Read The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora for Free Online Page A

story.
    “I don’t see them,” Comito said. There was no sign of my mother or Anastasia. Or Vitus.
    He might have abandoned us, cut his losses, and run. Then we’d be in the gutter again, no position with the Blues, no address of residence. No bread.
    “We should try the rooms upstairs,” Comito said. “There are usually one or two empty ones the owner rents out.” Yet another discovery my sister had likely learned from the butcher’s son.
    Catcalls followed us as we made our way up the narrow staircase, the well-trod boards creaking underfoot. Only halfway up I heard the screams, like someone being tortured. The voice was familiar.
    I took the steps two at a time, and I shoved open the first door so hard it bounced back at me. A tiny bench was cut into the wall and on it was a
pornai
riding a brown-haired youth in a position God never intended.
    “Come to join us, love?” The girl’s grin revealed two missing teeth. Another cry ripped the air.
    “This one.” Comito pushed open the next door.
    Inside, my mother sported a fresh gash on her cheek, and the start of a black bruise blossomed over her eye. She held a dirty bandage—one that matched the hem of her green tunica—to the sides of Anastasia’s head as my little sister gulped for air. Tears cut swaths down her cheeks.
    “What happened?” I yelled. Vitus stood at the only table in the room and wiped a bloody knife on an old rag. On the table were two knobby lumps of pink flesh.
    Ears. Two tiny ears with blood on the edges where they’d been sawed off.
    I screamed and lunged at Vitus, but he turned the rusted blade on me.
    “Stay back, you little vermin, or I’ll cut your ears off, too.” He waved the blade between Comito and me. “It’s your fault I had to do this—you who eat my food and sleep under my roof, but don’t bring home a single
nummi
to pay for any of it.”
    “You slimy piece of offal!” I screamed. “We were out begging for your position while you butchered my sister.” I collapsed next to Anastasia and kissed her sweaty forehead as she sobbed, thumb in her mouth. I wanted to fix her, make her whole again, but there was nothing I could do. I should have told my mother my plan before we left for the baths, or we should have come straight home before the races—then none of this would have happened. This was all my fault.
    Vitus picked up his bear whip, and I steeled myself for the blow; instead, he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
    “I tried to stop him.” My mother’s eyes were dead. “He said Anastasia would bring in more than both of you.”
    She peeled the filthy bandage from the holes where Anastasia’s ears should have been, prompting a fresh gush of bright red blood and another scream from my sister. “We have to stop the bleeding.”
    Comito ran out without a word. I wanted to lob curses at her retreating back, but Anastasia’s fresh cries stopped me as blood soaked through the dirty linens. I crooned to her, songs my father used to sing, hoping they might soothe her and trying to think what to do. I tucked the stained blanket to her chin, ignoring the cloud of dust that billowed up from it. She settled into intermittent sobs and hiccups, but clutched my hand tight as she clasped her one-eyed doll to her chest.
    I had done this. And there was nothing I could do to fix it.
    .   .   .
    Comito returned in the pitch of night with an apothecary’s bottle and fresh linens. She doused the linens—the brown liquid smelled like urine—and pressedthem to the bloody wounds of Anastasia’s ears as I rocked her. I was so thankful for the supplies I didn’t bother to ask where she’d gotten them.
    “The saint said we need to keep the wounds clean,” Comito said. “He told me he’d pray for her.”
    I sent my own prayers to God, not trusting the word of some brown-robed apothecary. I offered God whatever he wanted to heal my sister, to save us all. And if that wouldn’t work, I’d start