The Colour of power. Marié Heese

speak to him.”

      The next afternoon, there was another performance of the Pantomime of Pasiphae. When it was over, Anastasia wrapped herself in her cloak and ran to the office of the chief usher. She smoothed her hair and walked in with as much dignity as she could muster. She intensely disliked the man, who was fat and unctuous and smelled of onions and garlic. But she was very polite as she requested a hearing the following afternoon. Before the scheduled wrestling match.

      “A hearing?” he raised bushy eyebrows and leaned back, picking at a fibre stuck in one of his long, yellow teeth.

      “A hearing,” said Anastasia firmly. “We have the right.”

      “For what purpose?” He tried a thumbnail.

      “For a … for a petition. We have a petition.”

      “To put to?”

      “The Greens. My husband has been unfairly dismissed. We have a case.”

      He grinned and spat out the bothersome scrap. “My dear lady. No doubt you do, no doubt you do. But really, we can’t allow every little person who thinks they have a case …”

      “I am not,” said Anastasia, “some little person. I am employed here. I have admirers. I am known.”

      “Ah, yes. An actress.” He eyed her up and down. “Well, now. Perhaps we might make an exception. In this instance. For a small consideration, of course. You do understand how things are. A man must live.”

      Anastasia wanted to grind her teeth, but she nodded instead. “I cannot offer you any money. I have nothing. Our income has been taken away. But please …”

      He rose from his chair and walked towards her.

      She knew what he would say, and he did. “Perhaps we can come to an … agreement. Perhaps you can offer something I might want?”

      She had known before she came, although she had hoped it might not come to this. But she would have to pay. She was always going to have to pay. In the only coinage she possessed, on her knees, in a miasma of onions and garlic and unwashed male loins. A hard hand grasped her hair so tightly that her eyes watered, hard fingers forced her head down, forward, and down, and down. She couldn’t breathe, she would choke, she would throw up, she thought desperately. But she closed her eyes and disengaged her spirit, rolled it up tightly in a small bundle to smother its whimpers, to stifle its howls. And she paid him.

      It would suffice. They would be allowed in.

      Theodora rather looked forward to their appearance in the Kynêgion. Her father had smuggled her in there too once or twice, to see some acrobats, so it was not entirely strange. She knew that her mother performed there. Now, she thought, they would perform together, all four of them. Her mother had washed their hair in rainwater and rinsed it with lemon juice. Comito’s long, wavy hair gleamed golden-brown in the sunlight and Stasie’s brown curls had red glints. Her own hair was black and silky and hung almost down to her hips. And their mother was as beautiful as an angel, all in white. Her white cloak looked like wings. Anastasia’s hair seemed to hold the sunlight in its thick waves and she wore it loose as she had on the day of the funeral.

      Trading with a farmer’s wife, Anastasia had exchanged her delicious honey-cakes for fresh wild flowers that Fat Rosa made into white flower garlands and scarlet posies.

      “Are you ready?” Anastasia’s hands shook as she positioned their garlands.

      “We’re ready, Mother,” said Comito. “Should we sing?”

      “No,” said Anastasia. “No, we’re sorrowful. No singing. Now put on your old cloaks to cover yourselves up and we’ll walk. Hold up your hems, your dresses must be spotless. Comito, hold Stasie’s hand.”

      “Where’s Peter?” asked Stasie. “Will he come too, Mama?”

      “No,” said Anastasia. “He’s taken vegetables to his parents.” They had never seen his family, who were not pleased with his sudden marriage to an older woman, an actress at that, who already had children.

      The little band of females set off and soon reached the Kynêgion, since they lived nearby. It was a holiday and there were flowers everywhere, decorating window-sills, looped into garlands, strewn on the ground, pounded to a scented mush by the feet of sedan chair carriers. Mixed with the heady floral scent were enticing wafts of the hot pies being touted by hawkers and the sour smell of beer. Brilliantly coloured balls spun in high arcs as jugglers entertained the gawping crowds dressed in their best, out to enjoy the sunshine and the shows. A legless beggar scooted across the pavement, rattled a bowl at them and whined. Supporters of the Greens and the Blues yelled insults at each other.

      They passed the Hippodrome, where chariot races took place, only not today. Theodora remembered how she had watched with her father and her heart, momentarily merry, grew heavy and sad and she remembered why they were there.

      “Are you sure they will let us in, Mother?” she asked.

      “They’d better,” said Anastasia.

      They approached the gates of the big amphitheatre and a roar from the crowd inside rolled over them. Theodora wondered whether they too would be cheered. It must feel wonderful, she thought, to be cheered like that.

      The guard at the gate seemed to have instructions, for he let them through. Their footsteps echoed as they walked along vaulted corridors. Smoking torches lit the way. Another roar from the crowd thundered all around them. They seemed to be right in the middle of the noise, a wave of sound that could push them back if they let it. Then they reached the end of the corridor, where there was a tall portal with a heavy green curtain across it.

      They stopped. “Take off your outer cloaks, and your sandals,” hissed Anastasia. “We will go in barefoot.”

      Comito helped Stasie, whose round brown eyes were huge with wonder. “Why are there only Greens and Blues, why aren’t there other colours too?” she asked. “Why not Reds?”

      “There used to be Reds and Whites as well,” her mother said. “Now there are just the Greens and Blues, and they don’t just support their racing teams, they have power. Money, and power. We don’t, they do. So we have to make them listen. Make them sorry for us. Look sad, all right? Cry if you want to.”

      A guard in a green cloak nodded to their mother. “Wait,” he grunted. “There’s a wrestling match on. It’s not over yet.”

      The four of them held hands. Theodora felt her mother’s hand tremble in hers. Suddenly she realised that their mother was afraid. This made her feel terrified. They stood silently and clung to each other as they waited. A huge roar announced that someone had triumphed. The crowd shouted, whistled and stamped. The applause seemed to go on and on.

      At last the guard gave a signal for them to move forward. He drew the curtain aside with a rattle of rings. They walked forward into the blinding sunlight, into a vast arena smelling of dust and surrounded by row upon row of curious men. Into a surge of sound that was not a roar but a buzz they walked, a buzz that swelled as all eyes were drawn to them. Theodora suddenly felt extremely small. It seemed to be very far to the other side, and the tiers of seats appeared to her to stretch right up to the sky. Her knees shook. Please, Lord Jesus, she entreated wordlessly, please, be with us, protect us, help us today.

      “Follow me,” her mother whispered. “Towards the Greens, over there. Slowly. Remember what we practised.”

      Forward they went with their heads bowed, taking small steps in the baked and trampled dust. Comito walked behind their mother, Stasie’s hand in hers. Theodora was last. It would have been easier, she thought, if there had been singing, as there was on the day of the funeral procession. They should have brought Fat Rosa, to help them sing. She imagined the washerwoman’s pure voice soaring and silencing this jabber-jabber-jabber. She was being pointed at, like a performing bear. She wanted to scream, and turn and run. But she walked forward, her red posy held tightly to her white chest. Please, Jesus. Please.

      At