by Marié Heese
Like the wine, the conversation flowed. Theodora’s role was to listen as Gaius Lepidus told her about his exploits in the arena, detailed descriptions of narrow escapes from flying hooves and death-defying dashes to, inevitably, a glorious finish. Interesting enough, at first. But as time went by, descriptions of races circuit by circuit began to pall. She found it harder and harder to maintain a look of interest and awe. This did not bother him, if he even noticed; his stories rolled on like a chariot on a downward grade.
The gustatio was long gone, but no more slaves or waiters arrived.
At last even the wine seemed to have run out and the saga of the races reached a pause. Gaius Lepidus stood up abruptly. “You’re not hungry, are you,” he stated rather than asked. “I told them we didn’t want to be disturbed again. I don’t eat much, can’t afford to get fat. You too, I suppose?”
“Ah … well, yes, I …”
Theodora found her hand in the hard grip of the charioteer. A calloused hand, that could control a team of four powerful horses. He drew her to her feet, turned her towards a curtained arch at the back of the room and propelled her towards it with a hand in the small of her back. Through she went, into a small room carpeted in jewel-like colours and furnished with a large day bed piled high with tasselled cushions, where a small oil lamp on a table cast a tiny pool of light and incense rose sweetly into the air.
“I want to see you take your clothes off ,” ordered Gaius Lepidus. “Go on. Do it.”
Obediently she put up her hand to unpin the brooches that held her long tunic together at the shoulders.
“Not just like that,” he said, crossly. “The way you do it on the stage. Slowly. You know.”
“Striptease,” she said, in a daze from too much honeyed wine and too little food. She wasn’t sure any more that she wanted to continue. Yet she moved as instructed, as if to the sound of unheard flutes and tambourines. Her trained body knew what to do. Promised, hinted, flirted. Uncovered a little more. Pretended shyness. Advanced and retreated. Twirled and stood poised. At last she was completely naked, cloaked only in her long black hair, loosed from its pins.
“Ah, you,” growled Gaius Lepidus. He grabbed handfuls of her hair and pulled her to him. He too had thrown off his clothes. He had a hard body, trim and taut with sinews like ropes. She thought: he is shorter than he looks when he is thundering around the arena. She ran her hands along his back and stopped to read a ridged line across his waist with her questing fingers.
“Scar,” he muttered, “crashed a few times. Don’t … let’s just … let’s not wait,” and he whipped her legs from under her to drop her onto the day bed; his muscular body was on top of her, and he thrust hard between her legs. She groaned with pain; it felt as if he had opened her with a dagger. This encouraged him to pump with greater energy. “Come on, come on,” he ordered, as if urging his team of horses down the straight. Then he shuddered and gave a final deeply penetrating thrust.
“Oh! Ahhh! Owwww!” She heard herself produce a howl of pain. God in heaven, that hurt! It was not supposed to be like this! Something warm flowed out to meet the sharp pain.
He rolled off her onto his knees. “What on earth … what’s the matter? A fellow could die of shock, to hear you scream!”
She shivered and sobbed. “It … hurt,” she whispered.
“Hurt? But … Good Christ, girl, you’re not a virgin, are you? It’s not possible!”
She nodded wordlessly.
“I don’t believe it.” He put his hard hand between her legs and pushed two calloused fingers into her passage, which already pulsated with pain. The probe tore her further and she screamed again. Her trembling thighs were wet.
“Jesus. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.” He sat back on his narrow haunches and shook his head in disbelief. He wiped his hand on the cushions. “No tricks, now? This is genuine?”
She sobbed and nodded.
“I thought you were … an old hand at this. I was sure …”
She scrabbled for some dignity. “Not all actresses are prostitutes,” she said, in a quavering voice, “although people believe what they want to.”
He scooped his clothes up from the floor, stood up and put them on with quick, angry movements. “No, well, not prostitutes, necessarily,” he said gruffly, “but … but … practised, at least. How could you be so … I could have sworn … You seemed …”
“It was all an act,” said Theodora, forlornly.
“So I see. Well. Better go and have some or other old wife give you something,” he said. “If I’d known … I would have … Anyway, it’s unusual to be so … very tight. Good God, I never made anybody scream before.” He pinned the shoulder of his cloak.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Theodora. She had been a total failure. She had disappointed him.
“Get yourself presentable. Listen, use the napkins, there are still some on the table through here. I’ll tell the carriers to take you home.” Already he was almost out of the door.
“Thank you,” said Theodora.
Fat Rosa recommended goose grease. Theodora somehow didn’t want either her mother or her sisters to know what had happened, and she could certainly not face consulting an apothecary. But the washerwoman knew of remedies for most things, and for all her love of gossip, she never passed on a real secret.
“It’ll heal within days,” she told Theodora. “Just a skin tear, really. Some girls are tougher than others, you see. Just as well, now you’re ready for the next time.” She folded her plump arms and leered.
However, there was no next time with Gaius Lepidus, who did not come around again. Theodora waited, in some trepidation, but clearly he had done with her. She was not sure whether she was pleased or sorry. Life went on.
Chapter 7: No more honey-cakes
Anastasia was preparing honey-cakes, energetically beating creamy cheese in a bowl to soften it. Fat Rosa had brought her some lovely runny honey, the best kind for melting into freshly baked hot cakes. Rosa sat planted on a chair, heavy thighs like well-risen loaves under thin cloth, upper arms like proving dough.
“So,” said Rosa, “Comito doing well?”
“Well enough,” said Anastasia.
“Word is, he’s not so very rich.”
“Rich enough,” said Anastasia. “Keeps Comito in style. When his grain ships come in, he’s generous.”
“Theodora says he adores Comito. Pity he can’t marry her.”
“Besides having a wife, he’s too old for her,” said Anastasia, peering at the cheese. So, that would do. She added the cheese and some eggs to a large bowl of sifted flour and began to work the mixture into a dough with her hands.
“And the Anicii are so patrician, they think they fart incense,” said Rosa. “Not one of that lot would marry a common ex-actress even if the law did allow it.”
“Not a chance,” agreed Anastasia.
“Does his wife know? About Comito?”
“I have no idea. She never leaves their farm, but some busybody has probably informed her. Probably doesn’t care, as long as she can just ignore it. It happens often enough, in those circles.”
“I wouldn’t mind being the pampered darling of a doting old dodderer,” said Rosa. “Yes, I know, fat chance.” She laughed her rumbling laugh.
“He treats her extremely well. And he’s very kind to Theodora … I just hope she doesn’t make a nuisance of herself.”
“Here, let me help you mould the cakes.” Rosa’s dimpled hands were surprisingly small and deft. Soon the rounded cakes lay ready on a baking tray. “I’ll take them to the baker for you,” offered Rosa. “Have to collect some laundry, so it’s on my way. His ovens should be hot and ready for the afternoon batch.”
“Thanks, Rosa. I’ll collect them in time for supper.”
A short while after Rosa had left, majestically bearing the cakes, Peter’s heavy step sounded on the stair outside. He was climbing more slowly than usual. Could he be drunk? Anastasia wondered. Surely not at thi
s time of the morning. He seemed to hesitate at the door. She went to open it. “Are you ill?” she asked.
He came in slowly, rubbing his hand across his chest and breathing in harsh gasps.
“Did you get hurt? The bears …”
“N-no, no. But I have … I have a p-pain, here, and … d-down my arm.” He sat down heavily. She stared at him with concern. He was perspiring and his lips looked blue.
“Oh, God. Why didn’t you go and see one of the physicians at the Hippodrome?”
“It c-came … halfway up the st-stairs,” he managed.
“Sit still. I’ll fetch the apothecary.” She took the stairs at a run. Not again, she thought as she went. I can’t be a widow again. Dear God in heaven, I don’t have the strength.
The apothecary, a wizened little man like a dried brown apple, stumped up the stairs and looked at Peter, asked a few questions and shook his head.
“Nothing to do but let him rest, burn some candles and pray to the Virgin,” he told Anastasia. “I’ve seen it before. It may pass. If it does, he’ll be tired, but he’ll recover. Or he may have a really bad spasm that could be fatal. No knowing, no knowing.” He sighed. “I’ll give you something that he can take for the pain. Send a child to fetch some powders.”
Together they assisted the big man to his bed. He had gained considerably in girth in the almost eleven years of their marriage and the bed creaked as he rolled onto it and lay propped up against the pillows with his eyes closed. The apothecary left and Anastasia sat down wearily to wait for Theodora to come home. She took Peter’s cold hand in hers.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“D-don’t know. T-tired. It still hurts, here. I feel … squeezed.”
They sat in silence. He breathed heavily.
“You’ll have to l-look after me n-now,” he said and peered at her slyly with one eye. “You’ll have to p-pay atttention.”
“What do you mean?” She was annoyed. “I do pay attention. We … we …”
“We fuck,” he said. “But you d-don’t pay att-tention. You d-don’t love me. N-never have.”
This indisputable truth lay between them.
She could find no words.
“P-pet dog,” he said. “Is what I am. P-pet dog. You’ve grown att-tached to me, like a d-dog you might have k-kept. Don’t think I d-don’t know it. I’m not s-stupid, you know. Not stupid.”
“Peter, I …”
“Woof,” he said, bitterly. “Woof, woof. It’s why I d-drink. And then I have the c-courage to t-try … to try … And we fuck. But you’re n-not there.”
“But I …” Dear Lord Jesus, she thought, not there? Not pressed breathless under this great fat beery hulk, night after night? Pinned and penetrated? Not there!
“N-not in your head,” he explained.
Again, she had no words.
“I’m a n-nuisance, most of the t-time, but I do b-bring a p-pay packet. That’s what I mean t-to you. Except maybe St-Stasie.”
“Peter …”
“Go away, woman. L-let me rest.” He folded his hands on his chest. She crept out and sat down in the other small room.
When Theodora came home within the hour, her mother still sat idle. “Mother? Are you ill?”
“No,” said Anastasia dully. “Peter’s dead.”
“Peter’s what? Dead? He can’t be! What … when …”
“He came home with a pain in his chest,” said Anastasia. “Very short of breath. I fetched the apothecary, and he … he was going to give him something, and … and … Peter had to rest. He didn’t look too bad at all. But then he cried out, and when I went to see … he … he could hardly breathe … and the sweat just dripped, and … he threw up. And then he gave a great big shuddering gasp … and he was dead. Just like that.”
“But Mother! Are you sure? What about … I mean …”
“Dead,” said Anastasia. “Believe me. He’s not breathing. Dead.” It was as if she needed to convince herself as well.
Theodora sat down too. “We can’t live without his income,” she said.
Anastasia winced at this reminder of what Peter had in truth meant to them. Yet it was a fact. Mother and daughter stared at each other.
“I have absolutely no idea what we are going to do,” said Anastasia. “We just barely survived, with Peter’s income as well as ours.”
“We’ll find a way,” said Theodora.
They buried Peter with the customary ceremonies. Anastasia looked around her through tear-blurred eyes and she thought: Comito cries because funerals always make her sad. Theodora will not cry at all, she has always resented him. I cry because I feel desperate, and because I could never love him and I’m sorry for the loveless words it ended with. Only Stasie really weeps for him.
But then it was over and Peter was gone. And there they were.
Anastasia sat her two younger daughters down. “Stasie, you’re doing what you can, with the animals. You wouldn’t earn much more on the stage. Comito is all right, for the time being at any rate. But the Senator won’t be able to give us as much help as he used to.”
“Why not?” asked Theodora. “He’s always been generous.”
“He’s suffered a major loss,” said Anastasia. “Comito told me, at the funeral. Two of his ships went down in a storm. He’ll survive, but he’ll have to cut his cloth more carefully for a while. I don’t know what we can do.” She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture, her hands shaking. She looked exhausted. Theodora noticed a few streaks of grey in her hair.
Anastasia sat down heavily on the cot against the wall, where Stasie usually slept and was now sitting with her knees drawn up, her frightened brown eyes blinking away tears. She put a hand on her youngest daughter’s arm.
“There’s only one option. Theodora, it’s going to be up to you. You will also have to find a good protector. A richer one, preferably. And soon …”
Theodora was horrified. Marcus Anicius had not told her of his problems. She would never have believed that it could come to this. Not for her. Somehow she had always felt that she was singular. As if she had a different destiny, as if she would live a different life from the kind women such as she inevitably faced.
“Oh, Mother! But I’m a star, I’m paid as much as you are!”
“It’s not nearly enough,” said Anastasia. “No, I’m sorry, but that’s it. Find a rich man.”
“But Mother, I can’t … I simply couldn’t …”
“Yes, you can,” said Anastasia. “You’ll find that you can do it. One does.”
“You have so many admirers, Theodora,” said Stasie. “I heard that legal fellow wanted to meet you. I saw him at the Kynêgion. Rich enough, I should guess, by the jewellery he wore. And he’s not old. He probably has a wealthy father. How about him?”
Theodora smiled slightly, despite the distaste she felt. “I’m afraid I made an enemy of him. And thank heavens for that, he was completely impossible.”
“Apologise,” advised Anastasia. “Abjectly. He’ll come round.”
“Oh, no, he won’t,” said Theodora. “He’s an enemy for life, for certain. Anyway, he was disgusting. Fat and pale and wet, like a slug.”
“An enemy for life? Whatever did you do?” asked Stasie.
“Told him a lot of nonsense, about me being a sex maniac. You can’t imagine what he was ready to believe, horrible little turd. It got him all wound up. And then I laughed at him.”
“Oh, dear,” said Anastasia. “At his … ?”
“Yes,” said Theodora. “And it was quite pathetic, it really was. He’ll not repeat what I told him, though, or I’ll tell a tale about him, and he’ll be the laughing stock of Constantinople, believe me.”
“He’ll never forgive that,” said Anastasia with conviction. “What a pity. Well, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”
“What’s his name?” asked Stasie.
“Procopius.”
“Not a good idea to make an enemy of him,”
said Anastasia. “I’ve heard of him, he has influence. You may live to regret treating him badly.”
“Well, he deserved it. And it’s too late now.”
“Maybe you could find a really, really rich husband,” said Stasie hopefully. “Then we could all be comfortable.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” said Theodora.
She did, and her thoughts were not happy. She felt as if she had been running free and now, suddenly, a cage had materialised and she was about to be locked into it. She was able to project an image of sensuality and promiscuity on the stage, to seduce and enchant an entire audience. But that persona was an illusion. The very fact that there were so many men present made it all seem unreal, purely a performance. She could keep her life in compartments: one, her public persona, a striptease artist; the other, her private self, a girl who read, learned, and debated with one of the best minds in the city; a girl who until very recently had been a virgin. She had no compunction in selling her acting skills, but to become a rich man’s mistress would mean selling herself. She could not envisage it.
For some weeks she did nothing. The church provided soup, as before. Bread was, as always, free. They managed. Besides, she did not feel well. She felt tired and listless, and found it hard to wake up in the morning. Also, she was nauseous. She couldn’t even face a little fruit for breakfast, which was all she normally ate.
The day came when she couldn’t get out of bed without throwing up. Her mother brought a pail of water and a cloth and cleaned up grimly. Then she sat down on a stool next to the bed where Theodora lay wondering what dire disease she had and whether she would die soon. Well, Theodora thought, if I do die, there’ll be one less mouth to feed. Selfpity made hot tears slide over her cheeks.
“So,” her mother said, “whose is it?”
“Whose is what?”
“The baby you’re carrying.”
“But I’m not …” Theodora began indignantly.