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

would kill me. The need for the basin became clear when I vomited, but then my insides turned to water. I shook on my pallet and Comito mostly left me alone, but occasionally I felt her hand on my back. “Not yet,” she said more than once.
    Afternoon sunshine streamed down on me when I awoke to Comito’s snores. I tried to move, but it felt as if I’d been run over by a chariot. And then stomped on by the horse.
    There was a different noise, some sort of animal groan. It took me a moment to realize the sound was coming from my mouth, but then soft hands were on my back and a cool cloth on my forehead. My vision cleared enough to make out the outline of my mother beside me. “My poor, stupid girl,” she said.
    I closed my eyes. “Must have been something I ate.”
    She massaged my scalp, pulling the damp strands from my face. “I might be a drunk, but I’m no fool. Children are a hazard in your line of work.”
    I cringed at the mess of vomit on the floor. It would be easier for us to move than to clean it. “Did it work?”
    She shook her head. “No sign of it.”
    “No.” That couldn’t be right.
    I heard Comito stir. “Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t.” She squinted out the window. “I have to go—there’s a silk merchant who wants me before his wife returns from taking the waters at Bithynia.” She touched my shoulder. “Do you want to come to the baths with me?”
    The thought of moving made me want to be ill.
    “I’ll take care of her.” My mother released a heavy sigh. Comito must have given her a look. “I’m her mother, for Mary’s sake.”
    “All right,” I heard Comito say. “I’ll pick you up a nice vintage on the way home.”
    “There’s a good girl,” Mother said. The wet cloth on my head was heaven. “Now what are we going to do with you, Theodora?”
    If only I knew.
    .   .   .
    Things went from bad to worse.
    That winter I grew larger than an Egyptian hippo, becoming a virtual Penelope as I embroidered the same tiny smock and tore out the seams, unsure what to do with the child I carried. I swallowed my envy as Comito went back to the Kynêgion when the almond trees unfurled their pink blossoms. My sister supported both Mother and me without complaint, but our cupboards were more empty than not and soon there would be a baby, too. If the child and I survived the birth, that was.
    I spent most of my time praying to God for guidance, for protection, for a sign—anything—but received no answer. A precious coin paid to the pagan augur in the market only told me I was goingnowhere, all because I’d dreamed of putting on shoes. I began to think she was onto something.
    I stretched my back and rubbed my swollen belly—today was an especially itchy day, and Mother had already rubbed my stomach with olive oil twice before she went out to pick up fresh fish for our evening meal—when Comito burst through the door, her face covered with strawberry blotches. She stopped, seemingly transfixed by my colossal stomach. Then she collapsed next to me and burst into tears.
    The front of my tunica was soaked through by the time I could make sense of my sister’s garbled mess of words.
    “Married,” Comito bawled. “He’s married.”
    I wiped the tears from her cheeks with the end of my sleeve. “Who?”
    “Karas!” She dissolved into another fit, during which I poured wine. I wanted the whole amphora, but cut mine heavily with water and filled the other to the top. This was my fault.
    “He married the fuller’s daughter.” Comito sniffled. “I saw them today in the market—she already looks gone with child.”
    “Perhaps she’s just plump,” I said.
    Comito ignored me, curling to a ball on her pallet. “That was supposed to be my baby, but instead I’m a whore.”
    “No, you’re one of Constantinople’s greatest actresses. She stinks of sausage and pig blood while you dress in silk stolas, dine on milk-stuffed suckling lambs, and drink wine out of gold