Irene seized the first bottle. “It’ll be a massacre. Get the goblets.”
Two hours later, well into the carnage, Antonina hiccuped.
“‘Nough o’ this maudlinnininess!” Another hiccup. “Le’ss look t’the future! Be leaving soon, we will. For Egypt. ‘S’my homeland, y’know?” Hiccup. “Land o’ my birt. Birth.”
Studiously, she poured more wine into her goblet. “I’m still s’prised Theodora agreed t’let you go,” she said. “Never thought she let her chief spy”—giggle—”spy-ess, should say, out of her zight. Sight.”
Irene’s shrug was a marvel—a simple gesture turned into a profound, philosophical statement.
“What else c’ld she do? Somebody has to go to India. Somebody ‘as to rish—re-ish—” Deep breath; concentration. “Re-es-ta-blish contact with Shakuntala.”
Irene levered herself up on the couch, assuming a proud and erect stance. The dignity of the moment, alas, was undermined by flatulence.
“How gross,” she pronounced, as if she were discussing someone else’s gaucherie. Then, breezed straight on to the matter at hand. Again, a pronouncement:
“I am the obvious person for the job. My qualifications are immense. Legion, I dare say.”
“Ha!” barked Antonina. “You’re a woman, that’s it. Who else would Theodora trust for that kind of—of—of—” She groped for the words.
“Subtle statecraft,” offered Irene. “Deft diplomacy.”
Antonina sneered. “I was thinking more along the lines of—of—”
“Sophisticated stratagems. Sagacious subterfuges.”
“—of—of—”
“Dirty rotten sneaky—”
” ‘At’s it! ‘At’s it!”
Both women dissolved into uproarious laughter. This went on for a bit. Quite a bit. A sober observer might have drawn unkind conclusions.
Eventually, however, they settled down. Another bottle was immediately brought to the execution block. Half the bottle gone, Antonina peered at Irene solemnly.
“Hermogenes’ll be staying wit’ me, you know. In Egypt. After we part comp’ny and you head off t’India. You’ll be having your own heartbreak then. But we prob’ly won’ be able to commimmi—commiserate—properly. Then. Be too busy. Ressaponzabilities. So we better do it now.”
Irene sprawled back on her couch. “Too late. ‘S’already done.” She shook her head sadly. “Hermo-genes and I are hic—” Hiccup. “Are hic— Dammit! Hist—hicstory. Dammit! History.”
Antonina’s eyes widened.
“What? But I heard—rumor flies—he asked you to marry him.”
Irene winced. “Yes, he did. I’d been dreading it for months. That was the death-knell, of course.”
Seeing her friend’s puzzled frown, Irene laughed. Half-gaily; half-sadly.
“Sweet woman,” she murmured. “You forget Hermogenes’s not Belisarius.” She spread her hands ruefully. Then, remembering too late that one hand held a full wine goblet, stared even more ruefully at the floor.
“Sorry about that,” she muttered.
Antonina shrugged. “We’ve got servants to clean it up. Lots of ’em.”
“Don’t care about th’floor! Best wine in the Roman Empire.” She tore her eyes from the gruesome sight. Tried to focus on Antonina.
“Something about Hermogenes not being Belisarius,” prompted the little Egyptian. “But I don’t see the point. You don’t have a disreputable past to live down, like I did.” Giggle. “Still do, actually. That’s the thing about the past, you know? Since it’s over it never goes away and you’re always stuck with the damned thing.” Her eyes almost crossed with deep thought. “Hey, that’s philosophical. I bet even Plato never said it so well.”
Irene smiled. “It’s not the past that’s the problem. With me and Hermogenes. It’s the future. Hermogenes—” She waved her hand again, but managed to restrain the gesture before adding further insult to the best vintage in the Roman Empire. “—Hergomenes,” she continued. “He’s a sweet man, no doubt about it. But—conventional, y’know? Outside of military tactics, anyway. He wants a proper Greek wife. Matron. Not—” She sighed, slumping back into the couch. “Not a spymaster who’s out and about doing God knows what at any hour of the day and night.”
Irene stared sadly at her half-filled wine goblet. Then, drained away her sorrows.
Antonina peered at her owlishly.
“You sure?” she asked. Irene lurched up and tottered over to the wine-bearing side-table. Another soldier fell to the fray.
“Oh, yes,” she murmured. She turned and stared down at Antonina, maintaining a careful balance. “Do I really seem like the matron-type to you?”
Antonina giggled; then, guffawed.
Irene smiled. “No, not hardly.” She shrugged fatalistically. “Fact is, I don’t think I’ll ever marry. I’m jus—I don’ know. Too—I don’ know. Something. Can’t imagine a man who’d live wit’ it.”