Pandora's Jar: Pandora's Jar, #1

By FL Rose

"Supremely entertaining"

 

It's 531 AD. Emperor Justinian and his ex-prostitute Empress, Theodora, rule the eastern Roman Empire. But fate is fickle; in the sophisticated, complex world of the Byzantine Empire, power and death go hand in hand.

 

Anastasia, successful ex-courtesan of Constantinople, isn't interested in politics. Instead she plans to spend her retirement reading, entertaining friends and enjoying the sea air. But life, as usual, has other plans. Recovering from a hangover after her retirement party, she's visited by her handsome playboy ex-lover, who begs her help in finding his vanished new bride. It's not long before the corpses begin to pile up, including Anastasia's much-loved protege Helena. Anastasia is advised to take a holiday for her health, but she's not content to let her friend's death go unavenged. Determined to get to the bottom of all this, she sets off to find the elusive teenage bride - and finds herself into more trouble than she bargained for. 

 

Meet Anastasia, a lusty heroine who likes virile men, poetry and a hot bath, in that order; Chloe, her dagger-wielding, ball-crunching slave, and Euphemia, the kind of girl you'd probably rather kill yourself than spend a weekend with.

 

Sexy, witty historical page turner you won't easily be able to put down...

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: FL Rose
• Release date: Jan 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201603847

Book preview

One

Isn’t it always the way that, when one’s affairs are going particularly well, the Fates send us troubles to try us? Or perhaps it is our Lord, intervening to turn us aside from our sinful ways.

It was the year - I remember it well - when General Belisarius returned from the East in disgrace, having lost a battle with the Persians on the border of the Empire. I remember catching a glimpse of him, as he passed by at the head of his troops. He seemed young and shy - I suppose he felt it as a humiliation - and looked neither to right nor left as he rode to the Palace. I felt sorry for him, and was glad when the Emperor forgave him for the defeat. It was said that his men were too eager to pursue the fight, and forced his hand. I remember thinking, perhaps when he is older he will be able to manage them better.

More to the point, it was also the year that I turned twenty-five, and finally considered myself rich enough to abandon my profession and embark on a life of cultured ease. To celebrate the transition, I decided, naturally, to hold a party.

It was in August, at the end of a long, hot summer. Even the Judas trees were wilting in the heat, and the roses I had planted in the garden of the villa I had bought required daily watering. People, if they could, stayed inside during the heat of the day and came out to tryst with lovers or meet with friends in the cool of the evening.

There was much to celebrate. I was rich, and free, and beautiful - if I say so myself - and because of my hair, which is a white-blonde unusual in Constantinople, men called me Argentea (‘The Silver One’). My given name is Anastasia. I had been one of the most sought-after courtesans of the Imperial City (at least, since Theodora and her sister Comito quit the scene, being, as you all know, now Empress and Imperial Sister-in-Law respectively) and now, due to a certain thrift which is not common in my profession, I could look forward to a life of comfort and leisure.

You see, on the day I became a freedwoman, I decided that I would never be one of those empty-headed girls who waste their youth and good looks on hairdressers, jewellery and gadding about with gladiators, and then in old age have nothing to show for it but sagging tits and pockmarks. No - I schemed, and saved, and invested my sinful earnings in an apartment block in the better part of the City, a small wine-producing estate not far from the City, my villa, and a tanning factory which provided ample dividends. Consequently, having passed the springtime of my first youth, I was in a position to choose how I should best spend the rest of my life. I would read, entertain my friends to dinner, and distribute my favours exactly as I felt like.

I was not always so fortunate. My father was a Thessalian horse dealer, my mother a slave from the Black Sea coast, and - he being in need of a little extra capital - I was sold at twelve to a brothel in the Imperial City. The manager of the brothel was called Fausta, a fat, shrewd-eyed woman who immediately saw my potential. It could have been worse - I could have been rented out by the hour to any man with a few solidi - but Fausta decided that I should be taught to charm and entertain as well as to lie on my back and open my legs. So would she get a much higher price for my services. I was pale-skinned and blonde, as I said, and she must have seen enough beauty in me even at twelve to make a longer term investment worthwhile.

I learned reading, writing, the rudiments of music, and, of course, the arts of desire (though in this, at first, I was a reluctant pupil). I was soon much in demand among the wealthy aristocrats and merchants of Constantinople, as a paid companion both in bed and out of it. It all went to Fausta, of course, and to the owner, a bishop in Ephesus called John. And it was this Bishop’s friend, a man called Anthemius, who bought me from the brothel at sixteen as his mistress, for a huge sum (he never told me how much, but I remember the negotiations went on for weeks) and freed me a year later. I’ll always remember him with affection. Fausta taught me to read Greek and Latin, but Anthemius taught me to truly appreciate literature, which has always been a solace to me and a stay to boredom. Poor old Anthemius, he died a year later; even his riches couldn’t protect him from some flux he caught while on a trip to Ephesus.

I was free, then, but a woman must eat, and Anthemius had not left me much besides a small store of jewellery and clothes. So I set up on my own account as a courtesan, entertaining men I’d met at the brothel or while I was with Anthemius, and found that I rather enjoyed my work, after all. As a courtesan, I could choose my own clients, and I chose those who were rich, well-mannered, and handsome, in that order.  As I’ve said, I was thrifty and careful, and at twenty-five I had no more need of paying clients, unless I chose. Which was, perhaps, just as well. A woman’s beauty fades fast, they say, and I was already past my youth.

And so I threw a party. I invited, of course, all my friends who were still in the business - red-haired Thracian Sophia, who boasted she could ride any horse or a man to exhaustion, and liked to dally with the charioteers in the Hippodrome, as long as they were of the Green faction. Her mother, she said, had never fucked a Blue by choice, and she was a stickler for tradition. Anastasia of Chios, who could sing like a nightingale, argue theology like a bishop, and screw like a succubus. And of course my oldest friend Hypatia, who lived and worked with me in Fausta’s house when we were both slaves, and earned her freedom with a rat-faced patrician.

Like Sophia, I was a Greens supporter, but I have never been particularly zealous on either side (besides which, my lover barracked for the Blues). So I had invited those of both persuasions, hoping that fine wine and elegant company would keep them from brawling, at least in my presence. My reception rooms were crowded with the latest names from the race track, not to mention the cream of sophisticated society. Or if not the cream, at least the froth. I am speaking, of course, of the gentlemen; ladies of any rank would not have been seen dead on my doorstep.

It was an impressive turnout for my last day on the job, as it were - in fact I had no idea how many friends I had until they sashayed up and introduced themselves for the first time. Already, the low table I had the slaves set out in the atrium was groaning with birthday gifts - exquisite little trinkets of gold, silver and lapis lazuli, silk fripperies, pots, goblets, unguents in fine glass jars. Which reminds me. If every ointment I ever bought did what the shopkeeper assured me it must, I would be as beautiful as Aphrodite by now. But I'm not complaining.

I took a moment, while I was fetching another glass of wine for old Thisbe, a mime actress well past her prime but still witty and quick as any comedienne - to look about me. Over by the fountain I spotted a former client of mine - Augustus, as horny as he was bald, talking earnestly to Demetrios Hairy-Arse (as the girls called him, for his body was furred back and front like a he-goat). From the look on their faces, and the way their arms windmilled about, I guessed that they were arguing theology as usual. Demetrios waved, but I avoided his eye. Call me impious, but I have very little interest in whether the Son, the Father and the Holy Spirit are Three in One or One in Three, and whether the Holy Foreskin shrivelled up to dust in some Judean midden or rose to Heaven with the rest of our Lord Jesus. As I passed by I heard him saying, ...but you must agree with Severus of Antioch that our Lord Jesus’ sacrifice makes no sense unless he was as much a man as I am... I thought, if he was anything like you, the pictures in our churches would look more like Esau, and Mary Magdalena would probably have had better things to do than washing his feet, but I did not stop.

I drifted past Arrian the orator, sitting on one of my couches, holding forth as if he was drumming up business with the other lawyers in the Royal Stoa.

Argentea! he hailed me. Help me settle an argument, my dear. Surely you agree with me that if we are to stamp out the pagan religions we must not give undue lenience to festivals and the like which have a pagan origin, whatever Emperors Arcadius and Honorius may have said...

I yawned. Three or four years ago our Emperor began revising the laws of the Empire into a great Codex which is supposed to cover everything from Romulus to Anastasius. But to be quite frank, the law does not interest me, as long as I manage to stay on the right side of it. I said as much, and Arrian laughed patronisingly and said, I believe you are more pagan than Christian, my dear - a true daughter of Aphrodite. By which he meant pretty and empty-headed. I smiled and moved on. He’d hired me a few times for parties, back when I was younger and cheaper...I remembered the girls gossiped that he had a cock like a fishhook, though I had never seen it myself...

The evening was promising to be a success. And yet, I found myself biting at my nails as I scanned the room, on edge and sick at heart. He had vowed that he would be here, and was not. Perhaps he was late, detained by some small matter or other. Perhaps his new wife had conjured up some illness to keep him by her side...

Suddenly, I caught sight of my little Helena. She was sitting like a nervous mouse in a barn full of cats, away from the crowd, nursing her wine and trying to look inconspicuous. Parties frightened her, I knew - in fact, I was surprised she was here at all - so I threaded my way between my guests, with smiles and apologies for those who tried to detain me, and sat down beside her, patting her maternally on the knee. Well, I was a few blinks and a stumble away from thirty, and she, but sweet sixteen.

Darling, you came, and all on your own! How brave of you. I know how you hate crowds full of strangers. Does your mother know you’re here?

Yes, she whispered, so that I could hardly hear her and had to lean in close to her downcast face. I wanted to come, to say goodbye. I won’t stay long.

Poor little sweetie. I'd first spotted her being hawked like a newborn lamb to whatever customer would pay through his nose for a genuine, certified British virgin. I knew at once that she was one of those girls who doesn't bend to the prevailing wind - as I did, eventually - but breaks. So I bought her out of old Mother Euphrosyne's grasp, with much haggling and cries of 'But where am I going to get another such? You do know virgins are rarer than hen's teeth here!'. Her mother works in a public laundry, poor thing. And if you’re wondering, how does a British girl end up in the slave markets when her mother is free, just ask her drunken Scythian pig of a father. Dead now, may he rot in hell. They say the Emperor is writing a law to forbid people selling their children as slaves, now, and a good thing it is too, but....where was I?

Goodbye? But darling, you do know I'm not going anywhere? I'm just retiring, not retreating to a convent, my dear.

She coloured. No, no, I know you’re not. It’s just that Mother is arranging a marriage for me, and I might not be able to...well, when I am a wife...

I knew exactly what she meant, but was too polite to say. When she was a wife, her respectable husband might not allow her to freely visit Anastasia, ex-whore of the Imperial City. As it was, Marcia, her mother, was far from happy about it. Still, it was about time she was wed. Helena was a girl who should be settled, under the protection of a good man who would give her a home, security, children. Not things on which I have ever relied. God grant her mother had found her such a one.

Yes dear, I understand perfectly, I said quickly, to save her embarrassment. "And by the way, how is your mother?"

Much better now. The doctor came yesterday and said she'll be able to go back to work soon.

Typical. If I knew Marcia, she'd get up at dawn to do her duty on the morning of the Last Judgement. No, she shouldn't. That's probably what made her sick in the first place - stamping around in all that piss, it’s not good for a woman's health. Come to see me tomorrow and I'll find something else for your mother to do, something that won't turn her skin yellow.

Domina, thank you for all that you do for us, but my mother...she doesn’t want...

I knew exactly what Marcia didn’t want. Charity from a bedizened harlot.

I’ll arrange it so she will never know. I was sure I could get her work with some respectable family, if only because the pater familias was a friend of mine, and therefore not so very respectable. It was ever thus.

To my embarrassment, Helena started to sniffle. If it were not for you, domina, my mother would be dead now.

Nothing of the kind. I tried to laugh it off. I really couldn't have the girl weeping at my party. People would think I'd said something spiteful to her. Look after her, then, so that I haven’t wasted my money. And don’t call me domina. You are not a slave, and I’m not your mistress.

She blushed again. That fair British skin of hers, that often goes with flaxen hair. Not that Helena’s was flaxen, exactly - more of a light honey brown.

I will see about it first thing tomorrow, I said optimistically. As for you, you look about as comfortable as a hen in a fox's den.

It’s a bit...a bit noisy, she admitted in her mouse-like voice. I patted her hand and looked about for someone who could take care of the poor girl for an hour or two. I didn't want some dirty old lecher to spot her - that would only confirm Marcia in her opinion of me.  In fact, I was surprised Demetrios hadn’t swooped down on her already; he likes them young and shy. But the girl was an expert at blending into the scenery, lucky for her, and young though she was, she was no beauty, with those pale eyelashes and freckles. And then I saw just the man.

Euphratas? Come over here, I want you to meet someone.

Euphratas smiled, and nodded, and wiggled his hand. I wouldn't introduce most of my ex-clients to an impressionable virgin, but Euphratas was different. Solid, middle-aged, and - so he told me, and I believed him - not in the habit of visiting brothels. In fact, the first time we met, we spent the entire night in earnest conversation. It turned out that he had recently lost his mother in a Euxine shipwreck, and all he wanted was a cuddle and a sympathetic ear. As it turned out, Euphratas' tastes ran in other directions - I believe he kept a nice young man in an apartment in the suburbs. I have nothing against such perversions myself - to each his own - but hoped for his sake he was never caught with a boy, for which the penalty is castration and being burned alive.

"Euphratas, my love, this is Helena, a very special friend of mine - not in the business - and Helena, meet Euphratas, he’s a very important man and useful to know. Euphratas, perhaps you'd like to take Helena out on the terrace? I hired a delightful lyre artiste to play for those of us who are musically inclined, and I'm very much afraid that most of my guests are far too drunk to pay him the attention his talents deserve."

As Helena threaded her way out to the terrace on Euphratas ' fatherly arm, I scanned the crowd again, searching for his face. I knew that it was in vain. If he was here, he would have come immediately to greet me, his broad shoulders pushing a path through the crowd, a head taller than any man here and twice as handsome. Passion, in a woman, is a demeaning emotion. I should have known better than to give way to it. I should have known better than to believe him, when he told me that he'd be there whenever I called, that he’d follow me through the gates of Hades itself, like Orpheus for his Eurydice. That once he was wed, nothing would change between us. Men!  They’re all liars.

As I was brooding on this, and trying not to show it, a female voice pierced my left eardrum like a gilded spear.

Darling, don't look so grim, it’s your birthday. I swear on the finger bones of Saint James the Syrian, you don't look a day over fifty!

I turned to see my best friend Hypatia, resplendent in a golden wig which made her look like an over-rouged Pallas Athene, bearing down on me under full oar. She kissed me on both cheeks, nearly asphyxiating me with attar of roses.

I gave her a playful pinch. What are you trying to say, my dear? That I gave up the game just in time. Jumped before I was pushed?

Hypatia snorted.

Darling, let’s be honest, at our age, our best years are behind us. But you look a little down in the mouth for the belle of the ball. She pinched my cheek in sympathy. Michael?

Michael, I agreed sourly. Rich, urbane, devastatingly attractive Michael Basilides, patrician of Constantinople and, until recently, devoted lover of Anastasia, the city's most feted courtesan. And now, newly married man. But not, of course, to me.

Damn him to the seventh level of hell, don't give it another thought. Hypatia took a fig from a passing tray, and slapped the serving slave appreciatively on the bottom. He doesn't deserve you. You can do better. All Constantinople is at your feet, sweetie, don't cry over a single worthless man.

But women always say that, don’t they? We both knew better. Maybe I could have any man in Constantinople, but Michael was a prize that every woman wanted to win. Every whore - and wife too - had envied me when he was mine. He was a man who drew all eyes with his dark, swaggering beauty, and could charm a fly off your nose with his bright smile. He was educated, and rich, and careless with it, as only the rich and well-born can be. Oh, the gifts he'd given me - the team of snow-white horses from the finest breeder in Thrace, the statue of Minerva said to be by a famous Greek sculptor of the classic age (with one arm, but who's counting), jewels from Carthage, scandalously transparent silks from the deserts of Persia...I could go on, but won't. You would think me greedy.

But Michael was a scion of one of the old Senatorial families - a minor branch, I grant you, but full of their own importance - and could trace his ancestry back to the Republic. Such a man couldn't marry a courtesan - not though the Emperor himself had changed the law so that he could do exactly that. Oh, Theodora was good enough for Justinian, but then, Justinian was an upstart, his uncle a peasant from Illyricum. Michael had to marry a noble virgin, a bloodless girl still wet from the christening font. Euphemia, pah! How I have always hated that name.

I smoothed my hair and smiled serenely, as one must.

I wish her joy of him! He means nothing to me now. Let us make our way outside, Hypatia dear, and listen to the music. I would hate the poor player to think he was hired by vulgar barbarians.

As we made our way outside, there was a drunken cheer, as Arrian the lawyer climbed on a table. I rolled my eyes.

A toast to our Empress of the Night! he shouted, nearly losing his balance. May she live out her days in wealth and happiness, and marry a rich old merchant who dies within the year!

I raised my goblet, letting the scarlet silk slip elegantly from my shoulder. Hypatia sniggered.

Much appreciated, but you can keep him!

I don't need to marry a rich old goat, I thought. But if Michael had asked me, then perhaps... Why shouldn't I, too, marry a handsome lover in the prime of his life, and live like a pig in shit for the rest of my life, like our noble Empress? After all, what was