Theodora (13 page)

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 tell 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.’

‘But you and I, we’ve shared all sorts between us, food, lodgings … men.’

‘Women.’

‘God, yes, women!’ Chrysomallo smiled now, nodding, relieved, this was more like it. She and Theodora laughing over their conquests, pleased with whatever they’d gained or learned or stolen between them, happy to share. None of it taken too seriously, none of it mattering too much. Now Chrysomallo could explain about the affair she’d been having for the past two months – her friend out of the house too often, Hecebolus just a man, any man, bored with his work and looking for company
and finding it between Chrysomallo’s sheets, her arms, her legs. The point of this moment being to get her friend on side. She had promised Hecebolus she could do this, make Theodora understand.

‘We’ve certainly shared all sorts of things, people, you and me, so … I mean, I know it’s a bit of a shock, but really, he needs a lot of attention. Then there’s your visits to the Bishop, and God knows, Theo, you’ve told me often enough what appetites Hecebolus has, and all those walks you keep going off on – wandering up and down the coastline for hours at a time, the view’s fine once, but …’ Chrysomallo was wittering. Blindly unaware of the effect her words were having on her friend.

‘Women. Fucking, whoring, thieving women. Woman.’

‘Oh, come on, Theo …’

‘My name is Theodora.’ Theodora spoke slowly and calmly, with a deliberation that would have terrified a barbarian who spoke no Greek, let alone someone who knew her intimately.

Chrysomallo stepped back, a little closer to the door, all underestimation gone once she heard the rage in Theodora’s tone.

‘I brought you here. I gave you the chance of Africa, of advancement, of the world.’

‘I’m sorry, Theo …’

‘Fuck off, slut.’

There were plenty of words the two women might use to each other. Plenty of words used by women in the theatre companies they’d left behind. Whore and tart and hooker among them. Variations on actress and prostitute were a daily occurrence; what none of the women could bear to be called was slut. An actress worked for money, as did a whore, both were work, careers even. A slut, however, gave it away for free, which was simply stupid, and no one wanted to be accused of
being stupid, not even Chrysomallo. She threw herself at Theodora. She was weaker than her friend, but she did have the advantage of height. Theodora was beyond surprise, she was so horrified by her friend’s betrayal, but she certainly hadn’t expected Chrysomallo to attack her. She went over flat on her back, her aggressor’s fingers and nails digging into her upper arms.

She wasn’t down for long. Twisting one leg up beneath her while pinning Chrysomallo’s legs with the other, she gained enough purchase to shove the taller, heavier woman off, prising the fingers from her arms, quite intentionally ripping several of Chrysomallo’s famed long nails in the process. Seeing the blood rise from the nail-beds and Chrysomallo’s horror and pain simply caused her to smile. Stupid pretty girls, their vanity meant they never could win in a physical contest. A naturally lovely girl like Chrysomallo was only ever reliant on good looks and, right now, at least five of those elements of good looks were scattered on the floor at their feet.

Chrysomallo was sobbing in pain, Theodora ranting in fury. Hecebolus and Armeneus came running, as did half a dozen members of staff, but Armeneus slammed the door in their faces before the rest of them could crowd into the room.

‘What the hell is going on?’

The Governor did not raise his voice; if anything, he sounded more concerned than angry. He looked only to Chrysomallo, and in that look Theodora understood that she had lost him.

‘Your new lover was just explaining the reversal of my fortunes. She broke a nail or two in the process. You know how girls are – breaking a nail all too often seems the end of the world.’

Chrysomallo ran to Hecebolus and he held the sobbing blonde softly, far more carefully than he’d ever held Theodora.
She pushed Armeneus aside, glared at Yossef and the other servants hovering behind the door, and walked as calmly as she could to her own room. Only once the door was shut did she open her mouth and, ripping her hands through her hair, rocking in fury, fall to her knees and let out just one, long, silent roar of pain.

Eventually, her breath regained, her head clear, Theodora readied herself for the usual evening meal with Hecebolus and Chrysomallo, not easy when she’d been crying in rage for twenty minutes. She called on her training to contain her passion, and then, with rhythmic breathing to steady her shaking hands, applied all the skill she had learned from the old actresses working as makeup artists. By the time she was called to the dining room, Theodora was as lovely as ever Hecebolus had seen her. She had also packed a single bag, gathered everything she would need for a quick flight, including the money she’d been carefully holding back from the housekeeping purse for the past six months, aware that she never knew when she might need to leave, though never expecting it to be so soon. She took a candle to light her entrance, both utterly ready and not at all.