The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora by Stephanie Thornton

“You are serious.”
    “I heard Antonina tell another girl. It’s an old Egyptian trick.”
    “Did she know you were listening?”
    My fingers curled into fists. “I’m going to kill her.”
    Already the amphitheater was filled with spectators’ voices—there was to be a bearbaiting after our performance, the last of the season before winter shut down the theater. “What am I going to do?”
    Comito tapped my head with her knuckles. “What else would you do? Get dressed and give such a performance that Hilarion can’t help hiring you back into the chorus next season.”
    I don’t recall if I followed her directions or fell on my face that night. I was the last person in the Empire who should be procreating, and the very thought of childbirth made me cower in terror. My mother had almost died delivering Anastasia, and I’d seen too many biers of women laid out with their dead infants. I might soon join them.
    I sat outside after the performance and cursed myself under my breath. No man would want me once my belly swelled. And then there would be a baby to take care of. The entire situation was hopeless.
    My tears had dried by the time Comito emerged, swathed in a shaggy fur coat made from at least a hundred dead squirrels. I dashed thesleeve of my tunica across my eyes before she could see my blotchy face.
    “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.” I eyed the package under her arm. “What’s that?”
    “Herbs. They might help, but it won’t be pretty.” She stopped and brushed an imaginary hair back from her eyes. “I’m assuming you want to get rid of it.”
    This from my sister, who wanted nothing more than a lap full of babies.
    “Do I have a choice?”
    She shrugged. “I’ve some coins saved, but not enough for the winter. And in your condition—”
    I’d be a charity case. Worse, I might have to expose the child after giving birth. Many of the other troopers from the chorus had already done that several times. Better to do it now than be forced to choose between that or watching my baby die of starvation.
    I took the package from her. “Will you help me?”
    She nodded. “And Mother, too.”
    We walked in silence in the night until my curiosity got the better of me. “Where did you get the herbs?”
    “Antonina.”
    I almost dropped the package. “I’m going to die.”
    Comito sighed and kept walking. “She thinks they’re for me.”
    I watched my sister, dumbstruck, then hurried to catch her hand. “Thank you.”
    She gave me a watery smile. “That’s what sisters are for.”
    Wine fumes greeted us as we let ourselves into our room—Mother was slumped at the table, an empty amphora on the ground and her fingers still loosely clasped around another. So much for my mother helping me.
    Comito pulled vials from the linen package. “If this works, you won’t be able to get up tomorrow.”
    I uncorked a cloudy bottle and promptly gagged on the smell. “What is that?”
    “Tooth of a Cyclops and a virgin’s blood.” Comito rolled her eyes. “Tansy and pennyroyal. Antonina was quite proud that it was mixed by a Manichaean magician who can trace his lineage all the way back to the prophet Mani.”
    I supposed that was quite an honor, but it smelled like cat urine and rotten eggs. “I already want to die.”
    She chuckled. “If you drink more than half, you might get your wish.” She pushed a terra-cotta basin to me. “For later. And you might want to plug your nose to get that all down.”
    I did as I was told and drained half of the tincture. It almost came back up, but I managed to swallow. “Now what?”
    “We wait.” Comito rewrapped the bottles in the linen. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson. From now on you’ll use a pessary of pennyroyal, arum root, and fenugreek.” She poured herself a glass of wine—one that smelled more like vinegar—and sat down next to me. “Let’s hope this works.”
    She was right—when the tincture began its work, I prayed God