The Colour of power. Marié Heese

tall girl with a scarlet coxcomb on her head and white arm feathers nodded and went on applying glitter.

      “This is my sister Theodora, girls,” said Comito. Multicoloured plumes inclined towards Theodora. Iridescent eyes stripped her and found her lacking. No competition, sneered the beaks soundlessly, turned away and twittered on among themselves. Theodora felt as if she was transparent. But one day they would see her clearly, she angrily promised herself.

      A low circular wooden stage had been set in the centre of the arena and swiftly decked with trees and flowers in pots; a gilded scarlet throne on a snowy carpet awaited the princess. Comito ran on first, accompanied by her humble slave, who went to stand beside a tree. An appreciative roar greeted the appearance of the princess in her scarlet cloak over a filmy white tunic. She proceeded to dance a solo, accompanied by a trio of flutes that wove birdsong into melodies. She removed her cloak, using it to create brilliant waves of colour. She was a flame that rushed on the wind as she ran and leapt across the stage, expressing youth, energy, happiness, freedom. Cheers. Whistles. She turned into a spiral of scarlet as she twirled around and around. One last dizzying leap. Then a surge of applause as she mimed weariness and sank onto the throne where sleep would soon overcome her.

      Comito imperiously gestured to Theodora to bring her the stool, that had been placed ready at the edge of the stage. All Theodora had to do was to walk over and fetch it. She did not have words to speak, steps to dance nor a song to sing. Dressed in a skimpy tunic with her long black hair in a thick braid, she walked towards the small round stool, turned her back on it and bent over backwards until she could grip it behind her head. Then she hoisted it up and over, set it down at her own feet and swung herself into a headstand on the red velvet seat. Her plait flapped down as her legs went up. She balanced and scissored her legs. Her movements were greeted with raucous applause and shrill whistles. Finally she righted herself, picked up the stool again and set it down with a flourish right in front of the princess. There, she thought: I made them notice me.

      Comito settled her feet on the stool. She was furious. It was no part of her plan that Theodora should steal her applause.

      “You need merely walk,” she hissed. “If I want acrobatics, I will order them. You overreach yourself, slave!” The audience could not hear her words clearly, but it was obvious that she was scolding the impudent girl.

      Theodora hung her head in a pretence of shame. She stood with her legs together. Then a murmur ran round the huge amphitheatre. It became laughter. Men pointed. Comito stared at her contrite sister, whose shining bent head sank lower and lower in front of her eyes. Yet she didn’t seem to be moving at all. Then it grew clear: she was sliding her legs out sideways, while keeping her back straight. Down and down she went. The laughter turned to appreciative applause. She had done a complete split with her legs apart flat on the ground. She held her pose for a few counts, then smoothly drew one leg around and rose in a supple motion. Off she went to her humble station, bowing, to tumultuous cheers. That’s it, she thought triumphantly: I can make them laugh. That’ll be the key.

      Now brassy trumpets heralded the entry of the dazzling flock of birds. As they pranced into the arena their plumes swayed, their wings waved gracefully, breasts such as no bird ever had bounced as they too leapt and twirled. The princess slept on, surrounded by the avian spectres conjured by her dreaming mind. She was a picture of vulnerable innocence in her white tunic as she lay back against the blood-red velvet.

      An ominous note entered the music. Drums sounded. The birds began to converge on the sleeping virgin. Feathered heads bobbed up and down as they examined her from head to toe. They began to pretend to peck at her with their beaks, taking bits of her tunic between their teeth and ripping them from her motionless body. Theodora realised that the tunic must have been cleverly constructed of separate pieces lightly held together with loose stitches. Cheers and jeers greeted the removal of each bit of material. Thirty thousand men yelled encouragement, 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