Many of the Blues directed disapproving glares at Asterius. He stared straight ahead of him.
But the illustrious Blues, as true Christians should,
Will give succour to these innocents in need.
We will stretch out our hands and dry their tears.
Anastasia wondered what would come next. Marius waited as the attention of the vast throng focused on him, Greens and Blues alike. Then his voice became more businesslike.
Our keeper of the bears is old, he wishes to retire.
We can use the strength and talents of a younger man.
He turned to face the tiers of men clad in blue cloaks that lined half of the Kynêgion behind him.
“Are we agreed?” he shouted, throwing up his arms. “What do you say?”
“Yes!” roared the Blue faction, and they drummed their feet loudly. “Appoint him! Down with the Greens!”
Anastasia was amazed at the sudden reversal of their fortunes. She had not thought that Marius, who was not as imposing as Asterius and much less arrogant, would have the courage to take such drastic action with such decisiveness. But she knew that he had suffered belittlement and scorn from the older dancing master, and he had seen and taken a marvellous opportunity to make the other look a fool – worse than a fool: greedy and lacking in Christian values.
She stepped forward and sank to her knees with her hands together prayerfully, her head bowed. “We thank the noble Blues,” she said, clearly. “We are most grateful for their Christian grace.”
The little girls imitated her gesture. The Greens growled. The Blues cheered.
“Girls, go home to Rosa,” muttered Anastasia. “Leave me to sort out the contract. Go now, leave, before the show begins.”
The children walked out hand in hand. Comito waved. Stasie had stopped weeping. Theodora gave a little skip. They had been saved, beyond all expectations, by the Blues. They could stay together, they would not have to be sold, or go hungry.
But all of them would henceforth hate the Greens.
As the weeks went by, their lives improved to some degree. As a beginner Peter did not earn a very big salary, but with the money their mother brought home they could keep going. Anastasia insisted that the two eldest girls should continue with the lessons that Acasius had begun with before he died. “Right now,” he had said, “it’s true that your prospects don’t look very promising, but you never know what the future might bring. You might advance in life, and my daughters should be prepared to take their places in better society.”
They could certainly not afford to hire a slave pedagogue, as more well-off families did, but Anastasia herself could teach them to read, write and reckon. In her previous life, of which her children knew nothing, she had been well educated. She could pass that learning on, which was fortunate. So whenever she had a free afternoon, their small table became a desk. The library in a better part of town loaned her codices; in her best cloak, her face wiped clean of make-up, she pretended to be a lady’s maid sent by a respectable matron with a love of reading.
Both girls were quick and able, but Theodora, especially, loved to learn. She was entranced by marks on parchment that miraculously told one stories, over and over, patiently, and even more astounded that she could make such marks herself. That such marks could turn into her own voice, speaking her very words. Also she loved numbers that followed each other in a particular order, that could be counted on to be predictable, that always came out in exactly the same way if you did specific things. Comito learned what she had to, quickly but without particular enjoyment.
“All the same,” said Anastasia, “you’ll likely both have to follow me on the stage. For that you’ll need to be trained.”
Fat Rosa was paid with honey-cakes to teach the girls to sing. Comito’s voice rang strongly, sweet and true, and she practised daily. “Can I have proper dancing lessons too?” she demanded.
“You’ll begin when you turn eight,” promised Anastasia. She understood that Comito’s one desire was to be the centre of attention, a special person instead of a little-regarded child.
Theodora’s ear was good and she could hold a tune, but her voice, though sweet, was small. Fat Rosa sighed and shook her head. “This one won’t be a star,” she told Anastasia. “I’m doing my best, but the voice is not impressive. And she’s so thin, and pale, and dark. She’ll not have the men on the edges of their seats. Comito, now …” Comito had the chestnut hair, burnished with brushing, lightened with lemon and bleached into a shining mane by sitting in the sun, that a future star of the stage should have.
Theodora said nothing, but she brooded about it. It was true that she could neither sing nor dance as well as her sister. But she wanted to be better than Comito at something. Something that Comito couldn’t even do at all. Something special, that was her thing. What this might be was at first not clear. Then one day, while she was waiting for her mother to finish a performance at the Kynêgion, Theodora saw a group of acrobats practising their stunts in a yard off to the side. It was a family show, with a father muscled like a statue, a limber, apparently boneless mother with a long plait of hair, and three nimble children who tumbled about and flung themselves through the air with joyous abandon.
Yes! thought Theodora. I want to be able to do that. I could do that. That could be my thing. She walked up to the father when he stopped to draw breath after a series of intricate tumbles. “Please,” said Theodora, “please will you teach me to do that?”
The man looked at her in amusement, his knotted arms and barrel chest slick with sweat. “It’s not as easy as it looks,” he said. “It’s actually not easy at all. It’s bloody hard work, and it’s dangerous.”
“I could learn,” said Theodora. “You needn’t teach me for free. My mother makes wonderful honey-cakes.”
He gave a loud guffaw. “No, child, we can’t get fat. Tell me … your mother … is she the actress who does Pasiphae?”
“Yes.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “So it’s your father got killed by a bear?”
“Yes.”
He asked: “Can you do a handstand?”
“Yes,” said Theodora, and she did, balancing upside down for several counts.
“All right. We’ll teach you. If you’re good enough, you can be a permanent stand-in. Sometimes one of the kids is not so well. But no complaints. You’ll do as you’re told. And you’ll practise, and practise, and then practise some more.”
“Yes, I will,” said Theodora, delighted.
She was less delighted when she found out just how hard it was. But she stuck to it; she stubbornly and wordlessly endured bruises, falls that whacked the breath out of her body, aching muscles, several sprains and a broken toe. And she learned: balance, suppleness, speed, control. Timing. Self-belief. Until at last she was good enough to be a part of their act. Good enough, in fact, to be the apex of the human pyramid that was the climax of their performance. Only she never had a chance to do this on stage, since the three children jealously clung to their places. Still, she knew what she could do. And one day, she thought, her chance would come.
