by S. C. Daiko
My knees give way in shock. Have I heard right? ‘I… I… I can’t.’
‘Why not? I thought I’d earned your trust.’ He cradles me in his arms and kisses down the side of my neck.
‘You have my trust. Completely. It’s not that. It’s the law. A man of noble rank, such as yourself, cannot marry an ex-actress. It’s forbidden. You are an expert in judicial matters, Justinian. Please do not taunt me with false promises.’ My throat has filled with unshed tears.
‘My darling, darling Theo.’ He kisses the saltiness from my eyes. ‘I shall get the law changed.’
The confidence of the man! ‘How?’
‘First, I shall grant you patrician status. I can do that now I’m First Consul. Then I shall get my uncle to amend the law. Haven’t I told you before that when I want something, I do everything within my power to achieve it?’
My heart flutters, I love him so. But I cannot say the words. How can I, a girl from the gutter with a history like mine, marry him, the most powerful man in the world? And what about the Empress? She’ll never let the Emperor change the law. No. I shall just have to content myself with being Justinian’s willing courtesan…
VIII
Justinian paces up and down his study. The tiles won’t take much more of this. He brushes past his desk. Larger than the one in his bedroom, it’s piled high with papers: half-rolled scrolls, slivers of parchment marking places in documents squashed between folios. The whole lot looks as if it might topple at any moment, but he doesn’t give a fuck. Why won’t Theodora agree to marry me? Last night she told him she wouldn’t accept his proposal until the Emperor agreed to change the law. Justinian will make sure that happens. Of course he will. She shouldn’t doubt him.
He stops pacing as she comes through the door. She’s so goddamn beautiful: hair pinned up to show her swan-like neck; fitted cream silk dress; her large dark eyes accentuated with olive-oil infused with soot. He puts his arms around her and nuzzles her. ‘How has your day been, my love?’
‘I’m at a bit of a loose end.’ She pecks him on the cheek. ‘Your celebrations are over and I have nothing with which to occupy myself.’
‘I thought your sister and theatre friends were visiting?’
‘They came for lunch and talked endlessly about clothes and jewellery. When I tried to steer the conversation towards how I could help women in the City, they stared at me as if I’d gone mad.’
He releases his hold. A way to persuade her, perhaps? ‘And what would you do for these women?’
‘I would like a law to be passed that prohibits forced prostitution.’
‘Would you have me close the brothels?’
‘I would.’
‘And how would the ex-whores support themselves?’
‘We could establish a convent for them.’
‘We?’
She catches her lip between her teeth. ‘I mean you.’
‘Perhaps.’ The idea isn’t without merit. But he will not pursue it now. A sudden idea. ‘Why don’t you organise a dinner party? We’ll invite the Emperor and Empress. I’ll leave it to you, my darling. You won’t fail to impress them and they’ll love you for it.’
A doubtful expression crosses her face. ‘You think?’
‘Of course.’
‘I do so want to be useful, Justinian.’
‘You know that you coming to the Palace was Timothy’s idea. What you don’t realise, my love, is that I’ve always known he sent you here for a purpose.’
Her eyes meet his. ‘I would like for you to not let anyone persecute members of my Church when you become Emperor.’
‘My main concern, Theo, is to stop the Holy Roman Church from splitting. Unity is strength. One Church, one Empire, one people.’
‘But you must realise it’s impossible to change the mind of either the Church or the faithful simply by force of will?’
‘But I do, Theodora. I’ve been exchanging letters with Timothy.’
Her mouth opens in evident surprise. ‘Oh…’
‘Whatever his take on religion, Timothy is still a churchman of great power and great influence. He’ll be delighted if we get married. It might even shut up some of his complaining about the treatment of his followers, for he knows I’d never do anything to upset you.’
‘Are you saying that by marrying you I’ll be helping my Church? And maybe even the City’s women?’ A smile lights her face. ‘Oh, Justinian. If only I could…’
‘My darling, I realised yesterday that you know the people of Constantinople far better than I ever will. And I need such knowledge close at hand. I’ll need it even more if my ambitions are to be fulfilled. Besides, I’m madly in love with you.’
She glances down at her feet. ‘That’s what Hecebolus said to me. And you know what happened…’
‘I do know, my darling. I know how it must fester inside you. I’d like you to tell me about it. Talk it out, if you will.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’ He leads her to the couch, sits her down, and stretches out next to her, his arms around her, soothing her, comforting her while she tells her story.
***
The Pentapolis, in Libya. A Roman province with five cities. Hecebolus explained it was a frontier land, held against the barbarians, in what used to be Cyrenaica. I was excited about going to the homeland of Simon of Cyrene, the man who helped Jesus carry the cross. I wanted to see what it was like. The cities near the sea are surrounded by wheat fields, vineyards and olive orchards, and Hecebolus said they kept his ships busy delivering produce to Constantinople. He promised me undying love and that he would take care of me. Ha!
I met him at a dinner given by my sister and her senator, Marcus. Hecebolus was about to leave for Apollonia, where he’d been made Governor. I hardly knew him, but I was young – only eighteen – and fed up with performing “Leda and the Swan” and having a goose peck at me in the theatre every night. He persuaded me to go with him, promising marriage when we got there.
He was older than me by ten years, and had a scar from the base of his nose to his upper lip. His black hair was cropped close to his head, and his shoulders were as broad as a slave’s in a marble quarry. Yet no slave glowered like he did. I was in thrall to him, desperate to earn his approval and keep what I thought was his love.
At first, things went well between us. I devoured every book I could lay my hands on in the villa’s library, improving my mind. And I learnt to manage the staff and act the role of his lady (although everyone knew who I was, of course). I satisfied his sexual needs; I was good at what I did, in control. Time passed, but there was no marriage, not even an engagement. Whenever I broached the subject, Hecebolus fobbed me off. Eventually, I discovered that the law forbade such a union. Government officials, like patricians, cannot marry actresses, even those who’ve left the profession. Hecebolus stopped coming to my bed, and I discovered he was seeking his pleasures with slave girls. I feared for my future, so far from the City. Without a role, the role of the Governor’s so-called lady, I would be nothing.
We often entertained, and Hecebolus would invite the local gentry. One night, however, I found myself looking after a room full of men. I drank too much – I was bored with their conversation – and then Hecebolus asked me to dance for them.
I remember the candles burning in the corner of the room, the flickering shadows moving over the faces of the guests. I swayed my hips to the music played by Hecebolus’ Egyptian slaves. The tempo of the tune sent me spinning faster and faster. Smoke curled up from opium pipes, mixing with the heady scent of the wine.
When the music stopped, the room burst into applause. Hecebolus grabbed me, and pushed his tongue deep into my mouth. He tasted sweet, like the wine we’d been drinking. His tongue circled my tongue. Desire licked at my limbs. ‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘I want you to offer your body to my guests. In fact, I order it. Prove yourself to me!’
I was drunk. Not only from the alcohol, but from the success of my da
nce. I still don’t know what came over me. I’ve asked myself question after question since. Maybe I wanted to provoke Hecebolus? It was a way of getting his attention, for sure, and I’d taken part in group activities before in my life as a courtesan. Whatever the case, I surrendered to his command. I had no idea what I’d let myself in for.
He directed a tall, dark-haired man to pull off my dress. The man discarded my undergarment, grunted, pushed me down on the floor and plunged his cock into me. I was dry, and I shrieked as it tore at my flesh. The other guests gathered around to watch, their eyes hungry. They started pulling at my hair, squeezing my breasts and twisting my nipples. I now know the pleasure of pain, except this was different. I shouted for them to stop. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. But they ignored my pleas. There were so many and they were far stronger than I was. What else could I do but let them have their way with me?
When the first man had finished, someone else, thin and wiry, lifted me up under the shoulders, and braced my body against theirs. I struggled and tears ran down my face as two men grabbed my feet and pulled my legs wide apart, trapping my ankles so I couldn’t escape. Another man, blond I remember, knelt between my legs and swirled his fingers around my clit. My cunt betrayed me at that point, and wetness flooded out of me. The blond man lifted up his tunic, revealing a wide heavily-veined cock, already rigid with desire. I moaned with lust, my sheath aching to be filled. Hecebolus hadn’t touched me in weeks, and now I was desperate for release.
Back down on the floor, my legs held open, he thrust into my wet quim. The men around us whooped and cheered as the blond fellow pumped and pounded into me, his thighs slapping against mine, his face set in grim determination.
I was nothing to him, simply a hole for his pleasure. And at that point I relished it: the centre of attention, playing the performance of my life. I caught sight of Hecebolus; his glowering expression was darker than usual. I thought I saw a look of approval in his eyes. Perhaps watching me like this had aroused him?
Something slapped against my face and the smell of musk filled my nostrils. I turned my head and saw a massive cock with a slick purple head. I opened my mouth and took the engorged prick deep, gagging as the tip scraped the back of my throat.
Another cock, long and bendy, slapped against my face, the man it belonged to, sandy-haired, started rubbing it roughly against me. Two more men rested their meaty pricks on my forehead, then they pumped them with their own hands until they squirted their seed into my hair. The air was filled with the sharp stench of sweat and spunk.
The blond man in my cunt was panting, his face bright red as he fucked me harder. I could tell he was nearly ready by his moans. Another man, burnt orange by the sun, reached down between us and flicked my clit, clumsy fingers rubbing me into a frenzy.
Blond man came with a grunt, then fell away, swallowed up by the group of men standing around us. A new man – bald this time, with a thick nose and narrow blue eyes – knelt between my legs, lifted his tunic, and thrust into me, his skinny cock sliding easily into my wetness. Around us, the men pressed in closer, hands exploring, squeezing, lifting, and pinching.
My hands – which I’d clenched into fists – were prised open, and two cocks thrust into them. I massaged them while I licked and sucked a new rather small cock in my mouth, my body jerking as the man inside my cunt bucked into me. The puny prick in my throat came with a shudder, and I spat out the saltiness.
Again a cock was pushed into my mouth, thicker than the others. I sucked until my cheeks hollowed and I gagged. I barely felt the bald man slide out of me to be replaced by the next one. By now the men were lining up for their turn, all of them playing with their cocks and hooting and shouting obscenities at each other as they bragged about what they’d do to me.
Fluids ran down my thighs as man after man took me. When someone stuck their finger into my arsehole the pressure inside me exploded, and I writhed as an orgasm rocked through me. My body didn’t belong to me anymore; it was beyond my control. I’d detached my mind from it.
Five more men slid in and out of my cunt in quick succession, the last of them pushing his finger into my arse and swirling it around. My sheath was slick with juices, and the sides raw from all the rubbing. It was then that I really wanted it all to stop, except the men were relentless. I struggled and cried out, but they carried on.
Another came up between my legs, his swollen cock filling me easily. More sweaty pricks slapped against my cheeks, pressing against my skin, begging for another hole to become free. My mouth ached from the constant pounding, my jaw locked open from taking all those shafts. At one point two pricks fucked my mouth at once – drool running down my chin as I struggled to keep them inside me.
Fingers thrust roughly into my quim, swirling the juices around my clit. The next man bucked against me. More men bent over my chest, suckling at my breasts, turning the nipples between their teeth. Others who didn’t have a part of my body to touch or enter stood around, their hands on their cocks, pleasuring themselves.
Suddenly, I was flipped over, cushions shoved under my knees. I gazed up at leering faces, and knew what was to come. One man lay beneath me, and I eased myself down onto his stiffened shaft, enjoying for a few seconds the sensation of being on top, of having some vestige of control at last. Hands wrapped around my arms, lifting me and lowering me, pushing and pulling my exhausted body through the motions. A new man came to stand in front of me – a young man this time, freshly shaven. He pushed his huge cock into my mouth, and, to my shame, I took him in willingly. Someone else came up behind me and grabbed my thighs, guiding me up and down.
I pressed my hands onto the marble floor, feeling my arse cheeks being forced apart by rough fingers, and an exploratory thumb wiping some of the warm juices into my waiting hole. A cock forced its way in. No preparation with ginger-root. I shrieked against the prick in my mouth, but my cries were ignored as the man behind buried himself deeper and deeper, while the young man in front pulled his prick from my mouth and sprayed his seed over my face.
Another cock was forced against my tongue, the man it belonged to pushing my face down onto it, fucking my mouth in slow, deliberate strokes. The men beneath and behind me worked to a rhythm: as the man in my cunt pulled out, the man with his prick in my arse pushed in deeper, so it seemed as if one long cock was wriggling inside me. They moved in unison, thrusting and withdrawing, thrusting and withdrawing, their hands gripping my thighs to keep me upright, and, in spite of myself, I felt another orgasm shudder through my body, my quim contracting to press against the shafts inside my orifices.
By now my knees were so weak I could barely hold myself up. I relied on the waiting hands to keep me in position while the men moved in a relentless cycle through my mouth, my cunt and my arse.
Men pulled their cocks between their fingers, but I didn’t have the strength to touch them. I slumped against the last men in the queue, giving myself over to them, allowing them to prod and grope and thrust as they wanted. I was no longer Theodora, but an object. Again, I separated myself from what was happening to me; it was my only defence.
Finally it was over, and someone, I know not who, carried me to the baths, where slaves bathed me, then took me to my room and put me to bed. I was tired. So very tired. And I was asleep before I knew it.
Shortly before dawn, Hecebolus exploded into my chamber, fury rolling off him like thunder. He pulled me out of bed and knocked me to the floor with a single punch. ‘You filthy whore! I set you a test, bitch, and you failed.’
I threw myself at him and managed to rake my nails down his chest before he slammed me into the floor again. His fists pummelled me. His foot crashed into my skull. After that I lost track of where the blows landed. Eventually he stopped. The inside of my mouth tasted tangy, and blood trailed down my chin. One eye felt as if it had been sewn shut.
‘Get her out of here,’ Hecebolus yelled as he stormed from the room.
Someone – a slave probably – yan
ked me up, dressed me, and dragged me through the villa. The front gates clanked open, and I landed on the ground. I lay there, curled up, for what seemed like hours.
You were blessed with both brains and beauty. Those gifts are your weapons. My mother’s words rang in my head. You haven’t used those gifts, Theo. God knew I hadn’t used them. I’d let myself be abused. Stupid fool! I wanted to cry, but tears were a luxury. I managed to pull myself to my feet. An inspection of my pockets revealed two large pearls; they shone softly in my hand. The earrings I’d decided not to wear last night. To my right lay the path I knew led to the theatre, and in front of me stood the baths and the Central Basilica with its plain white columns. Beyond that were the docks.
I found a ship. The captain showed me to the cargo hold where a pile of manure-filled hay bore witness to the horses he’d delivered to Apollonia. At least I wasn’t alone – there were plenty of ticks and fleas to keep me company. The ship carried African red slipware pottery and crates of ivory, bound for Alexandria and from there to Constantinople. The captain hadn’t wanted to take me – with my face looking like it did – and he’d overcharged me on the fare, pocketing both of my pearl earrings.
We sailed away from Apollonia, the boat timbers creaking. Slowly the shore slipped into the horizon. Thank God! In a few weeks I’d be home in Constantinople. What I’d do then, God only knew. I spent the next few days on deck, the sun burning me as brown as a slave. My bruises faded and my face slowly healed. Not my soul, though. I felt as if my essence had departed forever. After about a week, we arrived at Alexandria, the famed city of Alexander the Great, Marc Antony, and Cleopatra.
The captain approached me as we made our way to dock, the odour of brine and salted fish in the air. ‘Have you got the rest of the fare, miss?’