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Authors: Stephanie Thornton
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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 onthe 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 toward 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
“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 onthe 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 toward 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
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