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  “What’s this for?”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Something extra for your first.”

  My cheeks flared with shame. The battered flesh between my legs throbbed, and I wanted to scrub my skin raw, rid myself of the smell of sex. I could never undo what I’d just done, but I desperately wanted to. I’d sold myself for two grimy coins.

  The slaves were scarcely gone when I heard a cackle of laughter and Antonina sauntered toward me, her eyebrows touching her hairline. I made a show of smoothing my tunica, despising the heat that spread across my cheeks and the sting in my eyes.

  “A true alley cat, aren’t you?” Antonina chuckled. “It takes a special sort of tart to please the lowest of the low, but I’m so happy to see you’ve found your niche.”

  “Better than yours at least.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest, digging my fingers into my own flesh to keep from crying. “How is it for a dried-up old pornai like yourself? I notice you don’t have many customers these days.”

  I danced away as she lunged at me, varnished nails flashing. She managed to grab a fist of hair and yanked my head back so hard that white spots danced before my eyes. “You filthy viper—you don’t know what I’ve been through.”

  I landed on my backside and grabbed her ankle. “You’re the viper.” But then I bit into the back of her leg, rather enjoying her howl of pain. I skittered away as the actors emerged from the stage, ignoring Comito’s raised eyebrow.

  “Get that filthy pagan out of here,” Petronia screeched. “I thought I told you not to come back!”

  I hadn’t realized Antonina had added worship of the old gods to her long list of sins. She flicked imaginary dust from her tunica and sniffed as she passed me. “I hope you burn for eternity in the fires of Gehenna.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  …

  I got drunk that night. Filthy, stinking drunk.

  Comito stayed late with her ivory merchant, and I planned to collapse on my pallet once I got to the Boar’s Eye, but an amphora of wine held the blissful promise of making me forget what I’d done, at least for the night.

  And so I drank. I spent the entire bronze coin on two amphorae, drinking them unwatered.

  “You’d best take it slow, little bird,” the taverna owner said, his brows arching as I guzzled straight from the second bottle.

  “I’m fine.” My words slurred together, and the warm room spun on its axis. Yet I no longer cared so much that I’d lost my virtue. I laughed aloud at that, ignoring the looks from the other girls and their patrons. How were you supposed to keep your virtue when life trod all over you?

  “It’s time you came upstairs, Theodora.” I vaguely registered my mother’s voice as someone pulled me from my chair. The room lurched and I fell to my knees, vomiting the liquid contents of my stomach all over the floor and my hands.

  “I’ll come back and clean it up, Falkon,” my mother said from somewhere far away. “Stupid, foolish girl,” she said, dragging me up the stairs. “Whatever you’ve done, this isn’t the solution.” She stopped and forced my chin up. Somehow she had multiplied, so three of her frowned at me, then reached up to brush my stinking hair back from my face. “You don’t want to end up like me, do you?”

  I didn’t have time to think on that. The world went black.

  …

  I was in the corner of the Kynêgion’s dressing room, my tunica hiked up with a fuller behind me, his hands in my hair, a beneficial position since he stunk of the urine he’d stood in all day before seeking me out halfway through a production of Saint Agnes of Rome. I’d have preferred a silversmith or even a butcher, but it wasn’t as if I had men waiting in line for me.

  I’d sworn off wine, deciding the momentary respite from reality wasn’t worth the pounding head and curdled stomach the next day. I was determined not to end up like my mother, but I was desperate to get out of this life. Unfortunately, a rumor started that I excelled at all sorts of depravities—no doubt a gift from Antonina—and none of the men in the past week was as generous as the first. I had to get onstage. Any pleb could flop on the ground and hike up her tunica, but only an actress could become a scenica. And I had no chance of getting onstage on my own, not with my flat chest and feet like an elephant. For the first time in my life, I found myself wishing to be like Comito.

  That didn’t last long.

  “Theodora, we can’t find the fake breasts, and I need them for the next act.” I didn’t hear Comito over the din of the water organ until it was too late. “What in the name of—” She screeched and covered her eyes as I struggled away from the fuller. He righted himself in a hurry and scuttled off, sending the flames of the torches shuddering in his wake.

  “Get back here,” I yelled. “You haven’t paid me yet!”

  I’d have chased after him, but Comito’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

  “I’d ask what you were doing, but I think that much was obvious.” Her lip curled with distaste. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Does it really matter?” I rubbed my scalp where he’d pulled my hair too hard.

  Comito glared at me. “Yes, it matters. I’m not doing this for fun. I’d rather be married to Karas, fat with his babies in a cozy room above the butchery. I’m trying to find a patron, but that’s going to be awfully difficult if word gets out that my sister will spread her legs for anything that walks in the door.” She looked in the direction the man had fled. “For free, no less. Always collect the coins before he takes off his belt.”

  I ignored her helpful advice. “This wouldn’t be an issue if you’d get me onstage.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t act! You don’t play the lyra, and your dancing is so poor you’d never make it on the lineup.”

  “You just don’t want any more competition!”

  She laughed. I picked up Saint Agnes’ fake breasts with their flaked red nipples and threw them at her before storming outside.

  I stomped down dark alleys, winding my way toward the open expanse of the harbor. Raindrops pattered down on the waters of the Golden Horn’s narrow inlet, and my breath made tiny white clouds in the night air. The drops were cold and clean on my tongue, despite the smell of brine. Two grain ships from Egypt sat at anchor, painted black and gold eyes staring at me from their prows. Fishermen were still bringing in their haul of tunny, mackerel, and even a massive bloodied tuna almost as tall as me. A wizened old man sat at the edge of his dinghy before a tiny cooking fire, the remnants of today’s catch cleaned and laid out for purchase next to a pile of day-old loaves on the benches of the boat. I parted with two nummi and groaned aloud as the sea bass melted in my mouth between the crusty bread. I could have eaten at least two more and washed them down with a cold cup of pickle juice, but the rain began in earnest, so I had to jump puddles on my way back to the Boar’s Eye. My wool paludamentum smelled like wet goat as I peeled it from my shoulders, shaking rain from my drenched hair. Inside, logs popped as the fire roared and rosy-cheeked barmaids hustled trays of wine and stuffed grape leaves while still managing to giggle and bat their lashes as drunken patrons pinched their backsides.

  “Evenin’, Theodora.” A pornai from the room across from us stood at the bottom of the stairs, hanging on a man who barely seemed able to stay upright. Chrysomallo was younger than me, perhaps ten or eleven, but a bronze amulet hung between her breasts—what there was of them anyway—and was engraved with a man mounting a woman dog-style to advertise her particular specialty.

  “Busy night?” I walked sideways to avoid the man—he was pleasant enough on the eyes with a mop of sandy hair and a deep cleft in his chin, but he looked ready to void his stomach at any moment.

  “I hear you’re treading the boards down at the Kynêgion—when are you going to join us?” Just what I needed—a tart next door with a big mouth. “Someone’s waiting for you upstairs,” she said. Her man clapped his hand over his mouth and lurched towar
d the door, but he didn’t quite make it. “By the dog, John! I told you that would happen.” She looked toward the ceiling and sighed. “If that one upstairs isn’t yours, feel free to send him my way.”

  John—although certainly not his real name, but the most common alias the men in the taverna gave—staggered out the door as Chrysomallo fiddled with the emblem around her neck. It seemed odd that the girls who worked here would brazenly advertise their occupation while their patrons took such pains to hide their identity. Not for the first time I wondered at the lack of fairness in God’s world.

  I climbed the stairs slowly, unsure who might be waiting outside my door. I never told men at the Kynêgion much about myself, usually not even my name, much less where I lived.

  A well-made young man leaned against the wall by our room, a posy of daisies in one hand. I’d have known those shaggy curls anywhere.

  “And here I thought I had a surprise visitor,” I said, glaring at Karas. “I should have known it was for Comito.”

  His smile faltered. It wasn’t my fault he’d scorned my sister and she now warmed the beds of Constantinople’s elite.

  “It’s good to see you, Theodora,” he said, running his hands through his mop of curls as he looked past me. He smelled like a slaughter room. “Is your sister downstairs?”

  “She’s still out—” I felt a momentary flicker of pity for the butcher’s son. “With the other actresses.” And my mother was on the other side of the door, either listening to all this or passed out after drinking too much wine. I folded my soggy paludamentum over my arm. “I know I look a fright, but I’d be happy to share a mug of barley water with you.”

  Karas showed off two rows of perfectly straight teeth. He and Comito would have made beautiful babies, but it was too late for that now.

  He saw me settled at a table near the fire and ordered us two clay cups of barley water with mint and honey. I was halfway done with mine, having chattered about the recent races at the Hippodrome, the latest crop of pears, and the general state of the Empire while he stared at his cup. Finally, I faked a yawn into my hand. “It was lovely visiting with you, Karas, and I’ll tell Comito you stopped by—”

  “I made a mistake.” He grabbed my hand. “I want Comito back.”

  We sat that way across the table, his hand over mine, probably stared at by half the people in the Boar’s Eye. A butcher’s son would never help our fortunes, not like a prefect or one of the other patricians my sister now entertained. And after my sister’s little performance tonight, I wasn’t about to saddle poor Karas with her. A patron was what she wanted, and a patron was what she’d get. “Comito has moved on,” I finally said.

  “I know she did things she shouldn’t have, when Anastasia was sick. I should have helped her, but I was too jealous. My mother told me I should find a better girl, one with virtue. But I don’t want another girl. I just want Comito.” His face crumbled. “She’s found someone else now, hasn’t she?”

  “A merchant.” Several of them. And a senator.

  I slipped my hand from under his. “I’m sorry, Karas.” He still sat there as I looked down from the top of the stairs, so forlorn as he stared into his cup, the posy of wilting daisies on the table, that I almost went back and told him my sister would marry him the next morning. But she had been so awful to me tonight—I knew she rather enjoyed keeping me in the gutter. I forced myself to turn around and open the door to our room, glad for the robust moans that seeped through the walls to muffle the creak of the hinges as I tried not to wake my mother.

  Now I had to make sure Comito never found out what I’d done.

  …

  Comito prodded me awake with her foot as autumn sunshine weaseled its way through the shutters of our only window the next morning.

  “Late night?” My mother kissed the top of Comito’s head, her eyes puffy and her breath still sour from last night’s wine. “I’ll see what’s downstairs for breakfast—probably more eggs and boiled cabbage.”

  Comito let her stola fall at her feet and stretched out naked on our pallet as Mother shut the door. I rolled to the other side to give her my back, but she dangled a thick gold coin before my nose, a solidus bearing Emperor Anastasius’ profile, sans his one green and one blue eye. I’d be lucky to earn so much in two months at this rate. “I still have to give Hilarion his cut,” she said, “but Mother should find us better rooms today. I think this might be the one—a prefect in the Emperor’s court. He has a villa in Hieron—we could go there for the sea breezes in the summer—”

  I let my sister’s words go in one ear and out the other until she jabbed me in the ribs.

  “I asked Hilarion on my way out if he thought you could go onstage yet. He said to talk to him this afternoon.”

  I was a Judas. I deserved to hang and have my bowels burst asunder, just as he had.

  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.