The men hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders and bore it out of the door. A procession began to form up in the street. The priests chanted, words she did not understand. But she did understand what the choir of women mourners sang as they trudged along. It was an old song that she had often heard women sing.
Once in my garden there grew an apple tree
But a storm blew up and stole it away from me.
Once in my garden I had a lovely rose
But the petals were torn by the winter wind that blows.
Once in my chamber I lay safely with my dear
But now when I call him my beloved cannot hear.
Once we could stand side by side and see the sun
But now your fair eyes are closed and I am left alone.
Yes, I am left alone and I weep for my lost dear.
I call him and I call him but alas he cannot hear.
My heart burns, my heart burns, for alas he cannot hear.
Her mother kept her grip on Theodora’s hand. Her elder sister, Comito, white-faced but dry-eyed, clutched her mother’s other hand. Their mother led them out into the street. An elderly neighbour who could not walk as far as the cemetery would look after their little sister, also christened Anastasia but called Stasie, whose short, fat legs would not carry her that far either. The solemn procession wound through the streets. The priests swung their censers and intoned their chant. People respectfully stood still and made the sign of the cross as the funeral procession passed by. A huge load of bundles that appeared to be walking on two legs turned into a porter who moved aside. For some time they walked through narrow, winding streets thronged with buildings, then they reached the outskirts where the road was lined with orchards and market gardens. A farmer with a donkey cart piled high with cabbages drew up and doffed his cap. Theodora’s tears had dried and she began, in a way, to enjoy the walk. She liked being the centre of attention. She liked having the right of way. It made her feel important.
But long before they reached the outer region of the city, where there were only stretches of untilled land covered in bushes and weeds, her legs began to ache and she felt desolate again, and when they finally came to a halt at the cemetery with its rows of slabs like beds of stone, she was once more in tears. The men manoeuvred the coffin into place. The priest spoke words that blew away over her head. No miracle, she thought sorrowfully. The Lord Jesus hadn’t made a miracle.
She looked up at the colossal ramparts, the thick walls that ringed the city, part brick, part stone, edged with moats and crowned with tall towers at intervals. The Walls of Theodosius, her father had told her. The figures of the guards on watch looked small against the massive battlements. The mourners chanted as the coffin began to sink into the gaping hole. Fat Rosa’s voice soared into a piercingly sweet descant above those of the rest of the choir. Then, just as the grave-diggers bent to their shovels and the first clods thudded onto the coffin, the harsh, brassy notes of trumpets rang out.
Theodora whispered to her mother: “How do they know?”
“What? How do … who?”
“How do they know Father is being buried now? The trumpet-players?”
“No, sweetheart, it has nothing to do with … with this. It’s a fanfare for the changing of the guard up there,” the widow whispered.
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “I thought it was for Father.” She felt that there should be something more than men simply shovelling in earth. They should have meant the fanfare for him.
At last it was all done. Now there was the long road back. Theodora sighed and began to trudge, dragging her feet. It suddenly seemed a very long way home. And she was the smallest person in the whole procession. It wasn’t fair. Then a large hand enfolded hers.
“T-tired, little one?” It was Peter.
“Yes.” She could not keep her voice from quavering.
“C-can I carry you?”
She peered up at him. “Yes, please?”
His powerful arms grabbed her and she let out a shriek as she found herself hoisted right up into the air and settled on his broad shoulders with her legs dangling down his chest.
“Hold on to m-my hair,” he advised, and she clutched at his wiry brown curls that smelled a bit like dog. He held her ankles and strode forward. Ah, this was good, this was the way to travel! Better than a sedan chair, she thought triumphantly. Now she was high up, almost as high as the crosses on the roofs, and she could see over the fences and into windows and clear across the orchards and fields. She could see a woman kneading bread in her kitchen and another one milking a cow in her back yard and others drawing water from a well. She could see a man chopping at weeds with a hoe. She could look down on all the mourners, even her mother whose wavy hair, worn loose as a sign of mourning, bobbed on her shoulders, and she was much higher than Comito, who was always taller than she was because she was older and grew faster anyway. She thought: I am higher than everybody. Even higher than the priests. She wriggled with delight. Peter tightened his grip.
“Be c-careful,” he said. “You don’t want to f-fall.”
“Oh no,” she said. “Oh no. I’m holding on. Tightly.”
“What are you going to do?” Fat Rosa sat in their front room and fed Stasie bread soaked in milk. “Do you have family that might support you? Parents or a brother maybe?”
“Nobody,” said Anastasia shortly. Rosa irritated her, but she could hardly afford to make an enemy of her. The woman meant well. And she helped with the children. “This is not our city. It is not our country, in fact. We … we came from Syria. My husband had a brother who lived here, he was a businessman, he had a house … a good house, we thought he might have room … while we … but …” She struggled to control her breathing.
“Ah. Well, what about him?”
“He’s dead,” said Anastasia. “He died just before we arrived, he and his wife both, of a flux, they told us. Some said a servant they had angered poisoned them, but I suppose it was just … bad water, or something. Anyway, they were dead. Acasius managed to get the job at the Hippodrome.” She didn’t add that it was her last few gold coins, which she had sewn into her cloak when they fled, that had helped to convince Asterius of her husband’s suitability for the post.
“And there’s no one else? Not even a cousin?”
“Not a soul,” said Anastasia.
“Mmmm. I suppose you don’t earn enough yourself to keep out of the almshouse.”
“No,” said Anastasia.
“Convent for the girls, then. Or adoption, perhaps? It’s lucky they’re pretty,” observed Rosa judiciously, combing her fingers through Stasie’s brown ringlets. “Somebody’s sure to want them.”
“No!” yelled Anastasia. “No, and no, and no! I’ll not go to the almshouse, I’ll not go to a convent and I’ll not give my girls away!” She glared at Rosa.
“Well, excuse me, I’m sure,” said the woman, affronted. “I was just–”
“We’ll manage,” stated Anastasia. “Church charity will help. Even if I am an actress, and everybody thinks I’m a whore as well, I’m still a member of the church. And … I’ll … I’ll … think of something.”
Rosa had set the child down and hauled herself to her feet. She looked Anastasia up and down with a leer. “I’m sure you will,” she nodded and departed majestically. “Oh, no doubt, you will.” An aroma of soap and the goose grease with which she rubbed her hands remained behind.
“Cow,” spat Anastasia, and hurled a milk-jug at