by Stella Duffy
The Bishop, listening to the soft, light voice coming from an unseen woman in the dark corner, couldn’t help whispering to his neighbour, ‘Music. A perfect example of the divine emanating from, but not one with, the human.’
The army captain across the table from him slurred, ‘You’re comparing a singer to the Christ?’
‘No, I’m offering you a small analogy to simplify an enormously complex matter, in the hope it will help your dull head understand. Obviously I needn’t have bothered.’
The captain growled but held his tongue. He loved the theatre, and if their host had something to offer that was more entertaining than arguing with the old priest, he’d happily shut up and give himself over to the entertainment. He was bored with the fight now anyway.
Chrysomallo’s song became a call, the guests arranged themselves better around the table in order to look towards the sound and then Armeneus arrived in the doorway, playing the small painted harp he held in one hand, alternately picking and strumming with the other. Theodora, veiled, followed him into the room and, at a clap from Hecebolus, the three waiting servants ran and lit a dozen candles, placing them in a half-circle to light their master’s mistress.
She began with a speech of Niobe. Plaintive, heartfelt, yet also soothing. It was just what the men needed. Their glasses were refilled, the dented platter quietly removed, small plates of stuffed dates, sugared almonds and honeyed figs laid out for them to pick at as they watched. From Niobe, Theodora segued into Antigone for a little more passionate agonising, using the speech to soak up the anger that had been raised and transform it into something more manageable. She flung off her veil just before the last stanza of the speech and several of the theatregoers in the room gasped. There had been plenty of rumours about Hecebolus’ concubine, that she was a dancer or an actress, that she’d been known in the City, but none of the suspicions had been confirmed until now. Not any actress – the actress. The merchant captain whispered to the exporter that perhaps now was the time to consider leaving grain in the harbour and not shipping it out and the two men giggled to each other. Theodora, trained to listen as well as to speak, replied in perfect classic Greek to contrast with the men’s rough accents, that it would take more than the puny grains of an African exporter to tempt her geese out of retirement, her birds had been fattened on much juicier stuff. She did so without skipping a beat and without departing an iota from the rhythm of her speech, returning immediately to Antigone in chains, and the merchant captain, laughing, raised his glass in surrender and salute.
More singing, more music, another short speech from the classics, followed by a modern piece from one of the Kynegion’s youngest writers – the most barbed comments on the clergy softened in the telling by Theodora smiling sweetly at the Bishop and offering an apologetic curtsy when she finished the piece berating the religious for spending too much time discussing the poverty of nature in relation to man and too little dealing with the nature of real men’s poverty. The two women concluded with an old Lebanese dance in honour of their host, Armeneus playing the tune and, once he’d heard the first few notes, Hecebolus’ countryman, the spice exporter, singing along in a good bass-baritone. The evening was over. The guests left the house, shaking hands and patting Hecebolus on the back, both as a man of the people, always a useful thing in Africa, but also as a man of the wider world, able to bring a touch of City elegance into this cultural backwater.
His evening saved and his reputation enhanced, Hecebolus did not go back on his promise. He had a quiet word with the Bishop at the door, and an appointment was made for the two ladies to visit the older man in his office the next day. Theodora went to bed very happy. She had the glow of performance on her still, the Bishop had not immediately refused her request as any of his peers would have done in the City, and she had proved herself useful to Hecebolus. Not a wife, but something like a wife. It was a lot better than fighting him. Their lovemaking was sweeter too, not as passionate as one of their after-fight fucks perhaps, but soft and careful, layered with kindness. Theodora lay in the darkened room, her hand on Hecebolus’ broad chest, her fingers rising and falling as he slept, hoping she wouldn’t become too accustomed to such pleasures. She’d seen far too many other women fall from grace through their dependence on what had once been kind.
Twelve
The Bishop was not unkind, but he was honest. He received the two women in his office, two lower-ranking members of his clergy in attendance. He offered them only water. He praised their performance, while reminding them that their talents would be better used in praise of the Christ, than in a theatre. Then, clearly believing his obligation met, he nodded to the women and told them he had business to attend to, wishing them well in the Pentapolis. If they cared to kneel he would give them his blessing before they left. Chrysomallo knelt, Theodora stayed in her seat.
‘I’d like to speak about redemption Father, if we may? And what lies beyond?’
‘Beyond redemption? What are you talking about?’ The Bishop glared from beneath heavy brows, last night’s wine still staining his teeth.
Chrysomallo winced at his tone. ‘Theo, come on.’
Theodora continued sweetly, ‘As you see, my friend does not have a passion to understand the Church – but I do, and I would ask a little more of your time?’
The Bishop squinted at Theodora and sighed, he would have refused to meet any of her kind back in the City; it was merely that they were so far from the centre – and, admittedly, he’d enjoyed her performance last night – that had convinced him to allow the Governor’s request. He went back to his desk, motioned for one of the young priests to refill his cup with watered wine, then he leaned forward, looking Theodora up and down. Her face seemed to match her words and it was true there were many women whom the Church revered for their passionate interest in matters of faith, the sainted Helena for one. Striking face, small wiry body, voice held soft and low for now – but he’d heard the stories, this was not just any actress, this was Theodora.
‘No, I’m sorry, you are too well known. And even now …’ The Bishop hesitated, wondering how to put it politely in front of the young priests hanging on every word, and realising he could not: ‘You are the Governor’s concubine, yes?’
Theodora nodded. ‘I would be his wife if the law were different.’
Chrysomallo groaned and went back to her seat.
The Bishop frowned. ‘It is not your place to make law.’
‘The laws of God and man are often united and becoming more so.’
‘You flatter me. Perhaps the clergy in the City have influence in the Imperial Palace. Out here we can only hope to have influence with the people.’
‘The people are the Empire.’
‘So the phrase goes, but there is a hierarchy for good reason: just as man is subject to the Church, and woman subject to man, so we keep our ordained positions. Your position now would be bettered not by argument, but by penitence.’
‘But there is much to engage in. Your conversation last night, for example, on the divinity of the Christ …’
At this, one of the young priests let out an involuntary gasp: the idea of an ex-whore daring to bring this up was too much for him to keep quiet.
‘The nature of the Christ is not a question for any woman. You would be better to remember that this region does not take kindly to women acting out of their true domain.’ The Bishop had had enough.
Chrysomallo jabbed Theodora from beneath her long thin cloak, and Theodora realised she’d gone as far as she could. They curtsied and turned to leave the room, Chrysomallo pinching the skin on the back of Theodora’s hand all the while to shut her up. By the time they reached the door the Bishop was already sitting back at his desk and working through a pile of papers.
He spoke aloud, as if he were not addressing Theodora, but speaking to the paper beneath his hand, ‘Find yourself a teacher, girl. Nothing is impossible in the Christ.’
It was not the conversation Theodora had b
een hoping for, but it was better than nothing. She had finally met a bishop, as herself and not as some whore brought in secretly to satisfy his silent lust. She had talked to him, however briefly, and he had not dismissed her outright. It was a start.
The women left the cool of the Bishop’s house for the noise and crush of the Apollonian street. Theodora longed for a sharp breeze from the sea, bouncing off the Constantinopolitan hills, Chrysomallo for a market where every shopping expedition didn’t come complete with a barrage of new sensations. They moved on, edging around the stalls, picking up bracelets, putting them down when Theodora asked the price and was told, yet again, a figure beyond the allowance Hecebolus gave her. The constraints of being kept had come as an uncomfortable shock to both of them, as did being followed everywhere by one of Hecebolus’ servants. Both women had walked freely, if not appropriately, about Constantinople, but here they had to behave as the female members of any good household should. Everyone in the Pentapolis now knew Theodora was not Hecebolus’ wife; for his sake, though, as well as for her own, she had to behave as if she were, and that meant not even going to the market without a man to accompany them. Yossef, who followed them now, came from the kind of poor but pious family that would truly rather have starved than risk offending the priest, and resented having to spend any time in Theodora’s company, let alone walking the two sluts through his home town.
The women made their way down streets burned with shafts of brilliant afternoon light, walking with their heads close; the noisy market was in many ways an easier place to chat than Hecebolus’ quiet house, both of them too sure they were being spied on there.
‘I still don’t get what we were doing back there?’ Chrysomallo asked.
‘Giving a skinny old man an excuse to look at your lovely face.’
‘Other than that.’
‘I was talking to the Bishop about the possibility of raising my status some day.’
‘We’re actresses. We can’t marry, we can’t gain status, it’s not news, Theodora.’ Chrysomallo raised her hands at the futility of the matter, and three hopeful beggars looked up from their place on the ground, thinking she was preparing to throw them a coin.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’
‘Sorry, soldiers.’ Chrysomallo apologised to the men, clearly ex-military from the wounds they were sporting, amputated legs and scarred faces, but she gave them only apology, no coin.
Theodora stopped by a spice stall and spoke quietly into air thick with heat and noise and the bittersweet scent of the ground sumac she asked the trader to weigh out. ‘Who says I can’t marry Hecebolus?’
‘He’s asked you?’
‘Of course not. But assuming he wanted to, why can’t he ask me to marry him?’
‘Because the law says you can’t marry.’
‘Good,’ Theodora paid for the spice and handed her purchase to Yossef, walking on before he could complain that the cook didn’t like these City spices she kept forcing on them. ‘And who makes the law?’
‘The Emperor?’
‘Well done. And who advises the Emperor?’
‘God?’
Theodora groaned, ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, other than God.’ Then she thought again. ‘Although yes, like God, in a way, I suppose.’
‘See? I’m not as stupid as you think.’
‘You have no idea how stupid I think you are, Chrysomallo.’
They turned away from the main market street, heading up the narrower causeway to the Governor’s dark mansion, and Theodora explained. The law insisted that once a woman had been an actress, and by implication a courtesan, it was impossible for her to marry. The Church said only a sinless woman could marry, but as Theodora pointed out, there were plenty of divorced women who married again, and widows, so merely having had sex wasn’t the problem – the problem was the sin. She had no intention of taking herself off to a convent in the traditional manner of a repentant actress: living out here in Africa was bad enough, but Theodora did think it might be possible, one day, to find an amenable priest or, even better, a bishop, to take her case to a higher court. Someone with power or influence, and ideally both, who – assuming an ex-actress could find a man who wanted to make an honest wife of her – believed a woman might redeem herself enough for marriage. Theodora herself could marry in those circumstances. Further, if she could be married to Hecebolus then, some time later, she could also be divorced from Hecebolus and find herself someone who would rise further than merely Governor of this hellish dustbowl, someone who might matter back in the City.
‘I thought you were happy with Hecebolus?’ Chrysomallo interrupted.
‘I am, more or less. But it won’t last, I know he’ll tire of me, he did with his other mistresses. If I were married to him, I’d be in a better position later.’
Theodora believed she could, as so many other women had done, rise through marriage and divorce and remarriage. All she had to do was find a priest to agree with her.
‘Out here, away from the centre, the priests at least admit they sometimes have different ideas, discuss their doubts. Where better to look for one who’ll make me respectable?’
‘And how do you persuade him of your good intentions?’
Theodora grinned. ‘My repentance could be real, if Hecebolus is keen enough on marriage.’
‘And if it’s not?’
‘I’ll act, it’s what I’m good at.’
‘What if he’s not convinced by the act, this mythical priest you have yet to find?’
They were at the door of the Governor’s house. Yossef pushed past them into the dark passageway, it was a relief to be out of the harsh light, and Theodora threw off her scarf, her cloak, shook out the folds of her dress, pulled her friend close and whispered, ‘In that case sweetie, I’ll just have to get on my knees. It’s what I’m good at.’
Their laughter rang out into the street and a preaching beggar on the corner opposite picked up his rant again, condemning the sinful nature of Eve, temptress of man and snake alike. Chrysomallo slammed the door on his noise.
For several months following, things were quiet, but quiet did not necessarily mean easy. Theodora settled into a routine of playing Hecebolus’ partner, sometimes entertaining his guests with the most innocent of her theatrical repertoire, and meeting with the Bishop on occasion – he had, after all, recommended she find herself a teacher, and when she said he was the best in the city, he couldn’t disagree. She began, too, to explore Apollonia and the other cities of the Pentapolis, revising her opinion of the area a little. Yes, it was warm out here, certainly this was nothing like the winter she was used to and was surprised to find she missed, but with the rain greenery began to blossom along the coast and Theodora began taking long walks along the shoreline, stopping off at the small ports and large churches that looked out to sea, with only Armeneus to accompany her, or Yossef, following a grumpy five paces behind. She did not acknowledge it as she walked – even if she had, there was no solution – but always she was looking north, away from Africa and Hecebolus, away from her new life to her old home, the home she had left to start a new life, a new life that had stalled all too soon. Hecebolus would rise no higher than this, no bishop would consider changing church law for a woman like her, Hecebolus was not going to marry her – and she’d be a terrible wife even if he did. Despite her high hopes of a few months earlier, nothing was changing in the Governor’s house. Nothing Theodora had noticed, anyway.
Thirteen
The break with Hecebolus, when it came, was as sudden as it was shocking. Chrysomallo told Theodora she was Hecebolus’ lover.
‘Yeah, right, because you’ve got so much time between screwing the captain and flirting with that fat merchant Hecebolus keeps asking here for dinner. Christ, I swear, if I have to perform Cassandra for the bloated arse one more time, I’m going to jump off the wall myself.’
‘No, really, Theo,’ Chrysomallo paused, shook her head: ‘We’re lovers. We decided I should be the one to te
ll you. He thought you’d deal with it better, coming from me.’
‘You decided?’
‘Hecebolus and I.’
‘Go on.’
Chrysomallo had the grace to stutter, just a very little, ‘He thought it would be better, if I told you. He – well, we – we both know how proud you are.’
Theodora frowned. The other woman’s words were jagged blades in sugar syrup, sharp yet so gently coated. Chrysomallo was looking particularly pretty today. Pretty, golden, soft.
‘How proud am I, my friend?’
‘Well, not proud …’
‘Have I nothing of which to be proud?’
‘Yes, of course you do.’ Chrysomallo countered. ‘You could go home now …’
‘Home? Yes, that would make it easier for you.’
‘No. I just mean … back in the City … they’d love to have you back. On stage. You have so much to be proud of. You have so many options open to you.’
‘And you just have the one – tagging along on the dregs of my life?’
‘He knew you’d be hurt.’
‘He knew?’
Theodora hated sounding stupid, a child in the Chorus reduced to learning by rote, but the shock was making her dense. She took a deep breath, as she had been trained to do, ribs separating and spreading, the kind of breath a truly great performer reserves for an entrance, or a death scene. A breath meant for holding back tears, floodgates, fury, horror – before the unleashing. The kind of breath that allowed her friend to continue, Chrysomallo too intent on delivering her lines to pay any attention to their shared theatre experience, to Theodora’s stance, readying herself to spring.
‘I did too, of course.’
‘Did what?’
‘Realise you’d be hurt.’
‘Perceptive of you.’