by Stella Duffy
Then she turned her attention to the other item that was keeping her awake. She held it in her hand for a long time, until it became warm from her own blood. She could not quite believe she had done it, risked both being caught, and the sin of stealing from the Church. She reasoned that it was not exactly the Church from which she stole, it was the Bishop, and while he was certainly a representative, he was not the whole body, the greater mass. The old man had taken so long in finding the perfect teaching that gave him the right to cast her out, to the extent of leaving her alone in his study and going down to his library for another scroll of dry parchment, that he had left her alone in the very room he most guarded. He had always been quite particular about where he allowed Theodora to sit in his study, if he left her there at all. Even after he began to trust her, the Bishop always made her sit or kneel within an arm’s reach of the door, against the far wall. He said it was more proper that way, a clergyman and a young woman, and she certainly understood that his servants would have agreed, that they thought it was utterly improper her being there at all, and that he had been bending rules even to speak to her. Today, though, she knew he was going to turn her out, and if it took him all night to find the correct doctrinal reason to do so, then he would find it. When she went to his desk it was really just to see what he had there. A good quill, a spare one, might be worth something in the market; a few coins were justifiable, anything that would mean she didn’t have to sell her body just yet. The old man would appreciate that, surely? Thieving instead of prostitution – the sin of stealing came just after that of adultery, it must be slightly less sinful?
The fist-sized piece Theodora now held had been a surprise, and not one she wasted time getting used to. Even in the early evening gloom of the Bishop’s study, with just two candles lit, she recognised the stone that was set in ebony, carved into a relief bust of the Virgin, decorated around the edge with gold leaf. The Bishop had always seemed more of a ruby or garnet man, the few silks he had in his room tending towards rose and red; maybe he was dreaming of purple, but Theodora loved emerald green. It was the colour of her sea on a clear spring day, the trees lining the hills of the City and, according to all too many besotted men, her own eyes. And now she loved the emerald beneath her hand. She had considered prising the stone from its wooden setting, but that would take too long, and anyway, damaging it would be a form of desecration, so she took the whole piece. Along with the Bishop’s reluctantly offered blessing, she left his house with the icon stuffed right down in the bottom of her bag.
The offending items removed, Theodora lay down again, pulling the cloak close. She fell asleep to the sound of the waves beating against the rocks as they had always done, and – far in the distance, perhaps from one of the groves originally planted by the Greeks – the clear plaintive call of the little Skops owl. If she tried hard enough, the owl sounded like one of the all-night merchants who dealt in fresh bread and warm drinks in the market behind the Hagia Sophia, she might be sleeping in the gallery she had loved since childhood, the sea outside might be her sea, the stars, those she had known all her life.
It did not feel like a dream. It felt real, and calm, comfortable. In feeling that comfort, Theodora realised she had not felt this easy since leaving the City. Even in the dream, she understood she was homesick, understood this was home. She stood up, the cloak on the floor behind her still warm from her heavy sleep, and came to stand at the edge of the gallery. The church had grown. The building she now stood in was wide, and illuminated with a light that was both bright and yet somehow soft, flooding the building. High above her floated a golden dome, forming the roof of the church, and it was from beneath this dome that light streamed, pouring in from windows all around the gallery, and from others, higher still, from a dome that appeared to open itself to the heavens rather than close them off, all this light no matter that when she turned to the narrow window beside her she could see nothing but dark outside. She was standing at one end of the gallery, looking across the enormous distance, equal widths from north to south and east to west. She looked down, feeling the floor cold on the soles of her feet, a smooth circle of deep green marble, the colour of the sea outside, the colour of the Sea of Marmara viewed from the top of the lighthouse on a hazy summer’s day. Even as a child, with all the careless bravery youth had given her, Theodora had not dared to climb the full height of the lighthouse, but now, standing on this spot, she knew she was right, she knew this particular piece of marble had been chosen solely for its pure colour, for its exact likeness to the sea she loved. She belonged here. She had chosen to be here.
Slowly, waiting in the gallery above the centre of the huge church, Theodora became aware there was something else, someone else, with her. At least, she did not feel so alone, and she turned her gaze from the mosaic and painted walls all around, from the perfect, suspended dome above, to what lay beneath, to the floor of the main body of the building, where – though she knew this could not be, and these were not real, these written words, and she was dreaming still – she saw in letters each as long and wide as a grown man, the words Mary is the Star of Bethlehem, and when she had read the letters, they shifted and swirled, silk colours in a cold dye bath, mutating into the star itself, a four-pointed star with compass markings. The clearest of the markings pointing north, showing home.
In the dream she returned to her cloak and her bag, reluctantly leaving the green marble spot where she’d stood so comfortably, Theodora felt both rested and wide awake, but as soon as she lay down she did sleep again, loosely holding the emerald Virgin in one hand, the candlestick close by, reading the words inlaid in the swirling marble floor, and seeing the north-pointing star.
In the morning, Theodora woke long before the warden came to open the church. She lay for a moment recalling her dream, and her new world, and then she stood up, pulled on her cloak and shouldered the heavy bag that now contained all she possessed. She’d been here before, at five when her father died, at seven when she was sent to Menander’s school for the first time, ready to run away by lunchtime, ready to give her life for her mentor by the time evening came. Theodora had had all too many firsts, and each one felt like this. Terrifying and heart-wrenching and often exhilarating.
There was the first time she walked out alone on the Kynegion stage, a solo performer, sure she would vomit with nerves, and then she did vomit with nerves and went on anyway, the smell of sick on her breath with every note she sang out. The first time she screwed a man for money, throwing up again then too, despite Sophia’s care, but careful to hide the scent and hide the pallor and hide everything but the appearance of willing and warm and ready: all too often the price of a virgin reduced when the virgin cried or pissed herself or otherwise showed how scared she was, how little she’d enjoyed the experience. Well trained, Theodora knew better than to lower her market value. Time after time when she didn’t feel like it and she didn’t want to – perform or fuck or greet or charm or act or dance or smile – time after time when, no matter how she felt, she rose from her bed and washed and put on her makeup and combed her hair and dressed for the part and stepped out on to the stage that was theatre or bed or family or stranger or – as it had been here in Apollonia – the Governor’s mansion. New stage, new Theodora mask, same old strength required.
Theodora was nineteen years old, sick to death of carrying on, and she carried on.
Fifteen
Theodora had arrived in Africa by ship. Come the spring there would be any number of grain and spice traders heading north, to the Dardanelles at least, if not all the way into the Golden Horn. As it was, the bars of Apollonia and Cyrene were full of stranded sailors trading stories of this vicious storm and that just-formed sand bar, new dangers brought about by changes in currents or weather or even God’s will, the men of the waves more than happy to blame wicked weather on wicked heresies. Most ships were in whatever dry docks their owners could find or afford for the winter, and no captain was going anywhere unless he absolutel
y had to – and certainly not with a woman on board. Women were danger at the best of times, with dozens of signs from fish belly-up in the harbour to carnelian-red morning skies, and any woman, let alone a well-known whore, was far too great a risk to take. Almost as risky as remaining in Apollonia was for Theodora.
Hecebolus would find his candlestick missing this morning, the Bishop might already have realised the emerald carving was gone. She covered her hair and as much of her face as she could with her scarf, pulled her cloak tight, and made for the main coast road, heading west, away from the Five Cities, towards Alexandria. According to the men in last night’s bar, even in the best of circumstances it would take her twenty days to cover the five hundred miles to the famed city. Time to get going.
*
The young men who allowed her to share the benefit of their horse and cart were of similar age to Theodora, but they seemed younger, by many years. The elder brother was in his early twenties, the younger maybe eighteen. Back in the City they would have been well through their apprenticeships by now, or have given over five years of their young lives to the real army if they were poor boys, the army of civil servants if not. Theodora could have been their middle sister. She felt as old as their mother. They offered her a lift as a potential lover.
It wasn’t that she didn’t notice the effect she had on the young men, but she was tired, and keen to lie back, just take it in for herself. Since their arrival, she had seen everything through Hecebolus’ eyes: his fears, his concerns, his needs. For the first two hours of the ride with the young brothers she was happy to sit in the stumbling cart beside the sick beast that was too costly to destroy, their only he-goat, the skinny brute breathing heavily, its bony frame loaded on to the low-slung cart. Theodora could see the animal was dull with illness and allowed herself to be sniffed and snorted at, her hand slowly licked. The bear-keeper’s daughter settled herself, easy in the company of a quiet creature. The North African sun, still warm by City standards, even in its winter incarnation, shone down, Theodora relaxed, closed her eyes, slept a little.
Just before the small town where the animal healer lived, the cart slowed, turned off the main road. Theodora stirred, opened her eyes to watch the young men nudging each other, and she sighed. The boys had been kind and generously left her alone this long. The elder had given her a wrap of flat bread filled with a meat she was too hungry to question, the younger had kept her supplied with barely watered rough wine. But the sun was halfway to the zenith, their stop just beyond the next hill, and the farm boys required their fare.
The brothers had been whispering to each other for a good ten minutes, gearing up for a fight, a skirmish at least. One to hold her down, while the other persuaded her it was a good idea. They had not expected a woman who knew what she was doing, who was now, in front of their eyes, climbing down from the cart, carefully placing her bag to the side, requesting that one or other – actually, no the older one, you, Phillip is it? – lay down his cloak, the better fabric of the two, that they might be comfortable while they got on with it. The brothers had not expected Theodora would be ready for them, that she would demand the younger turned his back while the other went to work, and that he would then be ready for her after: it wasn’t that she minded lads, really, but she didn’t want to waste time while he got it up, they all had a busy day ahead. The brothers were not ready for someone who knew what to do with them. As well, there was a sweet charm, Theodora could not deny it, in the dimple of the younger one, in the shocked – and horrified, and excited – raised eyebrows of the elder. The two young men had no experience that would lead them to expect her compliance or pleasure in sex, that was not their understanding of women. Which was why, thirty-five minutes later, they found themselves sharing their lunch with Theodora in the shade of a very few trees, why they finished their wine with her, giving her the bulk of it.
They later enjoyed a brief nap, Theodora layered between the brothers in a warm clasp under the gentle sun. And then more sex, of course, the brothers had not become monks simply because they’d met a woman who knew what she wanted as well as they did, but it was not all giving on her part, nor all taking on theirs. It was new, though, and the boys were better educated for it. They were grateful too, so much so that, instead of leaving Theodora in a marketplace where she might be obvious to anyone Hecebolus had sent after her, they took her right into the port, a good two miles from town, saving her the walk and making it more probable she’d find someone else useful for her journey.
‘Thank you for the lift.’
The younger brother jumped from the front of the cart, and helped her down.
‘You’re welcome, really, that was … it was …’ he shook his head, knowing his words were irrelevant, the single dimple in his left check pulling his grin into a side-smile that was just a tiny bit more attractive than his older brother’s. Young Simeon knew that Theodora understood exactly what he was thanking her for. He’d yelled it loudly enough, along with an assortment of invocations to the Virgin, just an hour earlier. Theodora curtsied low and deep, the two boys applauded her, Phillip jumped back up on to the cart beside his young brother and they drove off. They were good-looking lads. Theodora sighed, picked up her bag, and walked into the tavern glad to have a nice image in her mind as she faced whatever else the day would bring.
Another ride with another man who wanted her body as payment, three days of the same with a group of young monks, and then again with an older man, this one wealthy enough to be travelling on horseback. The sex and the journey, the journey and sex. Then she walked alone for a blissful five days, watching the sky and the stars and very little else except her feet passing beneath her and the road shifting from one dusty rock to another. She ate little, which was no hardship, Theodora had been starving herself for shows since she was a girl, and drank less wine than she had since she was a child, which became a hardship as the days progressed and the road moved further inland, became still more monotonous without the company of her beloved sea. The loneliness was broken briefly when she crossed into Egypt proper and spent three days with a young family who were happy for her company, not least because she kept their seven-year-old occupied, the mother minding twins and the father carrying their broken little boy in a sling on his back. The child had fallen from a tree and his leg, though expertly set by the woman’s mother, was not healing well. From the child’s fever it seemed clear it was not healing at all.
The family, nominal Christians, as had been all of Theodora’s fellow travellers so far, licentious monks included, were nonetheless taking the child to the oracle at Siwa. They suggested Theodora come with them; she had already taught the daughter to juggle and was now on to cartwheels, along with a few dance steps, they were grateful for anything to keep their over-bright girl occupied. Theodora was tempted to stay with them, less conspicuous in a family, and seriously considered their offer for a few minutes. But the oracle was a long way off and heading south would add more than a week to the journey time to Alexandria. Besides, she didn’t want her fortune told any more than she needed someone else to direct her. Theodora knew she was going straight back to Constantinople, as soon as possible. The traders she’d met earlier in the week assured her the seas would be safe in less than a month if she were lucky, but no more than eight weeks otherwise. It had been a long winter on the water, but all the signs were of an early turn into a kind spring. The family went south and Theodora walked on alone, the wailing of the little girl who had lost her new friend loud in her heart for at least half a day.
Sixteen
A sea breeze, elegant civic buildings with beautiful carving in stunningly varied shades of marble, a glorious obelisk, all the more perfect for never having been moved, Alexandria felt like a real city. Turning down narrow streets into darker alleyways, through twisting lanes and out again into a large central square, always following the sound of the crowd, Theodora came to a massive market overflowing with goods from across the southern and eastern reaches of Af
rica. She saw the utterly foreign interspersed with the achingly familiar, clothing and dry goods, fresh ingredients and cooked foods, silks and patterns and spices brought from the north, from the City, from home. She heard the hard-working cries of beggars and traders, seamen and merchants, all underscored by the babble of dozens of different languages, from the local Coptic and the not-so-distant Syriac, to the guttural Slav and Goth grunts she’d known well as a child. Everywhere too, there were the constant calls of furious street preachers, telling stories of exile from Syria, from Palestine, from the City itself, anti-Chalcedonian faithful, persecuted by the Emperor Justin, finding some safety here in Egypt. Even the August couldn’t enforce his doctrines this far, not while Timothy lived and ruled as Patriarch of Alexandria. A pope to his people, a living saint to those who loved him, Timothy presided over the Church in Egypt and was nominally the Emperor’s bishop, but he had enormous influence over the population who both loved him and agreed with his understanding of the faith, and though Constantinople had massive wealth, it lacked a steady supply of grain, the one staple that kept its people content and its status as capital. The Emperor Justin, a little fonder of circuses than Anastasius had been, was still required to keep his people happy by giving them their daily bread, it was his duty and their expectation – and the grain for that bread came from Egypt. He could not, therefore, afford to anger the keeper of the bread basket any more than his predecessors. He followed his religious inclinations everywhere else but, for now, he left Egypt alone.