“Feeling less anxiety-ridden, are we?”
Belisarius stretched out his legs and clasped his hands behind his head.
“Now that I’ve had more time to think about it,” he allowed graciously, “I’ve decided that perhaps Maurice was—”
“Liar!” laughed Antonina, slapping his arm. “You haven’t been doing any thinking at all since we came to bed! Other than figuring out new and bizarre positions from which to stick your—”
“Don’t be coarse, woman,” grunted Belisarius. “Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining. Rather the opposite, judging from the noises you were making.”
“You didn’t hear me claim that I was enjoying the metaphysics of the enterprise, either.”
She sprawled flat on the bed, aping her husband’s pose. Hands clasped behind her head, legs stretched out.
“I say,” she pontificated, “now that I’ve had a bit of time to ponder the question—in between getting fucked silly—I have come to the conclusion that perhaps that uncouth Maurice fellow may have raised the odd valid point, here and there.”
Belisarius eyed his wife’s naked body, glistening with sweat. Antonina smiled seraphically. She took a deep breath, swelling her heavy breasts, then languidly spread her legs.
“Ontologically speaking, of course,” she continued, “the man’s daft. But the past several hours of epistemological discourse have led me to the tentative conclusion that perhaps—”
She spread her legs wider. Took another deep breath.
“—some of the fellow’s more Socratic excogitations may have elucidated aspects of the purely phenomenological ramifications of—”
Belisarius discarded all complacency. Antonina stopped talking then, though she was by no means silent.
Some time later, she murmured, “Yes, all anxieties seem to be gone.”
“That’s because my brains are gone,” came her husband’s sleepy reply. “Fucked right out of my head.”
In the morning, Photius made an entrance into his parents’ sleeping chamber and perched himself upon their bed. Despite the many other changes in his life, the boy insisted on maintaining this precious daily ritual. A pox on imperial protocol and decorum.
The gaggle of servants and bodyguards who now followed the young Emperor everywhere remained outside in the corridor. The servants thought the entire situation was grotesque—and quite demeaning to their august status as imperial valets and maids. But they maintained a discreet silence. The bodyguards were members of the general’s Thracian bucellarii, led by a young cataphract named Julian. Julian had been assigned the task of serving as Photius’ chief bodyguard for two reasons. First, he was married to Hypatia, the young woman who had been Photius’ nanny for years. (And still was, though she now bore the resplendent title of “imperial governess.”) Second, for all his youth and cheerful temperament, Julian was a very tough soldier. Julian and the men under his command had made quite clear upon assuming their new duties that they were not even remotely interested in listening to the complaints of menials. So, while Photius enjoyed his private moment with his parents, his bodyguards chatted amiably in the corridor outside and his servants nursed their injured pride.
Photius’ stay in his parents’ bedroom was longer than usual. His stepfather was leaving that day, to begin his new campaign in Mesopotamia. Photius no longer felt the same dread of that prospective absence that he once had. The boy’s confidence in Belisarius’ ability to overcome all obstacles and perils was now positively sublime. But he would miss him, deeply. More deeply now, perhaps, than ever before.
Eventually, however, he emerged. A new sense of duty had fallen on the boy’s little shoulders, and he knew that his stepfather had many responsibilities of his own that day.
“All right,” he sighed, after closing the door behind him. “Let’s go. What’s first?”
Julian grinned down at him. “Your tutor in rhetoric insists—insists—that you must see him at once. Something to do with tropes, I believe. He says your slackness in mastering synecdoche has become a public scandal.”
Glumly, Photius began trudging down the corridor. “That’s great,” he muttered. “Just great.” The boy craned his neck, looking up at Julian’s homely, ruddy-hued face. “Do you have any idea how boring that man is?”
“Look at it this way, Emperor. Some day you’ll be able to have him executed for high tedium.”
Photius scowled. “No I won’t. I think he’s already dead.”