziers, redolent of privilege and roses.
Comito also looked burnished. “Darling Theodora! Come in! I’ll take your cloak. Look around, I just need to talk to the cook about lunch.”
Theodora discovered a library and stood completely entranced. A whole room given over to books! It was extraordinary. Rows and rows of shelves, with pigeonholes that held scrolls and boxes that contained codices! A large table, with two codices lying open, an inkstand, sheets of vellum and pots of ink! She closed her eyes and inhaled the wonderful, slightly musty smell emanating from lots and lots of books. How could anyone be so lucky, she thought, as to own so many books!
A dry cough made her open her eyes. There stood a small, spare man in a grey
tunic with white hair combed neatly forward and sharp brown eyes. Ah, she thought. The secretary.
“Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry, I just walked in. I’m Comito’s sister. Theodora. She said … the Senator wouldn’t mind if I had a look around.”
“Nor would he,” said the man. “You’re fond of reading?”
“Oh, yes! Comito isn’t, though. It’s not fair. She won’t appreciate these books, and I would! Just for this … I’d even stand the attentions of a nasty fat old patrician myself!”
He smiled wryly. “You read Greek?”
“Of course. Latin as well. My mother taught us. She’s … an educated woman, even if …”
“Even if she’s fallen on hard times?”
“Quite,” said Theodora. “We come from a good family.” It seemed important to her that he should know this. “My father was a priest, but my parents fled from Syria and he had to take what job he could get.”
He put a small, neat hand on the nearest open codex. “What do you make of this?”
She leaned forward. “Ah. It’s … Latin. Let’s see … today I … um … crossed … the Rubicon … Oh, I know. These are the Commentarii de Bello Civili.”
“The writer?”
“Julius Caesar.”
Eyebrows raised in surprise, he nodded. “And what was the Rubicon?”
“A river, outside Rome. It meant that civil war against General Pompey was inevitable. When he had crossed it, Caesar said: ‘The die is cast.’”
“And the outcome?”
“Caesar triumphed. But in the end, he lost. He was murdered on the Senate steps. He bled,” said Theodora, “on a statue of Pompey.”