The Colour of power. Marié Heese

is not our father,” stated Theodora. “He should not sit there. Not. There.” Small though she was, she radiated such intensity of disapproval that Peter sheepishly stumbled to his feet, knocking over the milk jug.

      “S-sorry. I’ll s-sit in the m-middle,” said Peter. “Then I c-can help S-Stasie.”

      For a couple of weeks, Peter did the job at the Hippodrome that Acasius had done, and despite Theodora’s unflagging animosity, they survived. Then one day he clumped up the several flights of stairs in a rare state of anger. He flung the door open and stomped into the room that served as kitchen, sitting room and bedroom for the girls.

      “Anas-t-tasia!” he bellowed.

      “I’m right here,” she said. “Don’t shout.” He was so large that the room could not easily accommodate him in a turmoil. “Whatever is the matter?”

      “Ast-st-sterius,” he stuttered. “He’s s-s-s-s … He’s d-d-dis …” He waved his arms in an attempt to articulate what his knotted tongue could not utter.

      “Yes? What about Asterius? Peter, take a deep breath. Tell me.”

      “D-d-dis. M-missed me,” managed Peter.

      “He what? But that’s not … Why? What did you do?”

      “N-n-n-nothing. I d-did n-nothing wrong. T-t-truly. The b-bears obey me, I’m t-teaching the young one n-new t-tricks. B-but–”

      “Did you argue with him? You know he doesn’t like to be contradicted. Maybe if you apologise …”

      “I d-did nothing, woman,” roared Peter. “He’s appointed a m-man p-put forward by the P-Prefect. M-must have g-given him … g-given …”

      “Oh. Yes. Of course,” said Anastasia, mindful of the gold coins that had helped Acasius secure his post. Now, however, she had no such resources. She stared at the wrathful Peter, aghast. “But – but he will keep you on as an apprentice, won’t he? He will do that?”

      Peter suddenly collapsed onto the narrow cot that served as a sofa as well as a bed. It creaked alarmingly. He put his head in his hands. “N-no,” he muttered. “No. I’m s-s-s-s …” He gulped. “Sacked,” he managed.

      “Oh, God,” said Anastasia. Stasie, upset by the general distress, began to wail. “Stasie, please. Please don’t cry. You can have a date.” Anastasia picked up her small daughter and began to walk the floor with her. Well, soon there would be no more dates. Might as well have them all.

      Anastasia lay awake and stared into the darkness. Most of the bed was taken up by Peter, whose breath fanned her neck as he snored. She had not married him for love, although she did feel grateful affection for him. Nor had she married him for lust. He was too much like an overgrown child, too much like a dog that slobbered adoringly and swept vases off tables with its wagging tail. But he had represented security. Now he could no longer offer that. Yet here he was, a large, warm, sweaty presence, exhaling wafts of beer. An intruder in her bed, she often felt, a stranger from whom she sometimes flinched. Her body still yearned for the caresses she had known, for the shape and smell and touch that were familiar and dear. She had to hold her arms tightly across her chest, where her heartache seemed to have created a real wound liable to ooze. She had to hold back her sobs. She had no place to weep.

      Her new husband lay curled around her with one heavy arm around her waist. Even in his sleep he was possessive, she thought. She found his adoration oppressive, especially as he expressed it through constant sexual activity. Young and vigorous, he plumbed her body inexpertly but relentlessly. Despite the snores, if she moved at all she could feel a slight swelling against her hip. She shifted away. Not again. She couldn’t. She had to think.

      When the pale morning sunlight slanted through the shutters, Anastasia had a plan. It was an audacious one. It would take courage. But courage was all she had. She would not tell Peter, because she was sure he would not like it. No, it was for her to do, and when it succeeded – she was sure it would succeed – he would accept it. Yes. She had a plan.

      “I think you should go and see if you can find a few hours’ work at the market gardens,” she suggested to Peter when he awoke. “Sometimes the farmers can do with a hand from a strong young man. It would be good if you could bring some vegetables.”

      “All right,” he said, listlessly. It would be a hard slog, in the sun. It was not what he liked to do. He liked to work with the animals. But it was something.

      When he had departed, she called the girls together to tell them of his dismissal. They knew that it meant disaster. “But,” she said, “we won’t accept it. I have a plan. You mustn’t tell Peter. But you’ll have to help, all three of you. Together, we can do it.”

      “Do what, Mother?” asked Theodora.

      “Plead our case in the Kynêgion,” said Anastasia. “After the next wrestling match.”

      “Not at the Hippodrome?” asked Theodora.

      “It’s too big,” said Anastasia. “We’d not be heard, and we have no mandator to speak for us. The Kynêgion seats only thirty thousand men. They’ll hear me.”

      “Plead with the Greens?” asked Comito doubtfully. “What use would that be?”

      “They could force the Dancing Master to take Peter back. They have power, those factions. Even the Emperor pays attention to what they say and do.”

      “Will we plead with the Emperor?” asked Theodora, her dark eyes huge. “Will he listen? To us?”

      “No, dear, that won’t be necessary. We must make the men sorry for us. Make Asterius seem heartless. We’ll look beautiful, and pathetic. It’ll work, you’ll see.”

      “I don’t want people to be sorry for us,” objected Comito.

      “Nor do you want to starve,” said her mother, “nor go to a convent, nor be adopted. Do you? Do you?”

      “No,” said Comito sullenly.

      “Then, this is what we’re going to do. We’ll have to practise. Think of it as a performance. We are actresses. We must portray loss, and grief. Fear. Suffering. Make the Greens feel guilty. Make them insist that Asterius must take Peter back. Peter’s good with the bears. There’s no good reason to sack him.” She stared intently at the little girls. Comito, brown-eyed, beautiful, with chestnut tresses like herself. Theodora, pale and delicate, with her father’s black hair and big dark eyes. Small, sturdy Stasie, her round face framed by a halo of dark brown ringlets. “Are you going to help me, girls?”

      Theodora squared her narrow shoulders. “Yes,” she said. “It’s up to us.”

      They practised in secret for several days. They learned to walk as if in a procession, gravely, with dignity, with small steps, placing their feet just so. They learned the eloquent gestures that would communicate in the huge arena where they hoped to plead. They held out their arms in supplication to an invisible audience. They learned to kneel and bow their heads, to rise again without over-balancing, with composure, with grace.

      Fat Rosa washed their white dresses and helped their mother fashion small white cloaks from old sheets. Despite the size of her hamlike arms, she had remarkably deft hands.

      “You think this is going to work?” she asked.

      “It’s all I have,” said Anastasia. “Acting skills. So that’s what we’ll try. The men are used to mimes.”

      “More bawdy, usually,” said Fat Rosa. “But it’ll look pathetic. Lucky the girls are so pretty. Well, you never know, it might wring their horny hearts.”

      At last Anastasia decided that they were ready. “I think we can do it,” she said. “Even Stasie’s getting it right.”

      “But Mother,” said Comito, “how can we be sure they will let us in? What if we go there and they don’t … they won’t