by Marié Heese
Indaro reappeared on the stage. The prince, it seemed, had broken free of the previous spell! Now he battled the evil woman who sought to separate him from his true love. As they fought over the pathetic figure of the little peasant girl, daring acrobatic twists and turns, double somersaults, cartwheels and backbends earned cheer after cheer. The discontented geese flapped around the stage, squawking and hissing, their hungry, gaping beaks thrust forward ready to feed. Then the crowd began to stamp their feet. It was clear that they would not be satisfied if they were done out of the famous grand finale, no matter how brilliant the acrobatics. Chrysomallo circled around and around.
“Theodora!” she hissed. “Do it! You’ll be sacked!”
Desperately Theodora gathered her strength and forced herself to stand up. Trumpets blared, and Chrysomallo cast her spell once more. Off went the prince. Theodora fell onto the couch, trembling legs spread wide, and Chrysomallo sprinkled the grain onto her crotch, much to the approval of the massed spectators. This was better! This was what they had come to see. They whistled and clapped. The music built up to a crescendo. The geese hustled forward and pecked; Theodora mimed ecstasy and the crowd erupted. Yes! Yes! A star, she was a star!
In the dressing-room afterwards, Theodora had another attack of the shakes. She could hardly speak to thank Indaro and Chrysomallo for covering for her.
“Hey, girl, don’t mention it,” said Indaro. “Not that the variation made much sense, but the men don’t care about that.”
“As long as there’s moooovement,” said Chrysomallo and swung her tassels. “Are you all right? You look very white.”
“I’ve been … a bit ill,” said Theodora. “But I’m over it. Just a little weak, that’s all. I’ll be fine. Thank you so much, girls.”
“Our pleasure,” said Indaro in her deep voice.
With ruthless practicality, Theodora mentally sorted through the phalanx of fans that usually followed her around to identify a possible protector. Most of them were not rich enough, she said to herself. It would be essential to find someone who was very well off. She saw three possibilities. There was John, a sweetly naïve patrician whom she quite liked – but he was much too young. His family would not take kindly to an arrangement with an actress on his part; they would expect him to marry, and to marry well. Then there was Mentor, the banker, who wore his riches like a formal toga with a purple stripe. He would be only too glad to gain some respite from his harridan of a wife with a pliant mistress in an apartment in another part of town. But after careful thought, Theodora discarded him too. It was too dangerous to be the mistress of a man whose home was in Constantinople. It might get back to his wife, and if that one ever found out, it would be disastrous.
The only remaining option was a businessman, one Darius Pollo, who had become rich through grain imports from Egypt. He kept a villa in Constantinople which he visited often, but his family did not live there. He had a wife and five sons at his home on an estate in the mountains. He was middle-aged, obviously bored with his wife, since he so often sought entertainment and company during his visits to the city, and although stolid he was not unattractive. Yes, she thought. He’ll have to be the one.
She asked Comito to host a dinner party and to invite Darius Pollo, among others. That evening she dressed with considerable care. With her stage earnings she had bought a long, close-fitting tunic of cream-coloured satin that emphasised her supple curves and set off her dark eyes and hair. It had a high collar and was embroidered with scrolled leaves down the front. With it went a long string of pearls, a gift from another admirer, and pearl drop earrings. “Since I’m a commodity, I must be well presented,” she said.
“Available, but definitely not cheap,” agreed Comito. “Subtle make-up, no garish stage effects. Emphasise your eyes, they’re your best feature.” With a gentle touch she applied sooty oil to her little sister’s eyelids.
“Oh, God, Comito, how do you do this?” Theodora asked.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just make him feel special. And wear your hair looped up, fastened with one jewelled pin. Men love to imagine letting long hair loose.” She offered an expensive perfume as the final touch.
Theodora had meant to ask something else, though, not just how she should proceed. She had meant: How do you take this decision to let yourself be bought? How do you live with the knowledge that you truly are what people think – nothing but a whore? How do you force yourself to do this thing? But she looked up at Comito, intent on helping her to get her make-up right, and she did not ask again. She knew the answer already, with a bitter knowledge shared by all the daughters of the lower class. You do this because you must. Because there are other far worse possibilities. You do the best you can.
Theodora had often spent an evening in the company of Darius Pollo. But tonight she followed her sister’s advice and paid him special attention. Comito had placed them on adjoining couches, and Theodora made sure that he noted special small gestures: she took the wine from the slave and poured for him herself, selected the best dates for him, reached over to pop sweetmeats into his mouth.
He was not unattractive. Average height, growing heavy in middle age: a slight paunch, meaty shoulders. Mid-brown hair cut short and combed forward, greying in streaks and balding slightly at the back. Fleshy nose, full mouth, bracketed by deep creases. Mid-brown eyes with a shrewd, appraising look. Lips that closed appreciatively on the tips of her fingers.
There were an equal number of men and women around the table; Theodora knew most of them, but one woman was new to her. She seemed somewhat older than the rest, but still radiated the confidence born of striking looks: red hair stylishly piled and pinned, and green eyes. A jade pendant on a chain of gold drew attention to a generous bosom.
“I’m Antonina,” she said and clasped Theodora’s small hand in a strong grip. “I’ve heard of you. I used to be on the stage myself, dancing and acrobatics, but I never had such a spectacular show.”
“Thank you,” said Theodora.
Conversation flowed, and turned at length to the question of who the next emperor might be. “Anastasius grows old,” observed Marcus Anicius. “They say he is becoming more forgetful by the day.”
“How old is he, really?” Comito wanted to know.
“Almost ninety,” said Darius Pollo. “A good age.”
“And strong with it. But no sons. Has he named a successor?”
“No, he has not,” said Anicius. “There are various nephews. One would expect the eldest to succeed. Hypatius.”
“That one,” said Theodora scornfully, “I have met. If he jumped from his self-esteem onto his true capability, he would break both ankles.”
The men chortled and Antonina gave a husky chuckle.
“But Anastasius is losing his grip to a degree,” said Pollo. “The partisans of both factions are becoming more lawless by the day, and nobody reins them in.”
“Perhaps,” said Theodora, “it suits somebody to have them run riot.”
Comito frowned. “Why?” she asked. “What is there to gain?”
“The respect and gratitude of the people,” said Theodora, “for anyone who now steps in and establishes order.”
Marcus Anicius nodded, and Darius Pollo raised one eyebrow. She smiled and lowered her eyelashes demurely. Don’t be too clever, she warned herself. Think before you speak.
After dinner, Pollo walked Theodora out onto the terrace that overlooked a courtyard scented with jasmine and lined with flowering shrubs. Like most buildings owned by the rich in Constantinople, the apartments faced inward, disdaining the street with its dust and noise. A half-moon provided a soft glow and the fountain with its graceful dolphin centrepiece splashed pure silver.
“You look particularly lovely tonight,” said Pollo, eyeing her appreciatively.
Any minute now he’ll reach out and rub my tunic between his fingers to judge the quality of the cloth, she thought, but she threw him an arch look, one she had practised in her poli
shed mirror. “Thank you, kind sir,” she said.
“Also you have been particularly attentive to me,” he observed. “Am I to read into that a greater … um … willingness … to get better acquainted?”
Theodora smiled, slowly and brilliantly. “Maybe so,” she conceded.
“Ah. Would you be available for an arrangement like the one your sister Comito has with the Senator? Excuse me for being direct, but I find straight dealing best in matters of business. And this would be a matter of business. Let’s not pretend to any illusions, shall we?”
“No,” said Theodora, not sure whether she felt relieved or insulted.
“We’ll make a deal,” he told her. “I’ll spell out my requirements, and set out terms and conditions. Then you tell me whether you accept or reject them. What do you say to that?”
“Do as you suggest,” said Theodora. “I think we may deal very well together.”
He leaned towards her. “Lovely, lovely girl,” he murmured as he brushed her forehead with his lips. He put two fingers under her chin and tilted her head up. Kissed her gently on the lips. Then with greater urgency. A light flicker of his tongue. She did her best to relax, to respond as he might wish. His caresses did not stir her, but neither was he repulsive. I can do this, she thought. But she would have to make him believe her to be more involved than she was. She put her arms around his neck. He smelled of wine and cheese.
“Let me know,” she breathed. “I’ll be waiting.”
He nodded, and went back inside.
Antonina came out onto the terrace and stood looking out at the courtyard. “So,” she said, “did he bite?”
“Did who bite?”
“Your fish. Did he take the bait?”
“Was it that obvious?” asked Theodora ruefully.
“Well, it was, rather. But men like to be pursued. No doubt he is intrigued by you, you’re striking enough. But lovey, isn’t he a married man?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s not in the market for … um … an arrangement,” said Theodora.
“Of course not, just the opposite. But from your point of view … Forgive me for being candid, but you’re so young. I thought you might not mind a word in your ear.”
“Please do be candid.”
“From your point of view, it would surely be of greater benefit to find a man who will marry you. Otherwise, it’s too easy for him to dump you. And he doesn’t have to settle anything on you, you know. It’s a precarious situation.”
“Not as precarious as the one I’m in,” said Theodora. “Our step-father has just died, and we’ve no resources.”
Antonina clucked sympathetically. “Ah, well, if it’s urgent, Darius Pollo seems to be a good sort. But think about what I said: if you get the chance, marry.”
“Are you married?” Theodora asked.
“A widow woman,” said Antonina. She did not sound very distressed. “I chose the right man, you see. He was a reasonably well-off Syrian merchant of past middle years and I judged, rightly as it turned out, that he wouldn’t live too long. Also he accepted my two children from previous … um … relationships.”
“You were lucky,” said Theodora, with a sigh.
“Oh, very. And he left me a good nest egg in his will. In it he described me as the best of wives.”
“Lucky indeed.”
“Yes. My dear, the only real independence is financial independence.”
“Wonderful to have, not easy to get,” said Theodora. She thought that there was something direct and likeable about this woman. They could be friends.
“Just remember. Best marry an older man.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” said Theodora.
At the end of the evening, Comito offered her carriage to take her sister home and to drop off Antonina, who lived nearby. Off they went at a steady trot through empty, echoing streets, accompanied by a footman and driven by an elderly slave. They were almost home when they heard shouts, screams, and thundering boots from an alley just off the main road.
“Oh, God, partisans,” exclaimed Antonina. “Go faster, driver! Faster!”
But it was already too late. A band of partisans – Greens, judging by their cloaks – poured out of the entrance to the alley and whooped with delight when they spied the carriage. They caught up quickly and swarmed all over it; two of them hung onto the horses’ heads as the frightened animals whinnied and tried to rear. The driver tried to repulse the attackers with his whip, but they flung him to the ground and kicked him in the head several times for good measure. Blood poured from his nose. The footman took to his heels and scuttled away between the tightly packed buildings.
“Ho, boys!” shouted the leader. “See what a prize we have here! Two plump partridges! Two prize whores!”
The gang clustered around the carriage, hooting and whistling. They wore the outfits that marked them as gang members, and all of them were armed. Theodora was dumb and stupid with fear. She thought that they had probably killed the night guard, so it wouldn’t help to scream. She could think of nothing at all to do. She could hardly breathe.
Antonina jumped down from the carriage and faced up to the leader. “You are making a big mistake,” she said, in her husky voice.
“Oho, I suppose you’re society matrons,” the gang leader sneered. He was tall, heavily built, and his beard was a reddish-brown bush. “Patricians, perhaps? Never been touched by human hands, nor human cocks either, except for poor deluded husbands who pay for trinkets such as these?” He reached out for Antonina’s golden necklace. She took a step back. “You think you can fool us?” he asked. “You wouldn’t be out at this hour if you weren’t whores. And we know what to do with whores, don’t we?” His band of ruffians cheered.
“Not patricians, no,” Antonina said coolly. “But not whores either. We are entertainers and courtesans. Best in the city. I’m sure you’ve had some whores already tonight. The kind you back up against a wall and that’s that. But we two, you see, are specialists.”
He frowned. “At what? A fuck is a fuck.” More cheers from his men.
“If you don’t know, we could demonstrate,” suggested Antonina. “But not in the street.”
Theodora gathered her courage and stepped out of the carriage to stand beside Antonina. “We can entertain you and your companions,” she said as calmly as she could. “We can have some fun. There’s a taverna close by with an upper room, where I’ve performed for private parties. And we will do whatever you ask.”
“It’s the goose girl!” shouted a voice from the back of the pack. “Hoo, I’d like to peck your pussy!” The fellow hopped around and honked like a goose. Much applause.
“We’ll do a special performance just for you,” promised Theodora. “And all of you can be the geese.”
Shouts of agreement.
“Nah,” drawled another voice. “I say we just take ’em here. Less trouble all round.”
Now some agreed with him.
“Truly,” said Antonina, “you would be fools. You don’t gulp down a good wine like common beer. You take time to taste it.”
Theodora’s knees shook. “I’m sure you understand that,” she murmured to the leader – confidentially, as if the rest of the hooligans could not be expected to grasp the point. She thought: please God, please God, please God …
He swung around. “We’ll all go,” he shouted. “Come along. It’ll be great sport. One of you bring the carriage.”
The gang walked the two girls to the taverna, crowding around them closely. The band of men had become one vicious animal, predatory and ruthless, with a wild animal’s feral impulses and even its feral smell. The predator had pounced on its trembling prey, and might play with it for a while; might shake it, bat it, swipe at it and let it try a hopeless, scrabbling run, but in the end it would be meat. They would not get away.
Once there, they all went upstairs. There were couches against the walls, large, ornate oil lamps on tables, draped windows open to t
he cool night air, and a space in the middle of the tiled floor with enough room for dancing. The odour of fried food, onions and garlic accompanied the buzz of conversation rising from below. The leader ordered wine all round as the men flung themselves down on the couches.
“Gentlemen,” announced Antonina, “first, we’ll entertain you with the dance of the seven veils.” Raucous cheers.
She struck a dramatic pose, still wrapped in her cloak. Theodora did likewise. She looked into Antonina’s green eyes. “What are we doing?” she whispered.
“Playing for time.” Antonina swept the cloak aside, twirled, and sank to the floor in a split. Theodora matched her. Loud catcalls and sardonic applause.
They jumped up and swung into a more or less synchronised dancing striptease. Their audience roared approval as they gradually cast off their clothing. As she pranced around, Theodora tried to count the number of men. Ten. It seemed likely that her boast to that legal fellow, Procopius, was about to come true. Desperately she scanned the room for something, anything they might use as weapons. Nothing. The windows, she thought. Could they jump? But it was a long way down.
The two girls spun their act out as long as they could, but eventually they were both naked.
Antonina stood on her hands. She dangled her feet backwards, picked up an apple from a pile of fruit on a table with her toes and balanced it. More applause. She threw it at the leader, who caught it, grinned and winked.
Theodora did several backward flips. She threw Antonina a despairing look. A slight shrug of her partner’s creamy shoulders seemed to agree: Nothing left to try. Just keep moving. On they danced, joylessly, like the bears.
The men were growing impatient; they growled and muttered among themselves. One man jumped off his couch, crouched on hands and knees, and honked like a goose. Laughter and applause. Desperately, Theodora raked the room again. Her gaze stopped at two large oil lamps on tables on either side of the door. Lamps, she thought. Lamps contain oil. Oil. Flames. Fire. Fire! As she and Antonina passed each other in a dance passage, she whispered: “Break the lamps!”