The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (19 page)

“Believe what?”

“Every lover is a soldier?”

He narrowed his eyes at me and returned to his copy of
The Republic
. “I don’t know.”

“No pompous advice? That’s a first.”

“Perhaps I don’t care for the subject.”

“Well, I don’t believe it. Love isn’t a battlefield.” I set aside Ovid and added the copy of
The Republic
on top, settling myself between Hecebolus’ legs to toy with the rope at his waist. I smiled. “It’s not so difficult loving you.”

I wanted to grab the words and yank them back into my stupid, wine-sotted mouth as soon as I saw his grimace. I was here to secure a marriage belt by playing Aphrodite, not dull, simpering Hestia.

A shut mouth gathers no foot.
Mother would wring my neck if she could see me now.

Hecebolus gently removed my hands and stood up. “It’s been a long day. Perhaps we should both retire for the night.”

There was nothing more I could do without further humiliating myself. I managed a dignified walk out of his cabin, waiting until Hecebolus had shut the door behind me before knocking my forehead against the wall.

Perhaps love really was a battlefield.

F
inally, on our twenty-second day at sea, one of the slaves made the cry for land. The scent of rich earth mixed with the ever-present smell of salt. I raced to the prow and there, far off on the horizon, was the brown smudge of Africa.

Our new home.

This frontier was at the ends of the earth, scarcely part of the Empire’s thousand cities. It was here that my fortune would be made and, in less than a year, Hecebolus and I would depart these shores as man and wife. He hadn’t mentioned my comments about love that night in his cabin, and I pretended I had never spoken them. I hadn’t touched a drop of wine since then.

Our little kingdom was a dusty sprawl that cascaded from low hills, interspersed with rare patches of green cypress trees.

Apollonia.

Farther into the heathen continent spread the other four cities that made up Pentapolis: Teuchira, Ptolemais, Cyrene, and Barka. This was my new world, and I planned to rule it, and Hecebolus, well.

The magister cleared Hecebolus’ ship, and we disembarked among
curious stares and bows once the plebs realized they were in the presence of their new governor. The wart-faced sailor stared at the ground as I walked past him for what I hoped was the last time. Libanius ran ahead to fetch the governor’s sedan—I’d caught the slave studying the schematics of the town and the new villa he would oversee. The governor’s mansion squatted atop the town like a pale rooster over its flock.

The sedan was carved of ebony, but I scarcely noted the tasseled cushions or shiny gilding as we swayed down Apollonia’s main street, too busy watching the scene out the windows. We wove in silence through a meager market filled with veiled women and barefoot children, some with red sores on their filthy legs. I loved the attention as much as I had on the stage—the stares and whispers.

Let them talk.

I wrinkled my nose as we jostled our way through the gates of the largest villa in town, the Palace of the Dux, sitting atop the highest hill. It lacked the terraced grace of Constantinople’s Sacred Palace and was only a fraction of the size, but its stones were the color of a lion’s mane, with columns on the portico like the great temples of old. A garden spilled over high walls, an oasis of green spiked with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle.

Slaves poured from the entrance, at least forty identically dressed in reed sandals and pristine white tunicas edged with blue trim.

“I am Hecebolus, your new master and governor of Pentapolis.” My future husband stepped down from his litter and surveyed his gift from the Emperor, obviously pleased with all his bribe had purchased. “I expect perfect obedience and order from each of you. Nothing less will be tolerated.

“I require a bath and tray of food in my chambers.” Hecebolus gave orders for the remainder of his household and started toward the front door. I cleared my throat. Loudly.

Hecebolus glanced back at me—I swore he smiled. “This is one of
the new maids, Theodora,” Hecebolus said. “Install her in one of the garden rooms.”

Filthy louse on a goat.

I wanted to lunge at him, grab him by the ear, and make him take it back, but then he strode off.

The swell of the sea still swayed beneath my feet as I stood in the front drive of a governor’s villa in the midst of slaves who likely couldn’t wait to tell this tale to everyone in the five cities who would listen.

I smoothed my crumpled curls from my face and gave what I hoped was a becoming smile. “To the garden room then?”

Libanius sniffed at me as if I were yesterday’s garbage, then stepped forward and gestured toward a separate wing of the house. “This way.”

He deposited me in a tiny box of a room, empty save for a pallet on the floor and the smell of old straw.

I wasn’t going to stay cooped up in here, or worse, wait for someone to summon the governor’s new maid to do a list of chores. I hadn’t come all this way to empty buckets of night soil or scrub floors.

The governor’s villa likely had its own baths, but I needed to stretch my legs and clear my mind. Even this ramshackle frontier town had to have a decent bathhouse. I retraced my steps to the entrance and passed the harbor, empty except for the
Naiad
floating lazily at the docks. Near the gutting tables, a massive stone slab like a sacrificial table was ringed with Latin.
All fish longer than the markings on this marble shall be given to the magistrates and governor, up to and including the fins.

At least we could look forward to eating well. Or getting heartily sick of fish.

Apollonia might not compare to Constantinople, but it did possess a certain rugged beauty. The azure sea mingled with the blue sky and puffs of clouds. I wondered if the town had a theater as well—I wouldn’t mind watching a show or two. Had Hecebolus presented me
as a proper
kyria
, that would be out of the question, but since the imbecile had only introduced me as a maid, I was still free to enjoy myself. And I intended to.

I almost missed the baths, and I had to backtrack to a white-domed building with a sprawling view of the inner harbor. On the ground before the door was a diminutive mosaic with two sandals, three strigils, and the words
Salvom Lavisse. A bath is healthy for you.

Mismatched Corinthian columns filled the courtyard, but the house itself was tiny and was laid out like a private residence with its peristyle garden court. The gap-toothed slave on the
Naiad
had warned me that a great wave had destroyed much of the town ages ago. From what I could tell, it hadn’t been rebuilt, just rearranged.

A man stumbled down the steps and passed me with a lurid look. Then his hand squeezed my backside. I gave a startled shriek and kicked him in the shin as hard as I could.

“Don’t mind Apasios,” the slave at the entrance said. “He doesn’t know how to go home from the baths sober.”

But my cheeks flushed anyway. I was finished with that sort of behavior from men. Yet they didn’t seem finished with me. I wondered if there was something wrong with me, something that drew them to me and told them I was easy prey.

I paid the slave with a coin I’d filched from Hecebolus a few weeks back and forced myself not to run through the courtyard. Few people lounged about the bathhouse—most were probably sleeping away the heat of the afternoon on their roofs or in the shade of their gardens. A handful of pretty young men twisted and lunged their sweaty bodies across the grass of the little exercise yard. I felt their eyes on me until I ducked into the dark warmth of the
tepidarium
.

The bath was decadent torture.

“You’ll have to come back every day this week to be properly scrubbed.” A brawny slave slapped rose-scented oil onto my heels. The flesh between her brows was so creased it joined the penciled
lines above her eyes, a rather fearful sight as she glared at my feet. She had finished with my brows; they felt as if someone had jabbed bone needles into them. The entertainment finished with a scraping from a strigil that looked as though it could have shaved Medusa.

Finally clean and with my nails varnished as an extra treat, I picked up the hem of my stola and skirted the fresh carcass of a dead dog, its brown eyes glazed over and already covered with opportunistic flies. My stola had seen better days—I’d have to burn it to get rid of the
Naiad
’s fish stench.

The smell of fresh straw greeted me in my room—the pallet had been exchanged, and a new silk stola the rich shade of pomegranates hung from a peg by the window. It felt like a cool river as I slipped it over my head.

“Where have you been?”

I startled to feel Hecebolus’ lips trail down my neck, but I smiled and turned in his arms. He was freshly bathed, his cheeks shaved smooth. My heart tripped a little at the musky scent of his pomade. I kissed the scar on his lip and caressed the back of his neck, feeling the damp still clinging to his hair.

“At the baths.”

“I didn’t see you there. I’d have liked to ravage you in the steam.”

“I went to the baths in town.” I nibbled his lips, but he pulled away, his expression as thunderous as Zeus of old.

“Unescorted?”

“Why would I need an escort?” I stepped back, arms akimbo. “Maids don’t require escorts to baths.”

“Because it’s expected they’ll spread their legs for any man who wants them. Only whores go about the streets unescorted.”

I gestured to my waist. “There’s no marriage belt here, so I suppose I’m still a whore.”

He stared at me, then threw his head back and laughed. “You poor, misguided little fool. Did you honestly think I’d marry you?
Women like you are good for a lay, but that’s all you’ll ever be. No patrician in his right mind would marry trash.”

Fury and terror slurred my thoughts. “You knew what I was before you agreed to bring me here!” All of Apollonia could probably hear me, but I didn’t care.

Hecebolus looked at me as if I were a cockroach. Or worse. “I thought you were a
scenica
. The skinny slave with the wart on the
Naiad
disabused me of that notion. Turns out you’re nothing but a common
pornai
.”

Wart. The double-crossing piece of offal deserved a soft cock the next time he paid for a woman.

My plans were in shambles, but there had to be a way to get myself out of this. Frantic, I prayed Wart hadn’t told him about what I’d done to keep his mouth shut.

You were blessed with both brains and beauty.

I flipped my hair behind my shoulder, making sure Hecebolus could see a fair way down my stola. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

He clenched and unclenched his fists, leaning so close I could smell the spiced wine on his breath. “You honestly think I’m jealous of all the men at the parties your pimp took you to? The men you lay with and their filthy slaves, thirty in one night?”

I laughed, shocked. “I’d be a rich woman if I could take thirty in one night.”

There was a flash of white as his fist crashed into my cheek, an explosion of pain and spots of green and red dancing in my vision. I staggered back, scraping my elbow on the wall as I tripped to the floor. Hecebolus leaned over me, his face a blur. “If I’d known what you really were, I’d have left you in Constantinople to rot.

“You have two choices, Theodora,” he growled. “You stay here and do exactly as I say, when I say it.”

I didn’t much like the sound of that. “Or?”

“Or you go back to the streets.”

I’d come too far and given up too much to turn back now. I’d go mad in this prison, but I had nowhere else to go, no way to get back to Tasia if I left.

There was only one power I held over Hecebolus. I caressed his crotch and felt his reaction in my hand.

“I’ll stay,” I whispered in his ear. “But only because you’re a good lay, too.”

.   .   .

A villa with one hundred rooms shouldn’t feel like a prison. Yet it did.

I woke the next morning to another new stola, this one a pale orange that melted into pink, reminding me of the skin of a peach. It was a nice change, considering how well the violent purple bruise on my eye matched the pomegranate stola. I touched my brow and winced. I felt a moment’s remorse, worried that this really was my fault for allowing Hecebolus to believe I was a
scenica
. I should be thankful Wart hadn’t spilled word of all our secret meetings to Hecebolus, or I’d be lucky to sport only a black eye. But I wasn’t thankful. I was livid.

The slaves avoided me, not that I could blame them. Utterly alone, I made quick work exploring the gardens, the tiny library, even the aviary with its clipped doves. The little town I had scoffed at suddenly held adventures and excitement I could only dream of. Apollonia housed three basilicas, but I had to make my prayers in the villa’s tiny chapel to an ancient priest who reeked of cedar, no doubt to keep away the moths that had already helped themselves to the fabric of his black tunica. I began to imagine cedar as the smell of death, which was fitting since I would probably only leave my prison when the same priest came to say my funeral rites.