Belisarius was silent. After a moment, Irene smiled faintly and rose.
“May I show you the gardens, Antonina?”
* * *
Once they were in the gardens, Antonina took a seat on a stone bench.
“You needn’t bother,” she said. “I’ve seen them before.”
Irene sat next to her. “Aren’t they something? I’m afraid Sittas’ taste in horticulture is every bit as grotesque as his taste in furnishings.”
Antonina smiled. Her eye was caught by a statue. The smile turned to a grimace.
“Not to mention his taste in sculpture.”
The two women stared at each other for a moment.
“You’d like to know who I am,” said Irene.
Antonina nodded. Irene cocked her head quizzically.
“I’m curious. Why do you assume that I’m something other than Sittas’ latest bedmate?”
“Two reasons. You’re not his taste in women, not even close. And, if you were one of his usual bedmates, he’d never have invited you to sit in on this meeting.”
Irene chuckled. “I’m his spy,” she said.
Seeing the startled look on Antonina’s face, Irene held up a reassuring hand. “I’m afraid that didn’t come out right. I’m not spying on you.” She pursed her lips. “It would be more accurate to say that I’m Sittas’ spymaster. That’s why he asked me to join him in this—meeting. He is concerned, Antonina.”
“About what? And since when has Sittas needed a spymaster?”
It was Irene’s turn to look startled. “He’s had a spymaster since he was a boy, practically. All Greek noblemen of his class do.”
Antonina snorted. “You mean Apollinaris? That pitiful old coot couldn’t find his ass with both hands.”
Irene smiled. “Oh, I believe Apollinaris could manage that task well enough. In broad daylight, at least. At night, I admit, he would have considerable difficulty.” She brushed back her hair, hesitated, then said:
“About a year ago, Sittas decided he needed a real spymaster. He inquired in various places, and my services came highly recommended. He retired Apollinaris—on a very nice pension, by the way—and hired me. My cover, so to speak, is that I am his latest paramour.”
She pursed her lips. “As deceptions go, it has its weaknesses. As you say, I’m not really his type.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on in there?” asked Irene, gesturing with her head toward the door to the mansion.
“No,” replied Antonina. “Not yet, at least. Later—perhaps. But not now.”
Irene accepted the refusal without protest. A servant appeared, bearing a platter of food and wine, which he set upon a nearby table. Antonina and Irene moved over to the table and spent the next few minutes in companionable silence, enjoying their meal. Whatever his lack of taste in furnishings, neither woman could fault the excellence of Sittas’ kitchen.
Pushing aside her plate, Antonina spoke.
“Please answer the question I asked earlier.”
Irene’s response was immediate. “The reason Sittas is concerned enough to hire me—and my services don’t come cheaply—is because there’s skullduggery in Constantinople.”
Antonina snorted. “Please, Irene! Saying there’s skullduggery in Constantinople is like saying there’s shit in a pigsty.”
Irene nodded. “True. Perhaps I should say: there’s a lot more skullduggery going on than usual, and, what’s of much greater concern, the nature of it’s unclear. Something is afoot in Constantinople, Antonina. Something deep, and well hidden, and cunning, and utterly treacherous. What it is, I have not yet been able to discover. But I can sense it, I can taste it, I can smell it.” Again, she groped for words. “It is—there. Trust me.”
Antonina arose and began pacing about the garden. She glanced at the door which led back to the interior of the mansion.
“Will they be finished yet?” asked Irene.
Antonina shook her head. “No. Sittas will—need time to recover.”
Irene frowned. “Recover from what?”
Antonina held up a hand, stilling her. She continued to pace about, frowning. Irene, with the patience of a professional, simply sat and waited.
After a while, Antonina stopped pacing and came over to Irene. She paused, took a deep breath. Hesitated again.
A voice came from the doorway. A horrible, croaking voice.
“Come inside, both of you.”
Irene gasped. Sittas looked positively haggard. He seemed to have shed fifty pounds.