She staggered back to her couch and collapsed upon it.
Antonina examined her. “Does that bother you?” she asked, very slowly and carefully.
Irene stared at the far wall. “Yes,” she replied softly. Sadly.
But a moment later, with great vehemence, she shook her head.
” ‘Nough o’ this maudilinitity!” she cried, raising her goblet high. ” ‘Ere’s to adaventureness!”
Two hours later, Antonina gazed down at Irene in triumph. “Belly down, onna floor, jus’ like I said.”
She lurched to her feet, holding the last wine bottle aloft like a battle standard. “Vittorous again!” she cried. Then, proving the point, collapsed on top of her friend.
The servants who carried the two women into Antonina’s bedroom a short time later neither clucked with scandal nor muttered with disrespect. Not with Julian and three other grinning bucellarii following close behind, ready to enforce Thracian protocol.
“Let ’em sleep it off together,” commanded Julian.
He turned to his comrades.
“Tradition.”
Thracian heads nodded solemnly.
The next morning, after he entered the bedchamber, Photius was seized with dismay.
“Where’s my mother?” he demanded.
Irene’s eyes popped open. Closed with instant pain.
“Where’s my mother?” he cried.
Irene stared at him through slitted eyelids.
“Who’re you?” she croaked.
“I’m the Emperor of Rome!”
Irene hissed. “Fool boy. Do you know how many Roman emperors have been assassinated?”
“Where’s my mother?”
Her eyelids crunched with agony. “Yell one more time and I’ll add another emperor to the list.”
She dragged a pillow over her head. From beneath the silk-covered cushion her voice faintly emerged:
“Go away. If you want your stupid mother—the drunken sot—go look for her somewhere else.”
“Where’s my mother?”
“Find the nearest horse. Crazy woman’ll be staring at it.”
After the boy charged out of the room, heading for the stables, Irene gingerly lifted the pillow. The blinding sight of sunrise filtering through the heavy drapes immediately sent her scurrying back for cover. Only her voice remained at large in the room.
“Stupid fucking tradition.”
Moan.
“Why can’t that woman just commit suicide like any reasonable abandoned wife?”
Moan.
Chapter 7
MESOPOTAMIA
Summer, 531 a.d.
When he encountered the first units from the Army of Syria, just outside Callinicum, Belisarius heaved a small sigh of relief.
Baresmanas, riding next to him at the head of the column, said nothing. But the very stillness of his face gave him away.
“Go ahead and laugh,” grumbled Belisarius.
Baresmanas did not take Belisarius up on the offer. Diplomatic tact was far too ingrained in his habits. He simply nodded his head, and murmured in return:
“There are certain disadvantages to elite troops from the capital, accustomed to imperial style. It cannot be denied.”
The sahrdaran twisted in his saddle and looked back at the long column. The cavalrymen were riding along a road near the right bank of the Euphrates. The road was not paved, but it was quite wide and well-maintained. The road ran from Callinicum to the Cilician Gates, passing through the river towns of Barbalissus and Zeugma. It was the principal route bearing trade goods between the Roman Empire and Persia.
Belisarius’ own bucellarii rode at the head of the column—a thousand cataphracts, three abreast, maintaining good order. Behind them came the small contingent of artillery wagons and ambulances, along with the ten rocket-bearing chariots which the general had dubbed katyushas. These vehicles were also maintaining a good order.
Then—
Straggling and straying, drifting and disjointed, came the remaining twenty-five hundred heavy cavalry in Belisarius’ little army.
The majority of these—two thousand men—were from the Constantinople garrison. The remainder were from Germanicus’ Army of Illyria. The Illyrians had maintained a semblance of good order for the first few hundred miles of their forced march. Unlike the troops from the capital, they had some recent experience on campaign. But even they, by the time the army passed through the Cilician Gates into the northern desert of Syria, had become as disorganized as the Greek cataphracts.
Disorganized—and exceedingly disgruntled.
The troops were much too far back for Baresmanas to hear their conversations, but he had no difficulty imagining them. He had been listening to their grousing for days, even weeks. The troops from Constantinople, in particular, had not been hesitant in making their sentiments known, each and every night, as they slumped about their campfires.