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13 That Was Then Constantinople, Plague Summer Sarah Lindsay Wind out of the north today, with the stench from the towers across the Horn, where the emperor’s men have packed the dead. I danced for a man last night with black peas all over his arms. When I placed my hands on the floor, reaching over my head, he began to scream. Spilled red fish sauce, I think, ran over the table. I took all the food I could carry. Those the plague passes over are starving. I dreamt of ortolans in a pastry nest, woke to another slave bolting to drown his fever. They say plum pickle wards it off, or lemons; they say God sends it. I think it’s part of the world that strikes and spares and never gives us the pattern. Tertia, our best, went first. They say the emperor prays all day. Some say he is dying. He’s sent for me, nonetheless. No chin, like a rat, and his small hands are never still, but if any wine is left in the city he’ll have it, olives and figs to push between my breasts, perhaps little birds in a pie with fruit in their beaks or spitted with their eyes open. ...

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