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by Thornton, Stephanie

  We followed the eunuch through a lavish garden surrounded by bushes trimmed to resemble various animals, a short giraffe stalked by a leafy lion and a rhinoceros with a bird on its rump. Another slave stood over a pretty little pond in the middle of a cluster of roses. He rang a tiny silver bell as we passed, and several red fish—mullets from the look of them—kissed the surface as he hummed and leaned down to caress them. This truly was another world.

  A freshly scrubbed mosaic gleamed under our feet as we passed the kitchens, a domestic scene of sparkling children playing with fluffy black dogs. A peacock and peahen with matching pearl collars strolled over to us from the garden, and a heavy green curtain edged with gold thread muffled the low hum of women’s conversation from the gynaeceum, a reminder that we might visit this world, yet never truly belong.

  My stomach growled as slaves paraded past with platters of purple sea urchins split open to show their orange guts atop tureens of creamy soup with garlic croutons, parrots dressed in their feathers and smeared with brown gravy, and a whole roast lamb stuffed with black olives and goat cheese. Chrysomallo groaned as a giant bowl of steaming stewed chicken and liver patties went by, so large two slaves struggled to carry it. “This is torture,” she said. “I should have eaten before I came.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “But then we wouldn’t fit into our costumes.”

  She pulled a face at our proper stolas, worn tonight out of respect for our patrician audience, although these women rarely showed so much wrist or ankle.

  The eunuch slipped through the curtain and cleared his throat. “They are ready for you.”

  Hilarion remained behind as we entered the gynaeceum, its walls the creamy color of soft parchment and painted with delicate floral frescoes to match the buttery silk couches. The kyrias of Constantinople’s noble families resembled an artist’s palette in their rainbow of silks, gemstones, and pearls glittering at their throats, ears, and wrists as they lounged on couches and nibbled their food. Every nose possessed a noble sweep, their oiled hair twisted into elaborate knots and curls to rival any Gordian knot. They were all I wanted to be.

  One well-preserved lady with a face like that of a woodpecker outmatched all the others with the sheer number of jewels—all rubies—attached to her tiny frame. General Justin’s wife, Lupicina. No wonder she dripped with jewels—the woman had been a slave before Justin married her. Worse, she’d actually been a barbarian prostitute until the General took a liking to her. Perhaps there was hope for us all.

  I bowed my head. “We are honored to perform for such an illustrious group of Constantinople’s most revered wives and mothers.”

  The ruby kyria managed a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You may begin.”

  The show for the women was a sedate affair—the very proper marriage of Abraham and Sarah—and I had only a bit part since I wasn’t interested in fighting for the role of the elderly church matriarch. The kyria yawned into their hands and returned to their gossip before we’d even finished our bows.

  Our troupe moved back to the waiting area behind the curtain to don our cloaks while Hilarion waited for the eunuch to return with the coin purse. Chrysomallo and the other actresses drooled over the rich mosaics and gilded furniture, but I didn’t care a whit for the anemone flowers in the wall fresco or the gold capitals topping the marble columns. From the other side of another green curtain came the low hum of voices, the conversation of some of the Empire’s richest and most powerful men. They were men I wanted to meet, but we were going home.

  My earring caught my paludamentum as I threw the cloak over my shoulder, ready to leave, but the eunuch emerged from the curtain and touched his palms together.

  “The General begs another performance,” he said, his girlish tone more command than request. “He and his guests await in the triclinium.”

  There was a titter of excitement as we shrugged off our cloaks and girls rearranged their cleavage and pinched one another’s cheeks. The men’s dining room was smaller than I expected, made smaller yet by the jet ceiling and red and black rectangular frescoes that stretched from ceiling to floor, surrounding a central fresco depicting a boar hunt and naked hunters armed with spears and bronze shields. Men in white tunicas, many wearing a red senatorial sash tied around their waist, lounged together on saffron lecti as they finished their meals, the tiny bird bones and feathers discarded on the mosaic floor. Dregs of wine already spattered one crimson wall panel, and several toppled redware goblets revealed humorous paintings of men and women in rather inventive positions. This promised to be quite the evening.

  “Leda!” A patrician with curls the color of sand and a dimpled chin waved to me with his wine cup—one that had probably been refilled a few too many times. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. “You cruel goddess, come to steal my heart again!” All the room laughed save a man at his elbow. He was scarcely older than me, but a scar cut from the base of his nose to his upper lip. His black hair was cropped close to his head, and his shoulders resembled a slave’s in a marble quarry. Yet no slave glowered like that.

  A beast of a man in the center of the room crooked a finger at us. He might have been a goose amongst swans in his plain brown tunica with solid leather sandals, a cloud of unruly white curls on his head that matched the sparse hairs peeking over his neckline, and the largest ears I’d ever seen. I liked him immediately.

  “My guests have requested a display of dancing,” he said, waving his goblet to the twenty or so men on the couches. “And as I am old and fat, I thought they might prefer a number performed by the fairer sex.”

  “My ladies are happy to oblige, General.” Hilarion was all smiles and bows, but I hurried to take a place at the back of the circle. I wasn’t likely to run into most of these men—or their fortunes—again, and none of them would rush to claim me once they realized I danced like an elephant. A clumsy elephant.

  Thanks be to Christ they didn’t expect us to sing, too. General Justin clapped a hasty beat, and the rest of the men joined in, singing one bawdy song after another. Chrysomallo gave me a wide berth as we danced, castanets snapping and the room turning warm until sweat pearled on our skin and I flung my hands in the air. “Enough!” I laughed, panting and fanning myself with my hand. “We won’t have any energy for the rest of the night if we keep this up.”

  “And what do you plan to do that takes so much energy?” The sandy-haired man who’d called to me earlier waggled his brows.

  One of the men punched his arm. “We all know what you want to do with her, John.”

  John.

  Now I recognized him, the same man who’d hung on Chrysomallo’s arm the night I’d met Karas at the Boar’s Eye. I wondered if he remembered spewing his dinner over the ground before stumbling into the night. Probably not—he’d likely woken up in an alley the next morning.

  I sidestepped a few of the other girls, hiked up my stola, and perched on the arm of his lectus, tapping my chin as if searching for an answer. He might have been mistaken for Apollo with his soft skin and pale hair. I leaned down as if to whisper in his ear. “If you have to ask what takes so much energy,” I said, tracing the dimple in his chin and speaking loud enough so all could hear, “you should probably go home before the big boys start to play.”

  He laughed with the rest of them, even as his ears turned red as the wall behind him. The waters of the Mediterranean couldn’t have been warmer than the attention of all these men’s eyes on me. Not everyone smiled though. John’s black-haired friend crossed his arms against his chest and watched me with his original scowl. There was no mistaking which god of old he resembled: Ares, god of war.

  “So, young lady.” General Justin shifted on his lectus, waving away the flurry of slaves. “If we are not to have the pleasure of watching you dance, what do you propose for our entertainment?”

  The way the men devoured us with their eyes, I knew what answer they expected. “A skolion,” I said. There was a collective groa
n, but I waved them down. “The winning poet shall receive a kiss”—I grinned and shook my hips—“and maybe more—from whichever girl he chooses, free of charge!”

  That got their attention. Chrysomallo looked at me with wide eyes. “Lord, Theodora. Are you sure you aren’t a pimp?”

  “A poor one if she’s offering our services for free,” one of the other girls hissed under her breath.

  I gestured to the foot of the general’s couch. “May I?” The rest of the troupe followed my lead, most finding their places lying between two men on the couches. Hilarion rolled his eyes at me and disappeared into the shadows of the doorway, there to remain unless there was any trouble.

  Justin moved his legs. “Only so long as no one tells my wife.”

  I thought for a rhyme. “My lips are sealed, as I value your life.”

  There was a ripple of laughter. The skolion—a competition to see who could make the most bawdy rhyme—had begun.

  The black-haired man stood and gave a little bow in my direction, an unpleasant smile hovering on his lips. “‘For reasonable men I prepare only three kraters of wine: the first for health, the second for love and pleasure, and the third for sleep.’”

  It was one of Dionysus’ lines from a play by Eubolus, but spoken in an accent I couldn’t quite place. The ancient Greeks had used giant kraters to mix their water and wine at symposiums like this.

  Justin chuckled. “Quite a difficult challenge, Hecebolus. Rather ungentlemanly of you.”

  The man only raised his brows. “I never claimed to be a gentleman.”

  My mind skipped ahead as the crowd murmured. I wouldn’t let this bear of a man outdo me. “And God had gifted women with such craters as well: one for health”—I pointed to my mouth—“and the second for pleasure with a baser sort of man.” I gave a waggle of my seat before I rose and straddled Hecebolus. I pressed my breasts to his chest and startled at the hardness of his desire between my legs. “And the third”—anyone with half a brain could see the lust in his eyes as I tipped my head and brushed his lips with mine—“for sleep.”

  The entire symposium roared with laughter, everyone in the crowd stomping his feet and clapping. Hecebolus gave a perfunctory clap and shifted me from his lap. John saluted me with his glass, sloshing red wine over the rim. “If only God had graced you with a fourth crater, Theodora, so that we poor souls might enjoy you more.”

  I laughed and sauntered past Hecebolus with his black hair and blacker scowl to sit next to John, cupping my breasts in both his hands. “With a fourth like these, a man might forget I’m a whore.”

  “Two golden apples to rival the one given to Paris. With a face to outshine Helen’s!” He kissed the swell of my breasts and clutched my hand to his heart, pulling me almost to his lap. Hecebolus moved away as if burned, a slight I pretended not to notice.

  “You know,” I said to John, “I met you before I played Leda.”

  “No.” John blinked. “Surely I’d remember meeting such a goddess.”

  “It was at the Boar’s Eye. You were visiting my friend Chrysomallo over there.”

  John glanced at Chrysomallo, cheeks flushed as he shrugged. “She’s a pretty tart, but nothing compared to you.” He shot me a wicked grin and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, giving himself a fuller view of my breasts. “However, the girls at the Boar’s Eye taught me a thing or two over the years. Perhaps I could demonstrate them for you tonight?”

  I laughed. “Perhaps.”

  “Please, Leda—I’ll go mad with desire if I can’t have one night with you.”

  I chuckled as my friends were claimed—Chrysomallo giggled when General Justin pulled her to his lap. “The whole night? You can’t afford me.”

  He grinned, his bronze face lighting up. “Try me.”

  I shrugged, ignoring the strap of my stola as it slid from my shoulder. I should send him to Hilarion, but I preferred to negotiate my own wage.

  “Ten solidi.”

  If he was shocked, he didn’t show it. Ten solidi could keep a regiment in bread and beer for a week or feed a pleb family for months. If I was lucky, he’d end up paying much more than that.

  “I may starve if my creditors find out,” he said, “but such a price would be worth one night with a goddess.”

  He tasted of wine and the cloves and almonds from the stewed chicken as he slipped an arm around my waist and tried to stand. Unsuccessfully. We tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

  I looped one of his arms over my shoulder and held his waist with my free arm, wiping away a trickle of wine from the dimple in his chin. For ten solidi I could help the man to his sedan. God’s blood, for ten solidi I’d strip naked and run down the Mese if he asked me.

  I helped him from the triclinium, the men’s catcalls accompanying us into the darkness until he pulled me into an empty room. He made quick work of the clasps at my shoulders and buried his face in my bare breasts, my hands in his sandy hair. My skin prickled with gooseflesh as he tugged my stola over my hips, then dug his fingers into my backside to pull me closer.

  “I like this spot.” His tongue flicked the mole under my left breast before moving up to the nipple. “And this one.”

  Someone cleared his throat. Hecebolus leaned against the door, arms crossed in front of his massive chest. Heat spread through more than my cheeks as I stepped out of John’s arms and righted my stola, hoping no one else could hear the pounding of my heart.

  “I’d like to counter your offer,” he said. “Ten solidi for tonight, and maybe more nights after that. Let the lady choose.”

  It was my turn to almost fall over. It didn’t matter that his offer was higher—for the first time I found myself actually wanting a man.

  John took one look at me, groaned, and banged his head against the wall. “Tell me you’re not going to choose him. Tell me I didn’t just lose my night with Aphrodite.”

  Hecebolus brushed his tunica, a wolfish smile spreading across his face. The cut of his cloth and the weave of his calfskin boots reeked of money, sweeter than any perfume he might have worn. “Keep your pagan sentiments to yourself, John. This goddess is mine.”

  I raised my brows at John, still wobbly on his feet. “Care to raise your friend’s offer?”

  “Friend?” John shook his head, a loose grin still on his face. “Not after tonight. Alas, my purse is full of cobwebs.” He pulled himself from the wall and punched the other man’s arm. Hard. “Enjoy her for me. God knows I’ll only have myself to scratch my chickpea tonight.” I kissed the poor boy’s cheek, but he turned so his lips brushed mine, and he gave me a jaunty smile. “You’re missing out, Leda.” Then he turned and sauntered into the night.

  Hecebolus snapped his fingers, and a pretty young slave dressed in a red tunica appeared from the shadows of the hall. The eunuch counted five gold coins from his silk purse and dropped them into my palm, careful not to touch me. “The remainder shall be paid after services have been rendered.” He sniffed.

  I slipped the solidi into the hidden pocket sewn into my bodice and was about to comment that he could deposit the rest there later, but Hecebolus picked me up and flung me over his shoulder.

  My initial instinct was to squawk and thwack him over the head. Instead, I wrapped my legs around him and lowered my lips to his, inhaling the spicy smell of his perfume. I didn’t know if I wanted to wait until we made it to his villa.

  We didn’t get that far, barely managing to close the silk curtains before Hecebolus had me on the floor of his sedan. Several times. I moaned and arched into him, my fingernails digging into his back as unexpected waves of pleasure crashed over me. My limbs still tingled as I rearranged myself on the seat opposite him and smoothed the now-rumpled folds of my stola as he opened the curtains. The oil lamps along the Mese sputtered as we passed and then turned down a moonlit street so quiet that the bearers’ footsteps echoed off the buildings.

  I knew well how to satisfy a man, but this was the first time I hadn’t had to pretend my own
pleasure. This man was either a saint, or a demon.

  Hecebolus watched me, and I had to force myself to sit still. I leaned back on the cushions and lazily traced the clover pattern on the curtains. “You don’t wear the red stripe like most of Justin’s other friends tonight,” I said.

  “I’m not a senator. Politicians would double-cross their own mothers if given the opportunity; yet they scorn the merchants they depend upon.”

  “Then why were you there?”

  “John the Cappadocian asked me—he’s particularly adept at maneuvering around the Emperor’s import taxes.”

  Interesting. Poor John played with money; yet he had none of his own. Either he was terribly honest or incredibly stupid.

  “So you’re a merchant.”

  Hecebolus nodded, then tugged me to my knees before him. My finger traced the rope under his tunica—I was shocked to find he was ready for me again. My lips traced a line up the silk of his leg. “And what do you import?”

  “Imperial dye.” I drew back as if slapped. His accent—

  “Purple dye? From Tyre?”

  “How did you know?”

  “And you recently patronized another actress?” I pulled myself back to my seat, sitting on my hands to stop their trembling. “Named Comito?”

  “Until recently, yes.” His face grew hard. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the jealous type.”

  I snatched the coins from my cleavage and flung them on my seat, not caring when they spilled all over the floor we had just enjoyed. “Consider that one complimentary.” I unlatched the door and jumped from the moving sedan, then tripped and felt the seam of my stola rip as I caught myself with my palms. Hilarion would charge me for that.

  “What in the name of Christ?” Hecebolus stuck his head out the window, the curtains framing him like a halo in a mosaic. His expression looked more like a demon than any Christian saint. “Get back here!”