Later, her head cradled on Belisarius’ shoulder, Antonina said:
“I am concerned about one thing, love.”
“What’s that?”
Antonina sat up. Her full breasts swayed gently, distracting her husband. Seeing his gaze, she smiled.
“You’re having delusions of grandeur,” she mocked.
“Fifteen minutes,” he pronounced. “No more.”
“Half an hour,” she replied. “At best.”
They grinned at each other. It was an old game, which they had begun playing the first night they met. Belisarius usually won, to Antonina’s delight.
She grew serious. “Photius has been cared for by a girl named Hypatia. For over two years, now. He is only five. I have visited him as often as I could, but—she has been very good to him, and he would miss her. And the money I give her is all she has to live on.” Her face was suddenly stiff. “She can no longer ply her old trade. Her face is badly scarred.”
Antonina fell silent. Belisarius was shocked when he understood how much rage she was suppressing. Then, understanding came. He could not help glancing at his wife’s belly, at the ragged scar on her lower abdomen. The scar that had always prevented them from having children of their own.
He arose from the bed and walked about, very slowly, very stiffly. That was his own way of repressing rage. A rage that was perhaps all the greater, because Antonina had long since removed its object.
Five years before, seeing that Antonina had no pimp, an ambitious young fellow had sought to make good the lack. Upon hearing Antonina’s demurral, he had insisted with a knife. Unfortunately for him, he had failed to consider her parentage. True, her mother had been a whore, but her father had been a charioteer. A breed of men who are not, by any standard, inclined to pacifism. The charioteer had not taught his daughter much (at least, not much worth knowing), but he had taught her how to use a knife. Better, in the event, than the young fellow had taught himself. So the budding entrepreneur had found an early grave, but not before making his foul mark.
“We will bring them both here,” said Belisarius. “It would be good to have a nanny for Photius, anyway. And once he is too old for that, we will keep her on in some other capacity.” A stiff little gesture. “Any capacity, it doesn’t matter. Whatever she is happy with.”
“Thank you,” whispered Antonina. “She is a sweet girl.”
Again, Belisarius made the stiff little gesture. His wife knew him, and knew how much he prided his self-control. But there were times, she thought, he would be better off if he could rend like a shark.
She, on the other hand, had no such qualms.
“Who were you going to send—to fetch Photius?”
“Eh? Oh. Dubazes, I suppose.”
Antonina shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, you mustn’t.” Softly, softly, catchee sharkee.
“Whyever not?”
“Well—” She was quite pleased with the little flutter of her eyelids. Just a trace of apprehension, no more. More would arouse her husband’s intelligence.
“Her pimp’s still around, you see. He sends her an occasional customer. Forces them on her, actually. Pimps—well, he’ll object if she’s taken away.”
Her heart glowed to see her husband’s back straighten. True, she was lying, and if Belisarius caught her at it there’d be hell to pay. But it was just a little white lie, and anyway, who’d believe a pimp? She’d have to coach Hypatia, of course.
“His name is Constans,” she said. A very, very, very faint little tremor in the lips; perfectly done, she thought. “He’s such a violent man. And Dubazes—he’s not young anymore, and—”
“I shall send Maurice,” Belisarius announced.
“Good idea,” murmured Antonina. She yawned, lest she grin like a shark herself. Constans, in actual fact, had ceased having any interest in the whore Hypatia after he carved her face. But he was still around, plying his trade in Antioch.
“Good idea,” she murmured again, rolling over and presenting a very enticing rump to her husband. Best to distract him quickly, before he started thinking. She estimated that fifteen minutes had passed.
It had, and, as usual, Belisarius won the game.