The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (9 page)

I opened my mouth to tell Comito of Karas, but she prattled on about her prefect and all the silks she was going to have embroidered, a new stola for every day of the month, with different wardrobes for each season. Perhaps things were better this way.

Comito might have a patron, and I might have a place onstage. Things were starting to look up, instead of simply skimming the horizon.

Never had a morning seemed so long. I scrubbed my skin until it shone at the baths and even let the slaves polish my nails, my heart skittering at the thought of my upcoming debut. Comito whined when I dragged her to rehearsal early, but Hilarion only laughed when I asked for my lines.

“Dark as a sewer rat and still flat as a slab of marble.” He clapped me on the back. “At least you have a sense of humor. Come back and talk to me when you’ve grown breasts like your sister’s.”

I spent the night drawing his face in the ashes of the hearth and poking his eyes out with a rather sharp stick.

.   .   .

Winter would close the theater in another month and with it any hope I had of avoiding being a common
pornai
for the rest of my life. Comito was no help. Her prefect hadn’t called on her, and she was desperate for some patron to claim her before the cool weather set in. She might be asked to entertain at a private villa during the dark months, but she would otherwise spend her winter huddled with
Mother and me in our new room above a silk shop. Our new home was almost the same size as the room at the Boar’s Eye, but it was clean. And quiet.

It had taken me weeks to concoct tonight’s scheme. It was a huge gamble but worth the risk.

I’d be an old crone if I waited around for Hilarion to decide to put me in the chorus. The dark face that looked back at me in the Kynêgion’s bronze prop mirror made me cringe, but I licked my lips and pinched my cheeks. The costume I’d borrowed was too big in the bust, but it was short enough to show most of my legs, my best feature. It would have to do.

The oil torches of the subterranean corridor flickered as I passed, casting trembling webs of shadows on the rock walls. I traveled half the circle of the theater, my stomach twisting itself into a tighter knot with each step. An empty animal cage sat at the stage entrance, the same one that had most recently held a toothless lion slaughtered in a performance of Heracles and the Nemean Lion. My fate might not be much different.

The audience roared, and pebbles fell from the ceiling from thousands of stomping feet. I took a deep breath to keep my stomach from revolting and stepped through the cluster of dancers onstage as Perseus pulled Medusa’s head out of a burlap sack, the final act of the play. He held the head midair as I strode to center stage. A hush fell over the amphitheater. This hadn’t been covered in rehearsals.

Comito was supposed to hiss and spit at Perseus for slaying her mortal sister, but my sister looked like a red snapper freshly pulled from the Bosphorus, crimson faced and slack jawed. Antonina had managed to swindle her way into the role of Medusa for the night—Petronia was mysteriously absent—and was supposed to be dead, sprawled on the stage with her head hidden under a red wool blanket of blood, but she peeked from underneath and shot me such a glare it might actually have been possible to turn me to stone.

I took the gorgon head from Perseus, one with peeling paint on the eyes and thick braids of green woolen yarn for the snakes. The actor playing Perseus shook his head as he circled me. “This is a pleasant bit of improvisation,” he said under his breath.

Hilarion didn’t seem to agree—he looked ready to feed me to the bears from his seat in the lower stands, those reserved for the theater’s special guests. Seated next to him was a woman with copper hair I hadn’t seen since the night at the Hippodrome. Macedonia smiled and leaned back in her seat, motioning with an elegant turn of her wrist for me to continue.

The silence stretched too long as I gathered my thoughts. I should have had a better plan. The Kynêgion rarely performed antic shows for laughs, but as I could neither dance nor sing, I had a rather small repertoire to choose from.

I sniffed the head and gestured with it toward Antonina’s prone form. “In the name of God, it really does resemble her,” I said loud enough so all could hear, looking the gorgon head in its chipped eyes. “An improvement, actually.”

The crowd roared as Antonina came to life and lunged after me, but I chucked the head at her and ran, pulling Perseus before me as a makeshift shield. He shook loose as Antonina twirled the head by its snakes and lobbed the thing at me. It knocked me sideways, and the audience roared with laughter. I scrambled to my feet, and I laughed with the audience, despite the lump I would find above my ear tomorrow. Antonina looked ready to throw something else at me, but I pulled Perseus’ dagger from his belt. Perseus chuckled, and his arms floated up from his sides in surrender.

I meandered toward Antonina and gave a dramatic sigh. “Medusa here is so ugly, men would wish for death if it meant never having to see her face again. And her breasts are more wrinkled than the Fates’.”

The audience laughed. Antonina’s eyes flared; behind her, Comito pantomimed slicing her neck. I tossed Perseus his blade and bowed
to the crowd before sauntering away, my heart slamming up my spine. I didn’t make it far.

Antonina grabbed the back of my tunica and yanked it, hard. The threadbare fabric ripped, exposing my breasts to the thousands of people packed into the tiers. I wanted to run but forced my feet to stay planted instead. From the catcalls, it didn’t sound like anyone wanted me to run offstage. I forced myself to release my tunica and let my breasts remain bare.

“Mine may be wrinkled as the Fates’,” she hollered, “but yours are so small most men would miss them entirely!”

By the dog, I wanted to cut her tongue out.

I turned and smiled, pulling the rope around my waist and hoping no one would notice my fingers tremble. The fabric fell to the ground. “Jealousy doesn’t become you.” My fingers reached to the dark sky, and I turned so the entire audience could see all of me as butterflies—more like angry sparrows at this point—pummeled my stomach. Thank goodness I wore the girdle the law required; otherwise the city Patriarch might have me thrown into Blachernae prison tomorrow morning. I waited for the shouts of disappointment, but instead a golden burst of laughter and applause filled my ears.

My eyes fell on Macedonia—the
scenica
smiled and slowly clapped.

Antonina stepped toward me, but I wasn’t taking any more chances. I saluted the audience, yanked my tunica up from my ankles, and made for the exit as fast as my feet could run, carrying the audience’s cheers with me.

Nearly naked as I was, I was faster than Antonina in her full Medusa getup, at least until I barreled straight into Hilarion.
Damn.

“What in the name of God was that?” His giant nose seemed to splay wider as he took a deep breath and held up a hand to stop Antonina from crashing into me. “How dare you—a pleb—ruin my production? I should have you whipped!”

“She didn’t ruin it.” Macedonia smiled from behind him. Overhead
the steps of thousands of feet pounded into the night, hopefully carrying the story of my debut to every taverna in Constantinople. Macedonia’s arm was hooked through a rather portly fellow’s arm, but the golden chain at his neck proclaimed to the world he was an adviser to Emperor Anastasius. “The audience loved her. Count the coins after the slaves clean the floor—I’m sure she pulled in a tidy profit for you.”

Hilarion opened his mouth to protest but shut it. “Fine. I won’t have you whipped. This time. But there hadn’t better be a next time.”

“There won’t be a next time if you put me on the stage.”

He looked me over, then laughed. “You, a theater tart? You’re still a child.”

“Were you at a different show than I was?” Macedonia shook her head, and I caught the musky scent of her perfume. “She’s definitely a woman.”

I cursed the heat that flooded my cheeks, but Macedonia winked at me as her patron led her into the night.

“You can’t honestly mean to promote her.” Antonina looked ready to spit daggers. “After the stunt she just pulled?”

Hilarion ignored her and thrust a pudgy finger at my nose. “Only as a trooper in the chorus.”

He half dragged me to the makeshift desk in his office, despite Antonina’s rather colorful protestations, and scrawled the deal on a scrap of parchment, one with some other girl’s contract on the other side. “If you can’t write your name, just mark it with the sign of the cross.”

He raised an eyebrow as I dipped the stylus in the inkpot and signed my name. “I’ll start tomorrow,” I said. He dismissed me in a hurry, presumably in a rush to count the take from the night.

“You’d better be glad he only made you a trooper.” Antonina’s breath smelled of mint leaves. “Because that’s all you’re ever going to amount to.”

I was saved from responding by the gaggle of actresses that
swarmed us, praising my performance. Suddenly I was a star. Comito appeared and pulled me away after some minutes of trying to follow the girls’ excited chatter. I could guess from the twist of her lips that we weren’t going to celebrate with fish sandwiches and a jug of wine.

“Watch it, will you,” I said. “You’re going to pull my arm off.”

She stopped and shook her head, releasing my arm as if I were some sort of insect. “I suppose you got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

She was right. I had.

G
od was generous this time. My life as a trooper in the chorus introduced me to a new sphere of men who were happy to pay for my attentions. There was also my cut of the coins showered onto the stage each night. Comito grudgingly taught me all she knew, how to pleasure a man and make him beg for more. It was my first taste of power.

I enjoyed it for exactly nineteen days.

“It’s no use. I can barely breathe.” I tried to pull the stola back over my head, but the cursed thing got stuck on my breasts and Comito had to untangle me.

“For a late bloomer, you’re not wasting any time.” Comito’s lips twisted to one side as she studied me. “I’d swear your breasts are almost as big as mine.”

“I hope they stop soon. I’m tired of them aching all the time.” I rummaged for a larger stola in the costume box and straightened to find Comito scrutinizing me in earnest now. “What? Do I have
garos
on my face?”

“When did you last wear your cloth and girdle?” She almost
yanked my arm from its socket as she pulled me from the room. “When did you last bleed?”

“What do you mean? You don’t think—?”

“When?”

I counted back and groaned. “Over two months ago.” The wall was cold on my back as I slid to the floor, but Comito hauled me to my feet.

“Didn’t you take anything in the mornings?”

Of course—I wasn’t that big a fool. “I have a pessary of crocodile dung. From the market.”

“You can’t be serious.” Her mouth fell open. “You are serious.”

“I heard Antonina tell another girl. It’s an old Egyptian trick.”

“Did she know you were listening?”

My fingers curled into fists. “I’m going to kill her.”

Already the amphitheater was filled with spectators’ voices—there was to be a bearbaiting after our performance, the last of the season before winter shut down the theater. “What am I going to do?”

Comito tapped my head with her knuckles. “What else would you do? Get dressed and give such a performance that Hilarion can’t help hiring you back into the chorus next season.”

I don’t recall if I followed her directions or fell on my face that night. I was the last person in the Empire who should be procreating, and the very thought of childbirth made me cower in terror. My mother had almost died delivering Anastasia, and I’d seen too many biers of women laid out with their dead infants. I might soon join them.

I sat outside after the performance and cursed myself under my breath. No man would want me once my belly swelled. And then there would be a baby to take care of. The entire situation was hopeless.

My tears had dried by the time Comito emerged, swathed in a shaggy fur coat made from at least a hundred dead squirrels. I dashed the
sleeve of my tunica across my eyes before she could see my blotchy face.

“I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.” I eyed the package under her arm. “What’s that?”

“Herbs. They might help, but it won’t be pretty.” She stopped and brushed an imaginary hair back from her eyes. “I’m assuming you want to get rid of it.”

This from my sister, who wanted nothing more than a lap full of babies.

“Do I have a choice?”

She shrugged. “I’ve some coins saved, but not enough for the winter. And in your condition—”

I’d be a charity case. Worse, I might have to expose the child after giving birth. Many of the other troopers from the chorus had already done that several times. Better to do it now than be forced to choose between that or watching my baby die of starvation.

I took the package from her. “Will you help me?”

She nodded. “And Mother, too.”

We walked in silence in the night until my curiosity got the better of me. “Where did you get the herbs?”