Courtesan Read online

  Courtesan

  S. C. DAIKO

  First Edition 2016

  The English used in this publication follows the spelling and idiomatic conventions of the United Kingdom.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Copyright © 2016 Siobhan Daiko

  All rights reserved.

  Cover: RBA Designs

  Edited by John Hudspith

  All enquiries to Fragrant Publishing

  CONTENTS

  Theodora

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  Veronica

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s note

  About the author

  Teaser Chapter from “Three: A Menage Erotic Romance.”

  Theodora

  I

  I’m standing at the Palace gates. The letter feels brittle between my fingers. Brittle like the hot summer air of Constantinople. Should I simply give it to the guard, turn on my heel and go back to Comito? Sis said I can stay with her until I find work, but I made a promise. A promise I intend to keep.

  I toss my head and the movement dislodges a curl. Black as ink; it unfurls and tickles the corner of my mouth. I pinned up my hair in a twisted loop before setting off this morning; hopefully it shows off my slender neck and gives me some height. Under my overdress, the colour of ripe plums, I’m wearing a dark blue tunic of smooth silk. Comito told me it complements my pale skin, and the tasselled sash around my waist draws attention to my shapely body. That’s not what I want, though. I’ve had enough of men. Except it’s not every day a girl gets to meet the most powerful man in the world – even if at the age of twenty-two I’ve seen and done more than most women in a lifetime.

  I’ve heard such stories about Justinian. Rumour has it he’s obsessed with work and never sleeps. He’s in his late thirties, but hasn’t married yet and they say he practically runs the Empire for his uncle, the Emperor, who’s almost senile. According to Comito Justinian is handsome, but Comito is the concubine of a senator who’s nearly as old as the Emperor himself – so perhaps she considers every younger man an Adonis. My last patron was Adonis enough for me and I never want to meet a man like him again…

  I give a shudder and look behind. Is someone watching me? Only my imagination. The marketplace buzzes with activity in the square opposite the Palace gates: vegetable carts, bleating herds of goats and sheep, porters, slaves, off-duty soldiers in their green tunics, beggars, and even sedan chairs carrying the wealthy. To my left Hagia Sophia, the Church of Holy Wisdom, rises like a rounded hill – its face of rose-coloured marble giving way to a gilded dome. When I was a child, I used to curl up and sleep in there after I tired of playing in the animal cages beneath the Hippodrome.

  Ah, the Hippodrome! One hundred thousand men, one out of every five in the City, can be seated in the stands. Its towering columned façade rises up to my right. The oblong track is wide enough for six chariots to race abreast. Father would smuggle me in there to watch. He would lead me along vaulted passages lit with smoking torches until we emerged into the sunlight at a vantage point below the Kathisma, that balcony linked to the Imperial Palace. The Emperor likes to sit there surrounded by important visitors, and by those who serve him, to see the bears dancing, the tournaments and, above all the chariot races.

  I grew up in the pits below the Hippodrome, watching Father taming his animals in those happy days before disaster struck. My eyes prick. A memory, long buried, worms its way to the fore of my mind. Father, lying in the corner of Bruno’s cage. A bloody stump where his arm used to be, white fingers flapping as the bear crunched on his hand. Then another catastrophe happened ten years later, which changed the course of my life. I give myself a shake and knuckle away my tears: this is not the moment for remembering sorrow.

  Dust makes me sneeze: dry animal manure pounded fine by traffic. I love the pungent smell that mixes with the salty tang of the sea: it’s the scent of home. Constantinople – centre of the new Rome – I’ve been away these past three years and only got back yesterday. And now, I have a mission to accomplish.

  ***

  The half-open Bronze Gate of the Great Palace, set deep into sombre grey walls, rises up before me. A troop of guards, Excubitors, stand leaning on their spears in the entrance, watching the marketplace with bored expressions. A painted frieze above their heads shows the Emperor Constantine, crowned with the imperial diadem and the cross. One of the guards is staring at me. A stocky man with a wart on his nose. He grins. ‘Theodora! Welcome home, love. The theatre ain’t been the same since you left.’

  I’m about to bestow the smile I would give a fan in the old days. But the guard nudges the man next to him. ‘We missed her, didn’t we? But not half as much as that goose.’

  Both men fall about laughing. I huff and show them the letter. ‘This is for the Emperor’s nephew. Please take me to him.’

  Wart-face smirks. ‘What’s a dirty girl like you want with the likes of him?’

  I’m not a dirty girl. At least not anymore... ‘None of your business.’ I shake the parchment in front of his ugly snout. ‘See! The seal of the Patriarch of Alexandria. If you don’t take me to Justinian, you could be in deep shit.’

  Warty lifts his spear. ‘Enough of that, you cheeky cunt! I’ll take you to Narses, the Head Chamberlain. He’ll know what to do with you.’

  How dare he speak to me like that!

  A steep archway up ahead with another bronze-sheathed gate at its far end. Inside, barracks and gardens, chapels and porticoes, domes, columns, and fountains all blend into one impression of magnificence.

  I follow the guard through a maze of alternating dark passages and brilliantly lit courtyards, where the sun refracts into hundreds of tiny lights from the mosaic gold and glass in every wall. After a ten-minute walk, we come to a series of colonnaded patios and one final corridor. Wart-face knocks on a door and opens without waiting for an answer. He ushers me into the room, leaving me temporarily blinded as my eyes accustom to the darkness inside.

  I blink fast in the way I was taught as a child, to accommodate the difference between the sunlit stage and the pit below, forcing my vision to adjust more quickly. After the splendour of the rest of the palace, the Chamberlain’s office is surprisingly plain: walls painted with scenes from the Iliad, floor decorated with an abstract mosaic in red and green, in one corner an icon of the Virgin Mary, and a desk and chair in the centre.

  A man rises to his feet. ‘Well, if it isn’t Theodora-from-the-brothel!’ His voice is deep and heavily accented, Armenian from the sound of it. He waves the guard off.

  I take a step back. I know him. ‘Narses! How is Menander, my old dance-master, these days? And, for your information, it wasn’t a brothel. I was a trained acrobat, dancer, actress and courtesan.’

  He huffs. ‘How long have you been away from the City? Menander died last winter.’

  ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’ And I am, even though my former teacher was a hard taskmaster. I hand Narses the letter, then stand in silence while he reads it. As Head Chamberlain he reads all correspondence to the Palace, of course.

  The scent of brine catches the back of my throat and the high tide throws spray against the window. It felt like walking the entire length of the Hippodrome to get here so I must now be in one of the offices perched above the rocks, where the Bosporus j
oins the Sea of Marmara. Narses coughs. ‘You will address me as Illustrious, as befits my rank of Head Chamberlain. Do you know what this letter says?’

  ‘How can I? It was sealed.’

  ‘You could have replaced the wax.’

  ‘I would not cheat my mentor.’

  Narses lights two candles. He isn’t a large person, but the muscles snaking up his bare arms are thick and tanned. His short beard, twisted to a sharp point, is streaked with white, and his collar, studded with rubies, not to mention the red cloak trimmed with gold, remind me that he’s a eunuch. A eunuch can rise high in the Court – with no children to build his own dynasty on, he’ll always be considered safer than a whole man as he’ll never try to become Emperor. Narses was probably gelded late in life, though, otherwise he wouldn’t have body hair and a deep voice.

  ‘Do you speak Latin?’ he asks, out of the blue. We’re conversing in Greek, as do all Constantinopolitans.

  ‘I can get by. And I learn fast, I always have. I can learn more if it is meant.’

  ‘Meant? You think this is a matter of destiny?’

  ‘I do whatever my mentor asks,’ I say in Latin. ‘In whichever language is necessary.’

  He smiles. ‘Good answer. They said you were brighter than the average actress.’

  ‘I was never an average actress.’

  His smile disappears. ‘Apparently not. Still, that life is behind you now. What other languages do you have?’

  ‘Stage Greek, the older form – if you don’t attend theatre you might think of it as classic Greek.’

  The jibe goes unremarked. He rubs his hands together. ‘What else?’

  ‘Some Syriac, a little Coptic, words and phrases I found useful in Alexandria and when travelling, and some Hebrew.’

  ‘Hebrew?’

  ‘Timothy believes there is much to be learnt from the old teachers.’

  ‘Please show some respect and refer to Timothy as the Alexandrian Patriarch.’

  ‘I beg your pardon… Illustrious.’ I chew my lip. If Narses were truly the Emperor Justin’s man he would not have acknowledged the status of the Patriarch so forcefully. And the icon of the Virgin is another sign of where the eunuch’s allegiances lie. Like me, Narses follows the teachings of Saint Mark.

  The eunuch folds his arms. ‘I work primarily for Justinian, the Emperor’s favourite nephew, his adopted son.’ Narses waves the letter. ‘Justinian is soon to be appointed Consul and the Patriarch thinks you would be the ideal person to advise him on the best form of celebration. You understand theatre, and language – you are of the people. His Holiness believes you’ll be able to counsel Justinian well.’

  My mouth falls open; I shut it quickly. ‘On how to organise a party for the City?’

  ‘Initially, yes. You’ve been away, you will not be aware that there have been certain…’ Narses pauses, as if reaching for the right words ‘… suggestions, about the deposition of Vitalian, the previous Consul.’

  ‘I’ve been away, yes, but I did spend last night at my sister’s. She told me of the rumours that Justinian and the Emperor had Vitalian executed. I’m glad they got rid of him. He hated my mentor, so perhaps the Emperor and his nephew aren’t against the true Church after all.’

  Narses holds up a hand. ‘Please lower your voice, these matters are not easily resolved, and may never be, no matter how much Justinian wants to see a reunion between those divided in the Faith. It isn’t simple. Matters of faith, where they affect law, the governance of the people, can never be simple.’

  ‘A pity.’

  ‘Perhaps. And that is where you come in. The Patriarch is of the opinion, and I agree with him, that it could be valuable to his cause if Justinian were to find you… useful.’

  ‘How can it be possible to find someone of an opposing belief useful?’

  ‘It is possible. And to get close to Justinian you’ll need to surrender yourself to his every desire.’

  ‘Surrender?’

  ‘Fully. I believe your past experiences make you up to the task.’

  ‘I’m not a whore.’

  ‘Truly I have no interest in your apparent conversion, real or imagined.’

  ‘Oh. Right. So the point of this is to set me up.’ I shake my head. ‘I had thought more of the Patriarch, but apparently Timothy is just another pimp like the rest of you.’

  Narses takes hold of my arms and his grip hurts. ‘The Patriarch is your teacher, and he is mine. Justinian is a good man with particular tastes as far as women are concerned. People think he doesn’t care for anything beyond his papers and his studies and anything else that can fulfil his personal ambition. He has one of the best minds ever to enter the Palace and, whatever his eventual rank in life, he will do well. The Patriarch seems to think that in meeting you, Justinian might be encouraged to see another side to his own beliefs. No need to use your brothel ways with him. If Justinian likes you he’ll take the lead.’

  A gull screams outside the window, reminding me of where I am. The silence of the room shows the depth of the walls, the power of the Imperial Palace’s defences, the enormous distance, in both approach and hierarchy, separating the crowded city outside from this quiet room down a long corridor manned by no one but the Emperor’s own guards, men who are commanded by Narses. Timothy’s letter has brought me into the belly of an unknown beast and, destiny or not, what I say next will determine my future. I look Narses in the eye. ‘I’ll meet His Excellency and then decide.’

  ‘I can’t ask for more than that. Come with me, Theodora.’ Narses leads me to a room next to his. ‘A slave will bring you some refreshments. Wait here and when I return, I hope His Excellency will have agreed to accompany me.’

  ***

  I came across Narses and Menander shortly before I was initiated into the life of a courtesan. They were hidden behind a screen in our training room. My fellow acrobats and I had been dismissed, but I’d gone back to collect a forgotten sash. Barely sixteen, I’d seen all sorts growing up in the teeming tenements of the City, but I’d never seen two eunuchs “at it” before. Menander below and Narses on top. I guess that losing his bollocks past puberty meant Narses could still have an erection. Not so Menander, with his strange high voice and lack of body hair. I kept quiet about seeing him as the bottom man. Even if he played the woman’s role in fucking he was a hard taskmaster when training me in acrobatics and the arts of seduction.

  I’ll never forget my first time as a courtesan, the titter of excitement amongst us girls as we shrugged off our cloaks, rearranged our cleavages and pinched one another’s cheeks before being ushered into the men’s dining room at that senator’s house. (I can’t even remember the senator’s name now. Only that the event was a celebration of huge winnings on a bet at the chariot races.)

  Black rectangular frescoes stretched from ceiling to floor, surrounding a central painting depicting a boar hunt and naked hunters armed with spears and bronze shields. Men in white tunics, many wearing a red senatorial sash tied around their waists, lounged together on saffron couches as they finished their meal, bird bones and bits of bread discarded on the mosaic floor. Dregs of wine had already spattered one wall panel crimson, and several toppled red-ware goblets revealed humorous pictures of men and women fornicating in every imaginable position.

  We performed for them and I remember placing my left leg straight behind me, pulled up in a back split. In those days, I was able to hide the excruciating pain.

  Wearing the acrobat’s usual stage costume, which consisted of a cinch belt studded with fake gems and a brief silk kilt, I danced down the middle of a long table covered in purple and gold. I kept my hips moving while stepping over plates of pomegranate, figs and boiled duck. The men on the couches flanking the table could look up my short skirt, and I wore nothing underneath. One of them grabbed me around the waist and I tasted the sour wine on his breath when he stuck his tongue into my mouth. His stubble brushed the sides of my breasts as I struggled out of his arms to continue my pe
rformance.

  I danced among the plates, and men fed me morsels from the table – food more succulent than any I had tasted before. The musicians played faster: flutes, kitharas and cymbals underscoring a sinuous rhythm. Cheeks flushed, I moved in time with the music, slipping between chalices, ducking under a huge golden bowl of fruit suspended by chains from the ceiling. But then, distracted, I failed to clear the roast boar, toppled off the table and onto an obviously male lap. Obvious for the hardness of the prick poking me. Perhaps it wasn’t such a calamity after all: the man must have been the youngest there, and his blue eyes were smiling into mine with kindness. ‘Come with me!’

  I nodded, making the decision in an instant. Most girls who weren’t actresses were married by fifteen, and I’d held out against giving myself to a man long enough. So in a sense, I chose him. He told me his name: Gaius Lepidus, and I realised he was the champion charioteer who’d won the race that had netted the senator so much money. I thought Gaius a worthy partner in my initiation. He was certainly an Adonis, with remarkably long, curly eyelashes for a man. The first time was disappointing. I bled and he came too soon. But, once we’d got into the swing of things, our lovemaking was truly remarkable.

  The last time we lay together will forever be in my heart. We were in a room he’d taken at an inn overlooking the Golden Horn estuary. We stood facing each other, naked. Light and shadow played across my skin from the flickering glow of an oil lamp, illuminating the convex curves of breast, abdomen, and hip.

  ‘You are truly Aphrodite,’ he said, his gaze roving over my body. He moulded his palms to the shape of me and pressed his fingers into my softness. His breath quickened. Pulling me close, Gaius touched his cheek to one breast and kneaded the other while he caressed my buttocks. His tongue lashed my nipple, and he slipped his fingers beneath the curve of my bottom to stroke the folds of my quim from behind. I gasped and writhed against him.

  He sat on a chair and pulled me into his lap. Hip resting against his erection, I felt the rapid beat of my pulse against his tongue while he licked around my ear. Smoothing his nape, I pressed my lips to his brow. My lover twisted his hand in my braid of long dark hair and released it so that it cascaded down to my hips. I cupped his face in my hands, and looked into his eyes. ‘Take me to bed, Gaius.’