called the Blue. Raucous approval.
“And John of Cappadocia, Prefect of the East,” added the Green. The crowd bellowed its agreement, a wave of sound that engulfed the Kathisma.
“Granted,” said the Mandator as instructed by Justinian. “We hear you. All three shall be dismissed. We give our word.”
A sustained roar. Feet drummed. A messenger arrived, black with soot, to inform the Emperor that the northern end of the Augusteum was in flames. Clouds of smoke were billowing across the Hippodrome.
Angrily, Justinian drew his cloak around him. “Narses,” he ordered, “see to it that the three persons mentioned are brought into the palace so that they may be kept safe.” He turned his back on the populace and swept out with Theodora. In a shaky voice the Grand Chamberlain announced, unnecessarily, that there would be no sport this day.
I gave orders for guards to escort the three disgraced officials to the palace, together with key senators. Cappadocian John and Tribonian stalked in angrily, while the dour Eudaemon kept his head down, his horsy face miserable, since his men should have quelled this riot at the start. Also shepherded in were Hypatius and Pompeius, since I judged that anyone with royal pretensions would be better under my own eyes. Their youngest brother, Probus, had fled the city at the first sign of rebellion. Probably wisely. The three nephews of the old king Anastasius are but a sorry lot, yet when all is said and done, they do have royal blood.
What next? We can but wait, and watch.
Chapter 5: Comito acts
“Theod-dora,” said Peter, “you need to g-get ready. I’ll walk you and C-Comito to the K-Kynêgion. I have to p-practise a new act with the b-bears.”
Comito at thirteen was already a star of the stage, and today Theodora was due to make her first appearance with her sister. A non-speaking part; she would merely be a slave who had to carry a stool. Yet she was nervous. The Kynêgion did not hold good memories for her. Sometimes she dreamed that she had to face that awful, scornful silence again, and in her dreams she and her mother and her sisters always shrank until they were invisible and about to be trodden into the sand, at which point she would wake up screaming.
On the other hand, in a way she looked forward to it. If Comito could do it, so could she. She knew she was not as good as her sister at dancing and singing, but she was determined to find her own way to entertain all those men. All she had to offer was her body – sadly, it was still just like the body of a young boy, straight and flatchested. No curves, no hips and breasts to unclothe in a teasing way. Nothing to make men sweat and stamp and whistle and cheer. But she had worked hard with the acrobats. She was agile and lithe. She would find a way.
“Coming, Peter,” she called. She had made her peace with him. He had come back after her furious tirade that self-same night, so drunk that he must have forgotten all that had been said. He crept up the stairs and threw up into his vegetable basket. Then he crawled into bed beside his wife and filled the small quarters with rasping snores throughout what was left of the night. The next morning he was shame-faced and apologised humbly.
Life went on. They survived. Always precariously on the edge of destitution, dependent on the contribution of each one of them who could earn something. But they did survive.
Peter left the two girls at the dressing-room. It was a bustle of dancers preparing for a spectacular mime that involved birds. They walked into a warm miasma of sweating bodies overlaid with the pungent scents of stage make-up and the gum that was used to attach glitter and feathers to bare skin. The women wore very little clothing, but enormous feathered wings trailed from their arms and they were crowned with tall plumed headdresses. Sharp beaks were hooked onto their faces with loops around the ears. Comito was to play the part of a young princess who fell asleep and dreamed of birds.
“Meet Macedonia,” said Comito. “She alternates with me as the princess.”
A tall girl with a scarlet coxcomb on her head and white arm feathers nodded and went on applying glitter.
“This is my sister Theodora, girls,” said Comito. Multicoloured plumes inclined towards Theodora. Iridescent eyes stripped her and found her lacking. No competition, sneered the beaks soundlessly, turned away and twittered on among themselves. Theodora felt as if she was transparent. But one day they would see her clearly, she angrily promised herself.
A low circular wooden stage had been set in the centre of the arena and swiftly decked with trees and flowers in pots; a gilded scarlet throne on a snowy carpet awaited the princess. Comito ran on first, accompanied by her humble slave, who went to stand beside a tree. An appreciative roar greeted the appearance of the princess in her scarlet cloak over a filmy white tunic. She proceeded to dance a solo, accompanied by a trio of flutes that wove birdsong into melodies. She removed her cloak, using it to create brilliant waves of colour. She was a flame that rushed on the wind as she ran and leapt across the stage, expressing youth, energy, happiness, freedom. Cheers. Whistles. She turned into a spiral of scarlet as she twirled around and around. One last dizzying leap. Then a surge of applause as she mimed weariness and sank onto the throne where sleep would soon overcome her.
Comito imperiously gestured to Theodora to bring her the stool, that had been placed ready at the edge of the stage. All Theodora had to do was to walk over and fetch it. She did not have words to speak, steps to dance nor a song to sing. Dressed in a skimpy tunic with her long black hair in a thick braid, she walked towards the small round stool, turned her back on it and bent over backwards until she could grip it behind her head. Then she hoisted it up and over, set it down at her own feet and swung herself into a headstand on the red velvet seat. Her plait flapped down as her legs went up. She balanced and scissored her legs. Her movements were greeted with raucous applause and shrill whistles. Finally she righted herself, picked up the stool again and set it down with a flourish right in front of the princess. There, she thought: I made them notice me.
Comito settled her feet on the stool. She was furious. It was no part of her plan that Theodora should steal her applause.
“You need merely walk,” she hissed. “If I want acrobatics, I will order them. You overreach yourself, slave!” The audience could not hear her words clearly, but it was obvious that she was scolding the impudent girl.
Theodora hung her head in a pretence of shame. She stood with her legs together. Then a murmur ran round the huge amphitheatre. It became laughter. Men pointed. Comito stared at her contrite sister, whose shining bent head sank lower and lower in front of her eyes. Yet she didn’t seem to be moving at all. Then it grew clear: she was sliding her legs out sideways, while keeping her back straight. Down and down she went. The laughter turned to appreciative applause. She had done a complete split with her legs apart flat on the ground. She held her pose for a few counts, then smoothly drew one leg around and rose in a supple motion. Off she went to her humble station, bowing, to tumultuous cheers. That’s it, she thought triumphantly: I can make them laugh. That’ll be the key.
Now brassy trumpets heralded the entry of the dazzling flock of birds. As they pranced into the arena their plumes swayed, their wings waved gracefully, breasts such as no bird ever had bounced as they too leapt and twirled. The princess slept on, surrounded by the avian spectres conjured by her dreaming mind. She was a picture of vulnerable innocence in her white tunic as she lay back against the blood-red velvet.
An ominous note entered the music. Drums sounded. The birds began to converge on the sleeping virgin. Feathered heads bobbed up and down as they examined her from head to toe. They began to pretend to peck at her with their beaks, taking bits of her tunic between their teeth and ripping them from her motionless
