Anastasia spared a sideways glance behind her and was pleased to see the prince entirely surrounded by a thick crowd of well-wishers and men in search of Imperial favor. Good, she thought, I've a few moments, then.
"The boats are very beautiful," Martina said, her fancy caught by the tiny manikins of boatmen and ladies placed around the paper cones holding the candles. Caught in the slow current of the stream, the little craft were slowly bumping and whirling as they passed down the stream. "What happens when they go out of the garden?"
"Shhh..." Anastasia bent close, finger to plum-colored lips, eyes twinkling. "We mustn't speak of such things or the illusion will be spoiled." Martina answered with her own faint smile. The Duchess squeezed her hand again, radiating warmth, the tilt of her head inviting secret confidence. "I hope you enjoy the party," she said softly. "I know you must be dying to dance or hear the musicians or do anything but toil through dusty scrolls..."
"You've no idea!" Martina said, surprised and pleased. For the first time, her face opened, losing the frightened mask. "Maxian is a dear—but he'll work until everyone is dead without notice or a care! I have to speak quite forcefully to him, sometimes."
"Good," Anastasia said in an approving voice. "Some young men need guidance or they'll ignore the house while it burns." She gestured to one of the maids, politely lurking just out of earshot. The girl hurried over with a pair of fluted, delicate glasses, half-filled with a sparkling golden draught. "Here, my dear," Anastasia said, deftly taking both glasses. "Try this—it will make you forget your cares! It's from Gaul."
Martina drank from hers, both small hands on the glass. She tasted, her nose wrinkled up, she sneezed, and then she laughed. "Oh dear! It has bubbles!" Embarrassed, the Empress covered her mouth.
"It does," Anastasia said, taking a sip. The liquor was sweet and sharp on her tongue. "There is a temple of Dionysos in Gallica Belgica, where the vines are blessed and the wine light and delightful. My late husband owned some shares..." She raised the glass, tipping it against Martina's in a toast. "...and I have reaped the bounty of his investment for many years." The Duchess smiled again, leaning close to Martina. "But I do not share it with just anyone."
Martina smiled back, eyes twinkling. "Well, thank you for your confidence, Duchess. I am glad to be out of hot foundry rooms and in clean, breathable air!"
Anastasia was about to reply when a peal of bronze-throated trumpets sounded, ringing back from the high, curved ceiling with a martial blast. Everyone froze, silent expectation settling over the crowd, then all turned as one. A brace of Praetorians, breastplates gleaming silver in the lamps, appeared in the main hall. The mob of senators and merchants and Legion officers parted.
Drat! fumed the Duchess, catching sight of Martina's open, happy face closing up, becoming suspicious and mask-like. Just another few minutes and we'd have been best friends...
The Emperor appeared at the top of the steps, his son settled on one hip, his wife's hand raised shoulder height in his own. He was clad in pure white linen, a circlet of golden holly imprisoning his habitually lank hair and dark red boots. Beside him, the Empress of the West was appropriately subdued, in a dark, velvety brown, highlighted with old red gold at her neck, wrists and around her thin waist.
"The Augustus and God," bawled one of the Praetorians, his voice booming through the garden, "Galen Atreus, Emperor of the West, Protector of the East! The noble Empress, Helena, and their son and heir, Theodosius!"
The trumpets pealed again, echoes ringing through the halls, then falling away into silence. Galen, looking down into the garden, saw Anastasia and smiled, inclining his head. The Duchess knelt in response, making a flourish. Out of the corner of her eye, Anastasia saw Martina twitch nervously, then make a polite half-bow.
"Lord and God," the Duchess called, her clear voice cutting through quiet air. "We are graced and honored by your presence." Capturing Martina's hand again, she ascended the steps, taking care to match her pace to Martina's—who lagged, feet dragging, nervous and out of her depth. "Please, partake of my house, the entertainments, anything you might desire."
"Thank you, it is our pleasure." Galen said, managing a tired smile. Up close, Anastasia fought to keep down a frown. The Emperor's eyes were smudged with fatigue, his skin a poor color even disguised by powders and crushed rose dust. "Hello, Martina. Are you and your son well?"
"Yes, Lord Galen," Martina responded, her voice tight with nervousness. "And yours?"
Galen looked down at Theodosius, who was staring around with interest, most of one hand stuffed into his mouth. Anastasia felt a pang, seeing a flicker of happiness pass in the Emperor's face as he looked upon his son. "He is very well, thank you."
"Empress," the Duchess said, bowing to Helena, "welcome to my house."
"Thank you, Duchess. I see you've invited everyone I'd forgotten existed," the Empress replied, inclining her head to Anastasia. The Duchess stiffened, seeing her old friend was in a particularly sharp mood. The cutting tone in the woman's voice seemed to touch Martina as well, and the Duchess felt the Eastern Empress' grip tighten. Trying to reassure the girl, Anastasia gave an answering squeeze.
"My lord, my lady," Anastasia said quickly, before Martina had to respond, "will you be presiding this evening? Or simply private citizens, at the house of an old friend?" At the same time, the Duchess tried to catch Helena's eye, but the Western Empress was looking Martina over with a particularly calculating gaze.
"We are just private citizens," Helena said, before Galen could respond. "The party is for our dear brother-in-law, Prince Maxian, isn't it? We wouldn't want to spoil his chances for a good time by hovering, or making people bow every time we walked by. Besides, things are formal enough in the palace. Don't you think so, husband?"
"Of course." Galen nodded, seemingly relieved. Theodosius grabbed for a sweetmeat from a passing tray and the Emperor captured a grubby hand before it spilled the platter. Distracted by his son, Galen failed to notice the tense air between the three women. "Ah, good, there's Gaius Julius! Excuse me, ladies..."
"Helena," Martina said into the silence as the Emperor departed. "Good evening."
The Western Empress' eyes narrowed and Anastasia realized Martina had neither bowed nor used an honorific in addressing the older woman. And why not, the Duchess thought despairingly, she's an Empress as well, and Helena's equal...
"Good evening," Helena said, one long, dark eyebrow inching up. "Martina. A lovely dress." She tilted her head a little to one side. "Is this the fashion in Constantinople?"
The Duchess felt the girl flinch at the Western Empress' turned lip. Helena, in comparison, was very plainly dressed, even austere. The younger woman's gown exposed too much cream-colored breast and her jewels and gold now seemed overdone—even crass—when measured against Helena's restrained antiques. Anastasia glared at Helena, but the Empress just raised her head, looking back at her friend with a cool expression.
"Thank you," Martina managed to say, swallowing the beginnings of a stutter.
"You're welcome," Helena said, eyes glittering. "How is your son? Still healthy, I hope. Little Theodosius would miss playing with him. You know he is welcome to stay with us at any time."
"Heracleonas is a strong, healthy boy," Martina said, an edge of anger creeping into her voice. "Theo's colic has passed, has it?"
"Oh, yes," Helena said, making a dismissive wave with a pale white hand. "Did you come with anyone tonight? I worry you've no one of your own station to attend such events with."
Anastasia felt her heart sink into her stomach. What has gotten into her tonight? The Western Empress looked around, as if she searched for one of the great nobles of the East. Why remind the girl her husband is dead?
"I came," Martina bit out, "with the prince Maxian." Her fingers slipped from Anastasia's, balling into fists. The Duchess saw some of the senatorial wives lingering, eyes bright with interest, sharp ears pricked. Anastasia turned, shielding the two women from prying eyes, a hand o
n either Empress' arm.
"You did?" Helena smiled, though the motion did not reach her eyes. "That was kind of him. He is busy these days... everyone is, I suppose, with such dreadful things happening."
For a moment, Martina seemed to freeze solid, a flush rising at her throat. Then she mastered herself, essayed a brittle smile, and said, "We are busy, Helena, there are many projects underway, all in the service of the Emperor and the State." Her green eyes narrowed. "We will need every advantage to destroy the Persians."
"Oh," Helena said, one tapered fingernail pressed to her chin in a pose of remembering. "I'd quite forgotten you work for the prince, collating the news of ancient days, searching for some fragment that might yield us victory." The Western Empress smiled, making a little bow. "This evening must be a welcome diversion, then."
Anastasia flinched inwardly and closed her eyes for the smallest moment. An image of Martina's face filling with fury at the word work remained. Then she took a deep breath and caught Helena's arm. "My dear, I must show you something new and marvelous in the glass hall..." With a despairing look over her shoulder at Martina, who was almost shaking with rage, face white, barely restrained fury glittering in her eyes, Anastasia hauled the Western Empress away by main force.
Helena laughed as they passed into the portico leading from the inner garden to the outer.
"Oh, dear," the Empress said, chuckling, "did you see her face?"
"What has gotten into you?" Anastasia's tone was frigid. Helena stopped short, surprised.
"Oh, don't tell me you and the little lost princess are friends now? What a horror!"
"A horror?" The Duchess pushed Helena into a side chamber, thankfully empty and ornamented with enormous vases and ostrich-feather plumes. "She's young, inexperienced, bereft and desperately lonely. Why are you being so cruel?"
"I don't know." Helena leaned back against the smooth marble of the nearest urn, a sulky expression on her face. "She's such a fat little brown mouse, all weepy-eyed and pitiful. I don't like her."
Anastasia restrained a groan of despair, then marshaled herself. "You, of all people, should understand how she feels—weren't you lonely when you first came to Rome? Didn't you hate the proud matrons and their cutting tongues? I remember how unhappy you were—"
"Oh, please!" Helena stood away from the urn, eyes flashing. "Galen had been Emperor only a month, with blood still on his boots! The little twit has been an Empress for nearly a decade. There's no reason she should mope about—so her husband is dead, her son still lives, and there is every chance Heracleonas will be restored to his throne. Galen certainly intends to see him there!" The Empress paused, a calculating look filling her face. "Though the young often die unexpectedly—"
"Be quiet!" Anastasia glared at Helena, fingers pressed against the Empress' lips. "Do not say such things—you've your own son—would you want others to wish him ill?"
"No, I suppose not." Helena batted away the Duchess' hand. "She grates on me and the way she looks at Maxian... I'll not have her as a sister-in-law!"
Anastasia gave her an arch look. "How would you prevent such a match? The boy needs a wife, she needs a husband, and marrying Martina would ensure the loyalty of the Eastern nobility."
"No," Helena spat, lips twisting, "I will not make a rival to my son and his demesne."
"The East is our ally!" Anastasia was horrified and let it show, staring in amazement at Helena. "Heracleonas is not a rival!"
"No?" The Western Empress' expression grew grim, swift as night falling on some barren plain. "I know how the little mouse thinks. She's already clawed her way out of one dynastic wreck—her stepson lies dead in the ruins of Constantinople. The brother who hated her is struck down, taking with him all organized opposition." Helena raised a finger, forestalling another outburst from Anastasia. The Empress' voice became quiet and serious. "Listen to me, Duchess. Now she is here, among us, with her eye on my brother-in-law. He may be powerful, but he is not paying attention to the currents moving around him. If she captures his fancy, inveigles him to marry her, then her son's future is assured. Heracleonas will sit on the throne of the East—and more, he would be heir to the West as well..."
"Only if something happens to Galen, and you, and Theodosius..." Anastasia looked over her shoulder, suddenly wary. "Why would that happen? Have you heard something?"
"I have." Helena's expression grew even colder. She stepped to the doorway, peering out. After a moment, she raised her hand. Anastasia drew back the edge of a draped tapestry, eyes following the Empress' pointing finger. "Who is the prince's wise councilor? His eyes, ears, mouth in the city?"
"Gaius Julius," Anastasia replied tiredly, seeing the man himself, standing tall among a crowd of the Palatine secretaries and officials, face beaming with a genial smile, his hands in sharp motion as he related some amusing story. The Duchess let the drape fall. She met Helena's eyes and found a mocking smile on the Empress' lips. "You're sure he—"
"Aren't you?" Helena shook her head in dismay. "Aren't you the master of intrigue? He is Caesar—the only sober man who ever tried to overthrow the Senate!"
Anastasia shrugged, checking her earrings. She felt tired and the night was still young. "I concede the point. There is, possibly, danger."
"And so?" Helena raised an eyebrow again. "What will you do about her?"
"Nothing violent!" Anastasia made a sign to avert evil fortune. "In any case, I was well on my way to making friends with her... before your heedless tongue spoiled everything."
"Huh." Helena looked out into the garden again, frowning. "She's hanging on him again, like... like a limpet, or a leech, or something equally slimy from some eastern bog."
"You are not helping." Anastasia stepped into the doorway, giving the Empress a sharp look. "If Martina is your friend, Gaius is denied a weapon, and the danger to your son all the less."
Helena made a sour face. Giving up for the moment, the Duchess hurried off. A hostess' work is never done.
—|—
"Hello, dear." Anastasia slipped up beside Martina, who had found refuge in the outside garden, at the edge of a maze of ivy hedges and stunted ornamental trees. The Eastern Empress barely looked up, her makeup smudged, her nose red. "I am sorry," the Duchess continued, settling onto the curving marble bench. "I've spoken sharply with the Empress Helena, minding her to keep a civil tongue in my house."
Martina laughed, a harsh bark, and turned, eyes filled with wounds. "It doesn't matter, Lady Anastasia. She'll hate me all the more, no matter what you might say. Don't place yourself in any danger on my account."
"Danger?" The Duchess brushed a blue-black curl away from her face. "Helena and I have known each other for a long time—we've quarreled before and I've come out none the worse." Anastasia sighed, making a polite show of despair. "But you and she... seem star-crossed, always at odds! Is there some history between you two, some old grudge?"
"No," Martina said, looking down at her feet. "She always yells at me and tells me I've done the wrong thing. She doesn't like my clothes, my jewels or the way I set my hair. I feel ugly when she looks at me."
"Dear, your hair is beautiful and your clothes exceptional." The Duchess moved closer, brushing wayward curls away from the girl's face. "The Emperor is your friend—and he will not forget you or your son. Look up, now." Anastasia raised Martina's chin, gently. The Duchess met a tearful gaze with a calm, determined expression. "You are still Empress of the East. You have no peer, save Helena, which—I think—is part of what sets her on edge. Go find the prince, stand with him, speak politely and with interest to anyone who speaks with you." Anastasia's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Stand straight and ignore the cold eyes and whispers. You are an Empress!"
"But I have no empire," Martina said mournfully, nervous fingers bunching up the train of her gown. The transparent drape was tangled in her jewelry. "I am in exile."
"You have powerful friends," the Duchess said, rescuing the silk and smoothing it back into proper sh
ape with gentle fingers. "The prince Maxian not least of them..."
Martina started to answer, then fell silent, though her eyes lit with relief. Anastasia turned, hearing a whisper of bare feet on the grass.
"Lord Prince," the Duchess said, rising from the bench, so she might kneel properly. "Welcome again."
"Hello." Maxian came to a halt, looking down at the two women. Anastasia, eyes demurely downcast, noticed his pale feet were grass-stained and had to suppress a laugh.
"Martina—are you all right?" The prince knelt, one knee on the bench. "Gaius Julius said you seemed unhappy."
The Eastern Empress rubbed her nose in embarrassment. "It's nothing."
"Nothing?" The Duchess rose. She caught Maxian's eye. "Your dear sister-in-law does not think Martina's hair or dress are suitable for my party. I have spoken to her—but Helena is in a particularly foul mood this evening."
"I see." Maxian nodded, avoiding Anastasia's eyes. He took Martina's hand, then drew her to her feet. "I've been on the wrong end of her sharp tongue myself." The prince grinned, and the exhaustion and fatigue clouding his face faded a little. The Duchess was struck by how alike Maxian and Galen seemed—a particular hollow look, filled with a brittle energy pressing them to nervous action. They both seemed to be stretched. "Martina—her bad humor will pass. It always does. The next time you see her, she'll be the sun to tonight's moon."
Anastasia started a little, reminded of an errand by the prince's turn of phrase. "Oh, Lord Prince, may I—as hostess—ask you—as a guest—for a small favor?"
"Of course," the prince said, finally meeting her eyes. "What can I do?"
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