Mary Reed - Nine for the Devil

Of the original luxury there remained only the overstuffed couch in Isis’ private apartments, on which John took his accustomed seat, and the polished wood desk where she kept her accounts.

The plump former madam smiled from her chair by the desk. She looked much older without the make-up she had habitually worn and her extravagant silks replaced by white linen robes. “You look a bit uncomfortable John. Does my new vocation bother you? We’re friends, remember, from back in our days in Alexandria.”

It was an long-standing jest. They had both passed through Alexandria many years before but their paths had never crossed, so far as John recalled. Nevertheless, Isis insisted on regaling John with reminiscences of their meetings there, embroidering her tales with surprising details. John had never decided whether she had confused him with someone else, possessed a better memory, or whether she just automatically employed her former profession’s skill for creating a greater intimacy than really existed. Whatever the answer, however, their years of residence in Constantinople had brought about a genuine friendship between them.

“I was surprised to hear about your change of direction,” John told her. “How is your new enterprise faring?”

“Very well, John. But why would you be surprised, of all people? First a mercenary, then a slave, and now Lord Chamberlain. Isn’t that the way of the world? It isn’t like the old days. Today we’re free to change our social positions. Justinian was a farmer’s son. Theodora was a working girl.”

“I understand she was pleased to see her reform efforts succeed so well.”

“She gave me her personal commendation.”

“Has it helped to pay the bills?”

Isis tapped a naked finger on the codex lying open on her desk. The lack of rings on her wrinkled hands struck John as startling, almost embarrassing, considering the amount of jewelry she had always worn. “My accounts have never been better. Remember my big golden Eros? A private collector gave me a very good price for it, and a bishop donated those angry-looking icons you doubtless noticed.”

“I never thought of you as…” He broke off, not wanting to offend.

“As a Christian? I can’t blame you, but then again I am not the person you knew last year, let alone all those decades ago in Egypt. We all change. Well, perhaps not you, John.” She leaned back in her chair and fixed her gaze on him. “Look at me, my friend. You see what I am now, without paint or gems. An old woman. When I was just another girl working for that dreadful man in a mud brick hovel down a side alley in Alexandria, I was already planning for the future when I would own my own establishment. I accomplished that. Now the time has come to make other plans.”

“So the change is a matter of business? You are investing in your soul rather than the goods of the world?”

“I have not given up putting aside a few coins. My refuge owns several shops around the city and I intend to convert this building for similar trade soon.”

John asked what her penitents would sell.

“For one thing we do a brisk trade in wonders. Salamander eggs, stone curls of hair from victims of Medusa, strings that once sang in Apollo’s harp, that sort of thing. Visitors to the city like to buy them to take home. Currently there’s a lot of interest in amulets. We make them here, but you don’t need to mention that to anyone.”

“What would your kindly bishop think?”

Isis brought her hand up to her mouth and her eyes widened. “Oh, my. You don’t think anyone takes our goods seriously, do you? It’s all in fun, like reading about Homer’s gods, not that I ever had any amusement reading Homer.” She let her hand drop and her full, unpainted lips quirked in a smile. “There was one patron who thought it pleasurable for a naked, nubile girl to read to him the battles between the heroes in the Iliad while he-”

John held up a hand. “Please don’t give me the details. For all I know it’s some official I might need to deal with at court. I’m glad to hear you’re doing well, Isis, though I can’t believe salamander eggs are as popular as the services your house used to provide.”

“Remember, John, shops are less expensive to run. No need to hire doormen and brawny fellows to deal with the results of inflamed passions. No polishing statuary or cleaning floors and bedding. I don’t have to buy silks or make-up for my girls. And you can’t imagine how much medical care cost me. The pessaries, the procedures to correct mistakes made by my careless employees. Not to mention bribing the urban watch and the magistrates.”

“Indeed. And was this why I sometimes saw your girls dressed like penitents begging in front of the Baths of Zeuxippos?”

Isis made a clucking sound of disapproval. “They never begged with my permission! Nor do we beg now. However, I’m happy to say the faithful are inclined to make donations. Imagine when a grand aristocrat or powerful office holder opens his door and sees the poor child he carnally abused now dressed in the garments of a penitent. The same sweet lips those wretched men damned their souls to kiss remind them how to save themselves from the fiery pit. What could be more fitting? Some of them weep with gratitude as they promise to remember my refuge in their wills.”

John couldn’t help smiling. “And your girls are happy with their new occupations?”

“There you are wrong. Some-the newer ones-complain they have to work too hard and have too little time to themselves. And they miss their silks. The older ones, who have seen what the life can lead to, are happier with the change.”

“Which reminds me of what I intended to ask you,” John said. “Do you know of a former working girl named Kuria, who became an attendant to Theodora?”

Isis’ face hardened. “Yes. Kuria was one of my girls. Theodora noticed her when she visited here to give her official blessing to my refuge. She brought an enormous retinue. They descended on us like an army of shining angels. If you’d sold the clothes off their backs you would have made enough to build a church. When she spotted Kuria she insisted the girl return to the palace with her.”

“Why did Theodora single her out?”

“For the same reason many of my patrons singled her out. She has an aristocratic bearing. She was a favorite with a number of men from the palace. One of my more lucrative girls, in fact. But her patrons were so generous to her she became rather spoilt, which always causes difficulties. I was pleased to be rid of her.”

An aristocratic bearing? Isis’ words did not describe the hunched, sobbing girl John had spoken to in the gardens. But then any of the pampered ladies of the court would disintegrate in tears if suddenly forced to fend for themselves, a task for which none of them was prepared.

“You would not want to take her back?”

“No,” Isis replied firmly. “And she knows it. Not an hour before the empress arrived I had decided to discharge her. Do I sound harsh? You know I look after my girls like a mother, John, but she slashed the face of a rival. It was an argument over a favorite patron. It cost me a great deal for medical treatment for her victim, who was left with a bad scar. It happened shortly before I left that life and took my girls with me. The whole story only came out afterwards. If I had known, I would have put her out at once. I never condoned violent behavior. And girls who are prone to jealously over men are jealous about everything. I am sure Kuria would have caused trouble even in our refuge.”

John could not imagine the beaten-down girl he had met fighting a rival. It showed how misleading quickly formed impressions could be.

Isis leaned forward and placed a hand on John’s knee. “Let’s not talk about business. I was just remembering that time in Egypt. The horrible man I worked for insulted me. Do you remember what you did?”