again and again: Aha! Aha!
Finally there was almost nothing left, except a small fragment that covered the still sleeping princess’s crotch. Along came the white rooster with its scarlet coxcomb. It circled the throne. Macedonia was a good dancer, thought Theodora. She probably also made a graceful princess. She strutted and preened as she ogled the sleeping Comito. The music swelled. The crowd bellowed rhythmically: Now! Now! Now! Drum roll. The cock sprang at the girl, pecked and pecked between her legs, and whipped away the last scrap of her garment. A roar went up – and then there was a concerted gasp, a sound almost like a stormy wind: on the white carpet under the throne, some drops of scarlet had appeared. The virgin was bleeding! The audience was delirious. This was extraordinary! This was high drama! They clapped and cat-called and whistled and stamped.
Theodora was astounded. What an effect! She wondered how it had been done. The princess awoke, saw the birds, and screamed. Then she saw that she was naked, and screamed louder. Laughter echoed around the amphitheatre. Oh, what sport! Now she noticed the blood, and her consternation was total. She grabbed the arms of the throne, and stared, and started. Put her hands to her face. Seemed to cower, to try to back away, to hide, perhaps? But there was nowhere to go. Gales of laughter. Uproarious applause.
Macedonia flapped her white wings and hopped comically towards Theodora, dangling the last scrap of material.
“Get her out!” she hissed. “Out! Now!”
Theodora suddenly realised that there was something wrong. It had not been planned, after all. Maybe her sister had somehow been hurt. But she held her pose, walked forward, picked up the discarded cloak, and threw herself into a forward flip plus a rolling somersault to end up in front of the throne. More applause. She bowed and turned to throw the cloak over the shaking girl. She mimed sympathy and comfort, patted the chestnut hair and almost carried her sister off, to the accompaniment of stamping feet.
Theodora managed to get her sister to the dressing-room and propped her, almost fainting, on a chair. Still she bled. Small, dark red drops fell to the ground. Comito burst into a storm of tears.
“What is it? Comito, did they hurt you? Was that beak sharp?” She knelt in front of her sister and tried to push the cloak aside to see what harm had been done, but her sister clung to it desperately.
“No, no …” she sobbed, struggling to catch enough breath to speak. “Didn’t … they didn’t hurt … not … not …”
“But you’re bleeding!”
“Menses,” sobbed Comito. “It’s the m-menses. It’s begun. In f-front of … oh, my God, oh my God! In front of thirty thousand men!” Her voice broke into a crescendo of wails.
“Oh, no! Oh, no!” Theodora understood the utter horror, the degradation of shame. She knew about the menses; her own had not yet begun, but their mother had explained it to them. They knew what to expect.
“I didn’t think … Most of the girls who have started … are … older,” sobbed Comito. “Oh, God, I’ll never show my face again! I’ll join a convent! Oh, I can’t bear it!”
There was a knock at the door. A man’s voice called: “Girls! Girls, are you decent?”
“Marius,” said Theodora, recognising the voice of the Blues’ dancing master.
“He can’t come in,” muttered Comito.
“No, wait – leave it to me,” whispered Theodora. “Here, throw a towel over your head. Stop crying. Sit still.” She put her foot on the drops on the floor. “Come in,” she shouted.
In came Marius, highly excited. “My dears! That was a show-stopper! That was a touch of genius! It was marvellous! Absolutely marvellous!” He mopped his brow, disturbing artfully arranged ringlets. “Comito?”
“She got gum in her hair,” said Theodora as she rubbed briskly.
“Oooo, messy. But how did you do it? You can tell little old me! Won’t whisper a word!”
“Chicken livers,” said Theodora shortly.
“Aha! The old whore’s trick! Very clever! Very clever! In a little bag, and the cock punctured it, yes? No pun intended!” He whinnied with laughter.
“Now you know.” Theodora smiled at him complicitly. “But you won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Oh, of course not! It’s our little secret! And you, my little darling, you were a brilliant surprise as well! Soooo acrobatic! I loved it, it worked!”
“We need to get tidied up now,” said Theodora, still rubbing.
“Of course, of course, I’m on my way! Night-night, darlings!”
“Goodnight,” said Theodora coolly.
“Goodnight,” said Comito in a strangled voice. “Glad you … liked the … um, surprise.”
“Touch of genius,” repeated Marius, and off he went.
Comito emerged from beneath the towel with swollen eyes and smudged make-up. “Chicken livers?” she asked. “Now where on earth did you get an idea like that?”
“I overheard Fat Rosa telling someone,” said Theodora. “Well, your trade secret will be all over town soon enough, you can count on that. And those he doesn’t tell, will think it’s paint. Trust me.”
“Now I’ll have to do it every time,” said Comito glumly. “Chicken livers! Ugh!”
The sisters stared at each other and began to laugh. Their laughter swelled hysterically. They laughed until they were exhausted.
Theodora was given some small roles, and she made the most of them. Yet even when all their wages were added together, life was never easy.
Then Anastasia woke up one morning with a wheezing cough. Peter brought medicine that did no good. After a week he fetched the aged apothecary who, himself out of breath after clambering up the stairs, shook his head.
“Gone to her chest,” he panted. “Keep her warm. Plenty of fluids. Make soup.”
“I have to go on stage,” Anastasia said huskily.
“It’ll be the death of you,” he said. “Might entertain the fans. But only once.” He cackled like a goose at his own wit.
A cold northwesterly wind brought winter to Constantinople. Laden with the odour of marshes rotting in their depths, it found every ill-fitting window, every loose roof tile; it rattled and slapped and shook the rickety building they lived in and then pelted it with icy sleet.
Chariot races were still run, but shows in the Kynêgion were so poorly attended that it shut down. Peter’s wages were stretched thin; he grew increasingly desperate and came home later and later, more often drunk. Soon Stasie also began a hacking cough. Since her eighth birthday she had shot up, yet she still looked lumpish. She was already almost as tall as Comito, but her skin was pasty and her brown curls had no lustre. She no longer had attacks of noisy weeping, but at times seemed to retreat into a state of wordless misery that shut her off from the world around her.
Then one day Comito came home with a basket of
