“I require nothing,” I said. “Thank you.”
Cyr bounded after Areobindus—he might be my dog in name, but I knew whom the beast truly loved. The door had scarcely closed when Justinian grabbed my wrist, surprising me with his strength. “How dare you.” His growl was at odds with his gaunt face and bandaged neck. “Bring him to my sickbed and flaunt him under my nose.”
He knew.
I glanced to the door, heart pounding like eagle’s wings. He must have known before he fell ill. This was the moment I’d dreaded for so many years, but now the hideous truth was exposed. Justinian would exile me to the ends of the Empire, or worse. And I deserved it all.
He followed my gaze with a glare that could have obliterated every village in the Empire. The floor was hard under my knees, and while I yearned to take his hand—now the hands of an old man—his grip remained viselike on my wrist. “I’m sorry,” I said. “So, so sorry.”
“So it’s true.”
The fire in his eyes banked and his shoulders slumped as he looked everywhere but my face. He released my wrist. “Go to him then,” he said. “And be happy.”
“What?”
“You cannot have us both, Theodora. There can only be one man in your life and in your bed.”
“My bed? What are you talking about?”
Realization blossomed in my mind and I laughed, first a chortle, but then tears streamed down my face and my ribs could scarcely contain my breath.
Anger brought welcome color to Justinian’s cheeks, and he banged his fist on a pillow as if it were his throne, sending puffs of white feathers to drift in the air like snowflakes. “You dare mock me?” Gold sparks flared in his eyes, but I scrambled up to his bed and covered his face with kisses, his cheeks, nose, and chin. He stared at me as if I were mad.
“You fool. Areobindus is not my lover.” I could scarcely get the words out. “He’s my son.”
“But I thought—” Justinian stared at me. “Your son? How is that possible?”
So much for spoon-feeding him.
I took a deep breath and spilled the entire story, sparing no detail as the horizon swallowed the sun and an orchestra of crickets welcomed the night.
My conscience was finally clean, come what might.
Justinian looked older than his fifty-eight years by the time I finished. He rubbed his temples—I could see the weight of the valerian in his eyes.
“I had reports of a young man you were taken with in Hieron, that you’d made him your steward. I should have known better.”
“I have always been faithful to you.” I dragged my eyes to his. “Can you forgive me?”
“I wish you had told me long ago.” He kissed my palm, letting it linger on his lips. “I understand why you hid the truth, but things might have been so different—”
Justinian cleared his throat, looking at the stars through the window as he stroked my palm. “And you’re positive Areobindus is your son? He couldn’t be lying?”
“He has my cross and the scar from his fight with Photius. He remembers the procession to Bithynia. There’s no doubt he’s my son.” I wanted to smooth the wrinkles from his eyes. “You need to sleep. We can discuss more of this tomorrow.”
Not to mention Belisarius.
“I love you, Theodora. No matter what.”
“I love you, too. Rest well.” I unfolded my legs to fluff his pillow and snuffed out the oil lamp at his bedside. I craved several hours of uninterrupted sleep in my own bed, my thoughts no longer plagued by an uncertain future.
I opened the door and almost ran into Narses, his hand raised to knock, a contingent of Scholarii guards behind him. “The Emperor sleeps,” I said. “Whatever it is will have to wait until morning.”
“Antonina and her daughter are in good health, untouched by the illness.” He looked almost disappointed at the news. “She sent this for you.”
I tore into the vellum, uncaring whether the paper carried plague.
Theodora,
Praise be to God that Justinian has recovered. I’ve been holed up here in Rufinianae without a word, but Narses told me of my husband’s treachery. Your crown is far too gaudy for my tastes, and I’d prefer you kept it on your head.
You’ve already gifted me with more favors than I deserve, but I have one more to beg of you. Belisarius deserves death, but I beg you to be magnanimous. After all, we both know I look horrific in black.
Yours,
Antonina
Belisarius deserved death, but he’d been lenient with Antonina when her treachery was revealed. Perhaps I might be creative with his punishment.
“Thank you.” I waited for Narses to leave, but he didn’t move. “Is that all?”
“Belisarius docked this evening and awaits your pleasure in your receiving room.” He folded his hands behind him. “He believes the Emperor to be in a grave state.”
Sleep would have to wait.
I found Belisarius fiddling with the ties on my silk curtains, a picture of life and vitality while my husband looked as if God still might claim him. “I’m disappointed, Theodora,” he said. “You haven’t taken either of my recent suggestions.”
I gave him a silky smile. “Unfortunately, I’m not fit for a nunnery. And your other option—” I pretended to shudder.
He stroked his beard. “Well, we can’t have you underfoot while I am crowned.”
“Perhaps you can tell Justinian that yourself.”
The smug smile fell from his face. “The Emperor lives?”
“Through the grace of God.”
Belisarius swallowed hard. We both knew his fate.
“But I was only planning.…The Empire must have an heir.”
“And it will. Unfortunately, that won’t be you.” I snapped my fingers for Narses and his guards. “Your new accommodations await below the palace.”
“You’d let me live?”
“Perhaps. You’ll have plenty of time to think on your treason while you await my judgment.”
Belisarius unsheathed his sword and stiffly handed it to the guards before Narses escorted him to the depths of the palace. He could share a dark cell next to Photius.
Belisarius would remain below the palace until I forgot about him and rats ate his bones. Or until I broke him in half.
Chapter 32
T he plague abated, but Justinian’s bones still rattled when he coughed, and he could scarcely rise from his bed without his knees knocking together. He was already troubled with a kingdom decimated by plague and a distinct lack of tax revenues that made the current Persian campaign especially problematic. But I could no longer put off telling him of Belisarius.
“I cannot believe Belisarius would deceive me so.”
I rinsed the bronze blade to shave away the fresh stubble on his jaw and forced myself not to speak. Justinian sat for a long moment, half his face lathered with sheep tallow and the other smooth with a fresh sheen of olive oil. A tiny trickle of blood marred his throat where I’d nicked him on his Adam’s apple.
I dabbed a towel at the cut. “He cannot go unpunished.”
“You’d have him killed, wouldn’t you?”
“But you would not.”
Justinian tilted his chin so I could finish. “Belisarius is a good man. Misguided, perhaps, but I will not have his blood on my hands.”
“Of course.” The sarcasm dripped from my voice. “Plotting for your throne and asking me to commit suicide certainly deserve a gentle response.”
He inspected my handiwork in a bronze mirror and yanked the towel from his neck. “Now is not the time to execute Belisarius. Plague bodies are washing up in the Bosphorus, and we need him to deal with Persia. And possibly Italy again in a few years.”
I hated how logical my husband could be sometimes.
“Find a nice rock in the Aegean to banish him to.” I was willing to go along with Justinian’s leniency, but only because I had another plan for Belisarius. “Even Antonina agrees he’s overstepped his bounds this
time.”
“You two are as ruthless as Scylla and Charybdis.”
I didn’t relish the comparison to the sea monsters, but I let it go. “At least strip him of his belt. Show everyone you no longer favor the traitor.”
Justinian kissed my hand, twining his fingers with mine. I could see how much this cost him and wished I could lighten his burden. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right,” I said. “It’s one of my better qualities. Speaking of which—”
“What are you up to now?” Justinian smiled, but his eyes looked heavy. Yet I had to broach the subject.
“You must name an heir. Nothing like this could happen again if the succession was secure.”
“And I’m sure you have a candidate in mind.”
“Several, actually.”
His eyebrow arched.
“Antonina and Belisarius’ daughter would make a good match for Athanasius. A betrothal between their daughter and Tasia’s son would bind Belisarius to us through family so he’d be less tempted to play this little game again. And Vigilantia’s son, Justin, would make a good pair with Comito’s daughter, Sophia.” My eyes flicked to him. “And then there’s Areobindus.”
Justinian frowned. “I’m hesitant to name a man I’ve scarcely met as my heir.”
“He’s my son.”
Justinian kissed my forehead. “My darling little imp, I just cheated death. I have no intention of dying anytime soon. Be patient and everything will fall into place.”
I’d be patient, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.
“Release Belisarius to the custody of his wife and write a letter telling him of his demotion,” Justinian said.
“You won’t see him?”
“Not yet.”
“As you wish.” I kissed his forehead and let my hand trace the outline of his jaw before giving him a long, slow kiss. I breathed in the smell of the tallow on his skin and his usual scent of mint. I would never take this man for granted again.
He groaned. “Get out now, or I might have to rouse myself to chase you around the bed.”
We both knew that wasn’t going to happen, but the heat in his eyes was reassuring.
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
His eyes lit with the spark I’d so missed. “Both. Now go and let me sleep.”
I gave a mock bow and sashayed from the room. I felt ten years younger with my conscience clean and Justinian on the mend. And I would take Justinian’s plan for Belisarius one step further.
Back in my chambers, I ordered Belisarius’ release and retrieved a fresh sheet of vellum, choosing a warm patch of sunlight on the balcony to put the final nail in the general’s coffin. I wondered if Belisarius would be waiting at his villa for a summons, or worse, the footsteps of an imperial assassin. The tables were turned, and I intended to remain on this side of the game. Fear could be a powerful weapon.
My pen scratched the paper as birds twittered outside my window. I chose my words carefully, praying to the Virgin that this would be the last time I would have to protect my throne and my husband’s.
To the Honorable Belisarius, General of the West and East,
You are well aware of your offense against us. However, as I am greatly indebted to Antonina, I have decided to dismiss all charges against you and give her your life.
From this day forth, you may be confident concerning both your personal safety and property, but we shall know your attitude from how you treat your wife.
—Theodora Augusta
Now Belisarius would owe not only me, but Antonina, too, for the very air he breathed. The man who had vanquished Africa and Rome would be beholden to two women.
While I waited for a reply, slaves scrubbed me with lavender salts and massaged my skin with olive oil so pure it looked like water in its jar. My scalp stung with the scrubbing, but my hair shone like ebony, although my nose and eyes burned with the lead oxide and slaked lime that I’d used in my hair to mask the feathers of silver at my temples.
I waited all day, but there was no response from Rufinianae. I was not a patient woman. The afternoon was chilly, as if summer dared not show her face in a city still sunk in mourning. A few people hurried in the streets, but the atmosphere was that of a house after a funeral.
Even Antonina’s villa at Rufinianae seemed sedate as Areobindus and I approached the deserted entrance in our sedans. Antonina emerged as we stepped from our litters, an ancient slave out of breath behind her.
“Forgive my tardiness, Augusta,” she said as she straightened. “Plague claimed my former herald, and Basil here is still learning.”
I smiled at the slave as Antonina led us inside—the poor man would attain sainthood by the time he finished serving my friend.
We settled among the silk cushions of the triclinium, a room so lavishly appointed that a visitor to the city might have mistaken it for the Royal Treasury, but only if the Royal Treasury contained chartreuse silk curtains and a life-sized ivory statue of a grinning baboon with gilded nipples. Antonina’s shrines to the gods were absent, likely a result of Belisarius’ orthodoxy, but Areobindus gaped at a randy mosaic of nymphs and satyrs on the ceiling, one that could have made the madam of any lupinar blush. There was even a tree of life, complete with erect phalluses hanging from the branches.
“How does Theodosius fare?” I asked.
Antonina fiddled with her curls—they had taken on a rather flagrant reddish hue. “He’s well, glad he no longer has to hide while Belisarius is in the capital.” She chuckled. “After your letter to Belisarius, I think Theodosius and I could be caught in flagrante delicto in the Hippodrome and Belisarius wouldn’t protest.”
That was hardly my intent when composing the letter to her husband, but so be it. “So he received my message?”
“The poor man thought you had sent an assassin to kill him. He actually kissed my feet for saving his life and swore he’d be my slave for the rest of our lives.”
The man had a passion for life, but what shade of life without his belt? For a moment I pitied Belisarius, for all he had been and never would be again.
Antonina turned her attention to Areobindus, still standing at the door. Her brows rose to the flames of her hair. “And who is this fine young patrician?”
I motioned him forward, my heart in my throat. “This is Areobindus, or as you knew him, John.”
Antonina’s gaze flew to mine.
I touched the amber cross at his throat. “He had this.”
Antonina barely glanced at the necklace, her gaze intent on Areobindus’ temple. Her fingers fluttered to her mouth. “And the scar. I suppose Photius was good for something.”
I cringed at her callousness toward her own son. Photius was still imprisoned below the palace, in a secret cell so dark that night and day were indistinguishable. I would let him escape at a later date and perhaps encourage him to become a monk.
Antonina circled my son. “And where have you been hiding all this time?”
“He was secreted away to Arabia after Macedonia first lied about his death.”
I expected Antonina to fling her arms open or burst into tears, but she did neither.
“And the scar on your back?” Resuming her place amid the cushions, she sat straight, hands folded demurely in her lap, but her lips pressed into a thin line.
“What scar?” Areobindus looked as puzzled as I felt.
Antonina ignored him and addressed me instead. “Photius took Timothy’s bronze seal to John’s back shortly after Timothy died.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “A seal wouldn’t leave a scar.”
She looked at Areobindus. “Do you remember what he did?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps I was too young?”
“He heated it in the fire first. The metal was still red when I came in and found you screaming.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “You never told me—”
“I almost did, the day I came to you in mourning for T
imothy, but I feared you’d take him back. I needed the money with all those mouths to feed.”
“None of this would have happened if you’d let me tell Justinian.”
“No one has ever let you do anything, Theodora.” She kept her eyes on Areobindus. “It’s a simple insignia, just a letter T the size of my thumbnail. Surely you don’t mind showing us to verify your story.” She glanced at me. “Macedonia wouldn’t have known about the mark, although she might have set this imposter up with everything else.”
I stormed past her and yanked my son by the arm. “We’re leaving.”
Antonina grabbed my wrist. “I know you want to believe he’s your son. Ask Photius if you don’t believe me.”
I shook her off and released Areobindus. “Show her,” I said. “Take off your tunica and show her the scar.”
His face drained of blood.
“Show her!” The sound of ripping seams echoed through the triclinium as I tore the neck of his tunica, but he covered my hand and slowly lifted what remained of the fabric over his head, his eyes like an old man’s. Then he turned. My eyes searched for any scar, any blemish, but his skin was smooth as bronze, unmarred by man or nature.
“You filthy lying whore.” I turned on Antonina. “Who put you up to this? That bastard from Cappadocia? Your husband?” I gasped. “Was it Justinian?”
Antonina grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Your son is dead.”
I slapped her so hard that she staggered back, hand raised to her cheek as fire raged through my palm. “This lie will cost you your head.”
Once we were out of earshot from Antonina, I whirled to face Areobindus. “Tell me she’s lying.”
My son’s face shared the same pallor as someone stricken with plague. “Of course she’s lying. I spoke only the truth. I am your son.”
I searched his expression for any hint of a lie, but there was nothing. Of course, I scarcely knew this man before me, even if he was my son. “I hope so, for your sake.”
My teeth chattered as our litters ran down the Mese, Areobindus’ bearers struggling to keep up with mine. I wanted to send the assassin Belisarius had feared to crucify Antonina, but the rational part of my mind gained ground with each step. I needed to verify her story with Photius. I’d send Antonina to rot in prison with her son if he knew nothing of her story. And if he did—
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