"You're positive?" demanded Theodora. "There's no mistake?"
The Empress of Rome leaned forward in her luxurious chair. No expression showed on her face beyond a certain tense alertness. But the knuckles of her hands, gripping the armrests, were white as snow, and the tendons stood out like cables.
Irene met the dark-eyed gaze squarely.
"I am certain, Your Majesty. I've only met Narses face-to-face on three occasions, but I know him quite well. I've studied the man for years, as one professional—and possible competitor—will study another. I could not possibly mistake his appearance, undisguised. Nor he mine, for that matter—that's why I took such elaborate precautions with our disguises."
Theodora transferred her piercing gaze to Hermogenes. The young general winced, shrugged.
"I can't vouch for it myself, Your Majesty, one way or the other. I've never met Narses." He took a deep breath. "But I do know Irene, and if she says it was Narses—"
The Empress stilled him with a curt gesture. The black eyes moved on to Maurice.
"It was Narses," growled Maurice. "I've met the man many times, Empress, in the service of my lord Belisarius. We've never been personally introduced, and I doubt if he'd recognize me. But he's a distinctive-looking man. I'd know him anywhere, as long as he was undisguised and the light was good." The grey-haired veteran took his own deep breath. "The man was undisguised. His face—his whole figure—was clearly visible the moment he stepped out of Balban's villa to wait for his palanquin. And the light was good enough. A half-moon in a clear sky."
The Empress looked away. Still, there was no expression on her face.
Irene spoke hesitantly: "It's possible he's playing a double game. Simply trying to draw out treason before he—"
The Empress shook her head. The gesture was short, sharp, final. "No. You do not understand, Irene. Narses and I have been close—very close—for many years. If he suspected treason, and wanted to draw it out, he would have told me. There is only one explanation for his presence at that meeting."
She turned, raised her head imperiously, looked at Maurice and Hermogenes.
"Thank you, gentlemen," she said. Her voice was cold, perhaps a bit choked. A bit, no more. The Empress turned her head slightly, staring at the wall.
"Now—please leave. I wish to be alone with Antonina and Irene."
The two men in the room immediately left. After they closed the door behind them, they looked at each other and puffed their cheeks with relief.
"Let the women handle it now, lad," muttered Maurice. He stumped down the corridor, Hermogenes in tow, making no attempt to soften his footfalls.
In the room, the Empress continued to stare blindly at the wall, maintaining her rigid posture, until the sound of the receding soldiers faded completely away. Then she broke, not like a stick, but like a stone might crumble. Before the first tears had even appeared, Antonina was out of her own chair and cradling Theodora's head against her stomach. The Empress clutched her, sobbing, her face buried completely in Antonina's skirts. The tiara on her head was pushed back onto her hair, making a mess of the elaborate coiffure.
Irene remained in her seat. Her face showed her own distress. But, when she made a motion to rise and come to Antonina's assistance, Belisarius' wife stopped her with a look and a small shake of the head.
Irene sat back, understanding. The understanding, then, brought a different distress.
Fear. A fear much like that of an experienced seaman sensing hidden reefs and treacherous currents.
Irene Macrembolitissa was one of the best professional spymasters in the Roman Empire. One of the very best intriguers—in an era where intrigue was so prevalent, and so skilled, that it would bequeath the very name Byzantine to the lexicon of future languages.
She was in dangerous waters, now. The number of people alive who had ever seen Theodora in such a state could be counted on the fingers of one hand. It was both a privilege and a peril.
After a minute or so, the sobbing ceased. Irene noted, with the detached interest of a spymaster, that for all their bitter anguish the sobs had been almost silent. The Empress Theodora would never wail. Like any woman, she could have her heart broken. But it was a small, tough, stony heart. Its wounds healed very quickly, and simply added more scar tissue.
As soon as the sobs stopped, the Empress turned her head against Antonina's belly and fixed Irene with her gaze. The spymaster crouched in her chair, still, frozen by those cold black eyes. She felt like a rabbit being examined by a hawk.
"Tell me, Antonina," commanded Theodora. There was still a trace of raw anguish in that voice, but not much of one. It was a cold, black voice.
"She is my dear friend, Theodora," said Antonina. Her own voice, though soft, was even colder. "I love her as much as I trust her."
Silence followed, for a time which seemed to Irene to stretch on for hours. But it was less than half a minute before the Empress pushed herself away from Antonina.
"Good enough," she murmured. The Empress took a deep breath, leaned back into her chair. Throughout, her eyes never left Irene. But a smile came to her face. It was not much of a smile, true. But Irene suddenly discovered she could breathe.
Theodora laughed. It was like a raven's caw.
"Welcome to the old whores' club, Irene," she rasped. A majestic wave of the hand. "I make you an honorary member."
Theodora craned her head up, looking at Antonina. Finally, now, something other than pain entered her face.
"Thank you, Antonina," she whispered. "As always."
Then she sat erect. Automatically, as if to bring reassurance, her hand rose to the tiara. Finding it askew, she tried to force it back into place. The attempt failed, stymied by the disheveled mass of hair.
"Oh, the hell with it," muttered the Empress. She snatched the tiara off her head and placed it on the floor.
Irene almost laughed then, seeing the look of astonishment on Antonina's face. Often, in the year gone by, Antonina had told her of Theodora's obsession with maintaining her imperial regalia.
The Empress waved Antonina back to her chair.
"Let's to business," she commanded. Then, after her friend had resumed her seat:
"First of all, Antonina, you will pursue the contact this Indian—what was his name again?—"
"Ajatasutra."
"Yes—that this Ajatasutra initiated. He'll be seeking to draw you into some treasonous statement, you understand?"
Antonina nodded, saying:
"Of course. And there'll be an impeccable witness hidden somewhere nearby. John of Cappadocia, perhaps."
Irene shook her head. "It won't be him. Too many people wouldn't believe that filthy bastard if he claimed the sun rose in the east and set in the west. No, it's more likely to be one or the other—better yet, both—of the two churchmen." She shrugged. "Or someone else we don't even know yet."
Theodora pressed on:
"It's essential that you make such a statement, Antonina. That's the key that'll keep the door open. As long as the Malwa think they have something on you, they'll trust you."
Antonina chuckled. "You call that trust?"
The Empress smiled. "It's what passes for trust in that world. Our world, I'm afraid."
"Good as gold," chipped in Irene. "Better than gold, even. There's nothing an intriguer trusts more than someone he's successfully blackmailed."
Antonina made a little grimace of distaste. "And then what?" she asked.
Theodora shrugged. "We'll have to see. After the Malwa think they have you properly blackmailed, they'll demand that you perform some service. Give them some secret information, probably. When we find out what it is they want to know, that will tell us what's important to them."
Antonina considered the Empress' words for a moment.
"Makes sense," she said. Then, fixing Theodora with a level, serene gaze, added: "So be it."
The Empress returned the gaze. Nothing was said, for a full minute. When the Empress looked away, Irene noted that color had now fully returned to her face.
"Thank you, Antonina," whispered Theodora. "Again."
The intensity with which the words were spoken startled Irene, at first. Until she realized what had just happened. With that realization, she transferred her sharp eyes to the face of Antonina.
There was nothing to be seen on the Egyptian woman's face, beyond green-eyed, dark-haired, olive beauty. And serenity.
In the months since she had first met Antonina, she had often been impressed by her. But never more than at that moment.
A little chuckle from the Empress drew Irene's eyes. To her surprise, she found Theodora watching her.
"Good, Irene. You understand, then. Precious few people ever have."
Irene blew out her cheeks. "Not many women would agree to incriminate themselves on behalf of an Empress whose husband, well-placed rumor has it, is trying to have their own husband murdered. Without asking so much as a question. That's a different kind of trust than I usually encounter."
"Than anyone encounters," replied Theodora. For a moment, her lips tightened with anger. "I'm sure you've heard that my close friendship with Antonina is due to the fact that we're both former whores from Alexandria? Birds of feather, as it were, flocking together."
Irene nodded. "Any number of times."
"Idiots," snarled the Empress. "I know—knew, at least—plenty of Alexandrian whores who'd slit their own sister's throat for two denarii."
Antonina murmured: "That's not fair, Theodora. Antiochene whores, maybe. Any self-respecting Egyptian whore would hold out for a solidus."
Theodora cawed harshly. The Empress leaned forward in her seat, bracing her hands on her knees.
"I need you to be my spymaster, Irene."
Interpreting correctly the slight hesitation in the woman's face, Theodora made a little flipping motion with her hand, as if brushing something aside.
"I'll settle it with Sittas. He doesn't need your services half as much as I do. And I'll pay more than he does. Rich as he is, I'm a lot richer. And unlike Sittas, I'm not a stingy tightwad."
Irene chuckled, glancing around the lavishly furnished room. "You certainly aren't!"
When Irene had approached Theodora, a week earlier, with her charges against Narses and her plan to trap him in a treasonous meeting, it had been the Empress who had purchased this villa to serve as their command post. Purchased it—a huge, luxurious villa. Just—bought it. Like a matron buys fruit from a grocer.
The spymaster shook her head. "There's no point in that, Theodora. I can serve as your spymaster while staying on Sittas' payroll. It'd be much better that way. The fewer people who know of our relationship, the better. Money trails are the easiest to track. If I'm on your payroll, even secretly, someone will find out."
"The same objection applies to your being on Sittas' payroll," countered the Empress. "More so. I'm sure my security is better than Sittas'."
Irene shrugged. "So what? Let our enemies find out that I'm Sittas' spymaster. I'm sure they already know, anyway. Good. Excellent. Let them keep thinking that. Sittas they are not worried about. He's just a fat general who hates palace duty in Constantinople. Stuck way out there in Syria. Good at his trade, sure, but lazy and unambitious."
Theodora ran fingers through her elaborate coiffure, thinking. Almost immediately, the fingers became tangled in that incredible structure. Suddenly, vigorously, she plunged her fingers into the mass and pulled it all loose. Long black tresses cascaded over her shoulders. Her hair, now truly visible, was quite beautiful.
"God, I've wanted to do that for the longest time!"
Again, the women laughed. But it was a very brief moment of levity.
Theodora nodded. "You're right. Whatever their plot is, it does not appear to focus on the army. I noticed that no military figures attended that meeting tonight."
"No, they didn't. I'm pretty sure they've suborned a few officers, but not many. The only one of significance is Aegidius, the commander of the army in Bythinia. I'm not positive, but I think he's one of them. An underling, though, not a ringleader."
Theodora scowled. "I never liked that greasy bastard. God, my husband has the worst taste in generals!"
An apologetic nod to Antonina: "Belisarius aside, of course. And Sittas."
Again, the Empress ran her fingers through her hair, disheveling it even further. Her sensual pleasure in the act was obvious, but it did not distract her from her thoughts.
"Doesn't that seem odd to you, Irene? That lack of attention to the army? Every other treasonous plot I can remember has put the military on center stage. For obvious reasons."
"Actually, it's a cunning move on their part. They know that Justinian's suspicions will always be centered on the army. So they stay away from it, by and large, and spread their poison in darker corners."
"I still don't understand it." Theodora's voice was dark with frustration. "I take your point, but—so what? What good does it do to plot treason if you can't carry it out when the time comes? And for that you need military force. A lot more force than the Bythinian army provides. What is that army—ten thousand strong? At the most?"
"Eight," replied Irene. "Not enough to take power, but enough to neutralize loyal units. Especially if many of those units decide to stay on the sidelines until the dust settles. Which, unfortunately, many military units do during a coup." The spymaster began to add something, but fell silent. She glanced quickly at Antonina.
Theodora did not miss it.
"The two of you know something," she announced.
Silence.
"Tell." The voice of the Empress, that, not Theodora.
Irene's eyes appealed to Antonina. Antonina sighed.
"I will tell you everything, Theodora. Tonight. But you're not going to believe me."
"Tell."
When Theodora left the villa, Irene and Antonina escorted the Empress to the palanquin drawn up in the courtyard. After she climbed into the palanquin, Theodora leaned forward and whispered:
"You were right, Antonina. I don't believe it. It's absurd! Belisarius has a talisman from God? A messenger from the future?"
Antonina shrugged. "You didn't believe Irene, either, when she told you about Narses. But still you came here, to see for yourself."
The two old friends stared at each other. The Empress was the first to look away.
"No, I didn't. And, yes, I did."
She leaned back into the plush cushions. Antonina could barely make out Theodora's face in the dark interior of the enclosed vehicle, but she couldn't miss the grimace.
"I hate to travel," growled the Empress.
A sigh.
"Yes, Antonina, I will. I will come to Daras and see for myself. This summer."
Another sigh.
"I hate Syria in the summer."
A great, imperial sigh.
"Now that I think about it, I hate Syria any time of the year."
After the gate closed behind the departing palanquin, Antonina and Irene stood for a moment in the courtyard, admiring the clear night sky.
"I'm curious about something, Antonina," said Irene.
"Yes?"
"I don't really understand. Well, let's just say that I was surprised how hard Theodora took it, to find out that Narses is a traitor. I knew he was one of her closest advisers, but—"
"He was a lot more than that, Irene," replied Antonina, shaking her head sadly. "Much, much more."
The short Egyptian woman looked up at her tall Greek friend.
"You've heard, I'm sure, all the stories about Theodora's past?"
Irene shrugged. "Of course. I can't say I paid much attention to them. People are always quick—"
Antonina shook her head. "The fact is, they're mostly true. At least, insofar as the tales report what she did."
She looked away, her jaws tight, before adding: "Where they lie is in the heart of the thing. Theodora, as a girl, was as great a whore as you'll ever find. What she never was, was a wanton slut." A little laugh, barely more than a chuckle. "It's ironic, actually. Fair-minded, respectable, proper people, when they compare she and I, are prone to give me the benefit of their doubt. True, before I met Belisarius I gave my favors for money. But only to the most carefully selected men, and not many of those. Whereas Theodora—"
Harshly: "If there's to be a comparison, by rights it should go the other way. I did what I did through choice. Not much of a choice, mind you, for a dirt-poor girl on the streets of Alexandria, with a whore for a mother and charioteer for a father. But—I can't honestly claim that anyone forced me into it."
She took a breath, then looked her friend straight in the eyes. Irene winced.
"I don't think I want to hear what's coming next."
"You asked, woman. Theodora never took pleasure in her whoring, and she never had a choice. Her pig of a father raped her when she was nine, and kept doing it until he sold her to a pimp at the age of twelve. And her pimp was even worse. That stinking—"
She stopped abruptly, made a short chopping motion with her hand. "Never mind. There's nothing in it but nausea." She took another deep breath, let it out. "The point is, Irene, that Narses was the closest thing to a real father that woman has ever had. When she first met him, she was just a poor ambitious young woman helping her poor ambitious young lover to claw his way to the top. Narses took her under his wing, and helped her along. With money, sometimes; other times, with privy information; other times, with introductions to the right people. But, mostly, he helped her the way a father helps his daughter. The way a good father helps his daughter. He simply—taught her."
She paused for a moment. Irene interjected:
"I'm sure he was just—"
Antonina shook her head. "No. No. Well, that's too bald. A man like Narses always has an eye out for the main chance. But that wasn't it, Irene. Believe me, it wasn't. Narses is brilliant, but he's not God Almighty. And only the Lord Himself, in those days, could have known that Theodora would someday be Empress of the Roman Empire. She and Justinian didn't know it, then. Didn't even think of it."
She took Irene by the arm and began slowly leading her out of the courtyard.
"No, I think— I think, in his own way, Narses saw Theodora as the child he never had. Could never have. So, what childlike trust remained in a girl who distrusted all men, was given to an elderly eunuch. And what paternal care existed in a man who could have no children, was given to a young whore."
She halted, fighting tears. Stared blindly at the sky.
"Dear God in heaven," she whispered, "I so hoped Narses wouldn't be at that meeting. I so hoped you'd be wrong, even though I knew you weren't." Now the tears flowed. "Theodora will never recover from this."
"You can't say that," protested Irene. "She still has Justinian."
Antonina shook her head. "No, Irene. It's not the same. Theodora loves Justinian, but she has never trusted him. Not the way she trusted Narses." She wiped her eyes. Again, Antonina took Irene's arm and led her out of the courtyard. Her steps, now, were quick.
Ten feet from the door, she said: "Theodora's harder than steel, and she prides herself on not making the same mistake twice. She'll never give her trust to another man again. No matter who he is. Never."
Five feet from the door, Irene said sadly: "God, that poor woman."
At the door itself, Antonina stopped. Turned to her friend, and looked her squarely in the face. There was no trace of sorrow, now, in those beautiful green eyes. Just emptiness.
"Poor woman?" she demanded. "Don't ever think it, Irene. Give Theodora your love, if you can. But never think to give her your pity." Her eyes were like the green gaze of an asp. "If you thought the story of her father and her pimp was nauseating, someday I'll tell you what happened to them. After Theodora mounted the throne."
Irene felt her throat tighten.
"Whatever you do in this world, Irene, don't ever cross that poor woman. Go down to Hell, instead, and spit in the face of Satan."
She started through the door. Over her shoulder, like a serpent's hiss:
"Poor woman."
Two hours—and many bottles of wine—later, Antonina lowered her head onto the arm of her couch and asked:
"I'm curious about something myself, Irene." Her words were spoken in that slow, careful, precise manner which indicates that a moment of solemnity has—briefly, briefly—interrupted the serious business of getting blind drunk.
"Ask anything!" commanded the spymaster from her own couch, waving her arm grandly. The just-emptied bottle in her hand detracted, a bit, from the majesty of the gesture. The hiccup which followed detracted quite a bit more.
Antonina grinned, then tried to focus her thought.
"Everything you said—" Her own grand gesture; pitifully collapsing in midair. "Back then, earlier tonight—whenever—made sense."
She managed to restrain her own hiccup, beamed triumphantly at her friend, continued:
"About remaining on Sittas' payroll. But—weren't you even tempted? I mean, Theodora is stinking rich. Makes Sittas look like a pauper. She really would pay you a lot more. A whole lot more."
Irene reached out her hand, grasped the arm of the couch, and levered herself up slowly. She tried to focus her eyes, but couldn't quite manage the feat. So she satisfied herself with her own beaming, triumphant grin.
"You don't really understand me, dear friend. Not here, at least, not in—this thing. You and Theodora grew up—you know. Poor. Money means something to you. I was raised in a rich family—" A very grand sweep of the arm. Too grand, much too grand. She overbalanced and slipped off the couch onto her knee. Then, laughing, stumbled back onto it. Then, raising her head high with pride, demonstrated to a doubting universe that she hadn't lost her train of thought:
"—and so I take money for granted. The truth is—" Suppressed belch; grim face; bitter struggle against the slanderous hint of insobriety.
"Truit is—truth is—I don't even spend half the money Sittas pays me." Again, suppressed belch; again—the short, chopping blows of desperate battle:
"Personally. I mean. On myself. Don't need it."
Victorious against all odds, she flopped against the back of the couch, staring blearily at one of the magnificent tapestries on the opposite wall. She couldn't really see it, anymore, but she knew it was magnificent. Incredibly magnificent.
In the way that it happens, at such times, exultant triumph collapsed into maudlin tears.
"What matters to me is that the Empress of Rome wants me for her spymaster. That's"—hiccup—"enormously gratifying to my vanity, of course. But it also means I now have access tomb pelear—to imperial—resources. Resources."
She twirled her finger in a little gesture which encompassed the entire villa.
"Look at this! It's nothing but a damned stake-out, for Chrissake."
She beamed upon her friend, beamed upon the tapestry, sprang to her feet, and spread her arms in a great gesture of pure exultation.
"Oh, God—I'm going to have so much fun."
Antonina tried to catch her on the way down, but only succeeded in flopping onto the floor herself. From her belly, cheek pressed against the parquet, she did manage to focus on Irene long enough to be sure her friend was not hurt. Just, finally, dead drunk.
"Woman can't handle her liquor," she muttered; although, to a cold-hearted observer, the word "liquor" would have sounded suspiciously like a snore.
"Come on, Hermogenes, let's get them to bed."
Maurice bent, scooped the little figure of Antonina into his thick arms, and carried her through the door. He padded down the corridor effortlessly. Hermogenes followed, with like ease. Irene was taller than Antonina, but, slim rather than voluptuous, weighed not a pound more.
Antonina's room came first. Maurice, turning backward, pushed his way through the door and lowered Antonina onto her bed. Like every other piece of furniture in the villa, the bed was splendid. Very well made, very luxurious, and—very large.
Maurice turned and looked at Hermogenes. The young general was standing in the doorway, Irene cradled in his arms. Maurice gestured him in.
"Bring her here, Hermogenes. We may as well let them sleep it off together."
Hermogenes hesitated for an instant, looking down at Irene's slack, lolling head. A tiny little twitch in his mouth gave away his regrets.
"Come on," chuckled Maurice. "You won't be enjoying her company tonight. If you put her in her own bed, you won't get any sleep yourself, since you're sharing it with her. You'll just wind up sleeping on a couch. She'll be snoring like a pig, you know it as well as I do."
Hermogenes smiled, ruefully, and brought Irene into the room. Gently, he lowered her onto the bed next to Antonina. On that huge expanse, the two women looked like children.
"I've never seen her get drunk before," said Hermogenes softly. There was no reproach in his voice, just bemused wonder. "I've never even seen her get tipsy."
Maurice glanced at Irene. "She's a spymaster," he grunted. "Greek nobility, to boot."
He then gave Antonina a long, lingering, considering stare. There was no reproach in his gaze, just love. "I've seen this one get drunk before," he murmured. "Twice."
He began ushering Hermogenes out of the room.
"Once, the first time Belisarius went on campaign. I stayed behind, for a few days, organizing the logistics. She got plastered the night he left. The next morning, she climbed onto a horse and rode off to join him in camp. I sent five cataphracts with her as an escort. Anastasius was in command. He told me later he thought he'd have to tie her onto the horse to keep her from falling off. But she made it, all on her own."
He stopped in the doorway, looking back fondly. "I was impressed, when he told me."
Hermogenes nodded, smiling. "That's tough, riding a horse with that kind of hangover. I know. I've done the same thing myself."
Maurice eyed him scornfully.
"No, you haven't. You already knew how to ride a horse. It was the first time she'd ever been in a saddle."
Hermogenes gaped. Maurice grinned.
"Oh, yes. A very tough little woman, in her own way. Though you wouldn't think it, just looking at her." He reached out and closed the door.
"What was the second time?"
The humor faded from Maurice's face.
"The second time was the day after he left for India. The next morning, she stumbled down to the stables and spent four hours there. Just sitting on a pile of hay, staring at a horse."
Hermogenes puffed his cheeks, blew out the air.
"Christ."
Maurice shrugged. "Ah, hell. I wish she'd do it more often."
He started down the corridor.
"That's too great a pain to keep in such a small body."
When Irene awoke the next morning, it took her a full minute to focus her eyes. The first thing she saw was Antonina, dressed in a robe, staring out the window onto the street below.
Irene watched her for ten minutes, never once moving her eyes away.
At first, simply because she couldn't move her eyes. Then, when she could, because she immediately encountered pain. Then, after pain had been properly introduced, because she hoped it would go away if she ignored it politely. Then, after pain made clear it was settling in for a nice long visit, because she wanted to think about anything else. Then, finally, because she started to think.
"What in the hell are you doing?" she croaked.
"Nothing much," came the soft reply. "Just looking at a horse."