The Colour of power. Marié Heese

what she might do. The steady centre of her precarious world had been ripped out. She had to hold the tattered remnants together with an act of will. Each night since her husband died, she had lain in her empty bed, alone and lonely, trembling with longing, helpless with fear.

      Now she was suddenly filled with fury. “How could you do this to me, Theophilus?” she groaned aloud, using the old name for Acasius, his real name, the name that had belonged to a Syrian Christian priest who was a man of substance with standing in the community, not a lowly bearkeeper who earned barely enough to keep them from penury. Who had to humble himself before an upstart like Asterius the Dancing Master. Who had been torn to pieces by a bear, when he should have known better than to go so near to it. “Oh, God, I should have had a son!”

      Comito, her eldest daughter, who had just turned six, looked at her with tears in her eyes. “Will we have to be adopted, Mother?” she asked fearfully. “Will we go to a … to a kind family? Will we?”

      With Stasie on her arm, Anastasia dropped to her knees next to Comito and Theodora where they sat side by side on a narrow cot against the wall. She gathered all three her small daughters to her and inhaled their warmth, their scent of milk and bread and the goat’s cheese that had been their supper. She buried her face in Comito’s hair, a tousle of chestnut curls so like her own. Her hands curled themselves around the arm of one daughter, the solid little leg of another, as if to prevent them from being torn away that very minute. She would not allow it. Would not. She could no more survive losing these children than Acasius had been able to survive losing his arm.

      “You will go nowhere,” she said. “We will find a way to stay together.”

      “Promise,” said Theodora.

      “I promise,” said Anastasia.

      Chapter 3: Only silence

      After a month Anastasia was desperately battling to keep her promise. She had tried to increase her income by extra performances, but Asterius was not keen to have one actress appear too often. Variety was essential, he told her, she would grow stale. Also, she had to depend on Fat Rosa to keep an eye on the children and she didn’t like to do that all the time. She received free bread, as did all the citizens of Constantinople, but they could not survive on bread alone. The Patriarchate of the local Christian church of which she was a member dispensed charity: a daily bowl of thin soup that stank of onions and poverty. It pained her to accept it, yet she often had nothing else to feed her children. And even that could not go on for ever. Sooner or later, she would be pressured into a convent, or the almshouse, and her children would be taken from her. She knew that.

      She stood at her window and looked down at the street where a group of little girls played with a skipping rope, chanting an old skipping song. Their voices chirped like birds. As she watched, Comito darted forward and jumped under the swinging arc, with a determined little frown because she wanted to judge the moment perfectly; then a smile because she had succeeded. She continued to skip energetically without missing a beat, chanting all the while. Her chestnut curls flew as she skipped. She was already a beauty, her mother thought, she would be good on the stage, she had presence, she could already dance a few steps and sing several songs. But at just over six she was too young. Asterius would never allow it.

      Not too young to be sold, though. Many a girl child of impoverished farming parents was bartered for some old clothes, or perhaps some oil, and not merely to work in their owner’s kitchen. The thought of her daughters having to service some horny old lecher made the bile rise in her throat. Oh, God, Acasius, she thought, as her eyes smarted with terrified tears. What can I do? You should be here. You should be alive, and strong. A deep sob shook her.

      There was a hesitant knock. “Come in,” she called, and wiped her eyes.

      The door opened to admit Peter, bearing a small parcel and a large cabbage. As he ambled in, he stumbled over a doll that Stasie had left on the floor. He peered at Anastasia with a worried frown.

      “You’ve been c-crying,” he said, accusingly. “You sh-shouldn’t c-cry.”

      “Well, what do you expect,” shouted Anastasia. “I’ve lost my husband, I’m dog-tired doing extra shows, and they’ll probably take my children away!” She wept furiously, her mouth drawn square like that of a distressed child, her chest heaving. She dug her fists into her eyes as if she could stem the torrent of tears, but to no avail. The heartache that had dammed up over the past weeks overflowed in a surge of anguish.

      “Oh, d-dear,” said Peter. “Oh, d-dear.” He stood by helplessly as she wept.

      At last her grief abated to some degree. She walked to a pail of cold water and cupped some to splash onto her face. He set down the parcel and the cabbage, pulled her over towards him and mopped her eyes with his cloak. “This is n-no good, you know,” he said. “Anast-tasia. What can I do?”

      She looked at him, her face swollen and blotched. Considered. He has kind eyes, she thought. Kind eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Marry me,” she said.

      “Oh, m-my,” said Peter. His round cheeks flushed. “I’d like t-to m-m-m-m … b-but I d-don’t have a p-proper job. I c-couldn’t …”

      “You could get his job,” said Anastasia. “Bearkeeper to the Greens. Nobody has been appointed in his place. Ragu can’t do a show, not with his peg leg. In any case, he’s gone off with a band of Gypsies. If I’d had a son that his father had trained, he’d have taken over. If you marry me, you could do that. You know how.”

      “Y-yes, I d-do.”

      “And you like the children. Don’t you?”

      “Y-yes, I d-do.”

      “And I’m only a little older than you,” said Anastasia, untruthfully. There was a difference of almost ten years.

      “It d-doesn’t m-matter,” he assured her. “You’re so b-beautiful. D-do you really m-mean it?”

      “If you want to,” she said.

      “Oh, I d-do. Of course I d-do. I’ve always l-loved you. All the t-time … but I never thought … I’m just an apprentice. But I’m good with the b-bears. I’m really g-good with the bears.”

      “I know you are.”

      They stood and stared at each other. There did not seem to be any suitable words. Lord forgive me, she thought, what have I just done?

      He gestured helplessly, too humble and overcome to kiss her.

      “What did you bring me?” she asked gently. “Besides the cabbage?”

      “P-pork chops,” he said, eagerly. “You could c-cook them. For – for us.”

      “I could do that,” she said. “It won’t take long. You should sit there. At the table.”

      “Yes,” he agreed. He stood up straighter. Already there was something different in his attitude. He would be the man of the house. Master of the domus. Yes.

      “Thank you,” she said.

      Theodora did not welcome the addition to their household. Comito said, practically, that now they’d have better food, and oil for the lamps so that they needn’t go to bed the instant the sun set. Stasie swiftly established herself on Peter’s lap, thumb in her mouth, and allowed him to croon to her. This pleased him immensely and he spent hours singing a repetitive, tuneless song, that lulled her to sleep and even succeeded in drawing her out of the attacks of misery that frustrated everybody else.

      “Works with the b-bears,” he said to Anastasia. “Works with her t-too.”

      “Yes, dear,” said Anastasia, who was not sure whether the song was easier to stand than the tantrums. But at least the two of them were happy.

      Theodora, however, who had liked Peter when he was merely a humble admirer, resented him intensely as a replacement for Acasius. The first time he had taken up his place at the head of the table, small and wobbly