Hell-sneer:
“After he spits your heads on his spears. After the flesh rots from your skulls. He will grind your bones to powder. He will feed them to Thracian hogs. He will have the hog-shit smeared on your tombs.”
Silence.
“Do it, cowards. Kill us, traitors.”
John snarled wordless fury.
“Keep them here!” he commanded the excubitores. “Until I return!”
He stalked out of the chamber, followed by his retainer. By the time he reached the door, he was almost running.
Once in the corridor beyond, he did begin to run. But Theodora’s taunt followed faster.
“I will await you in the Pit of Damnation, John of Cappadocia! Before Satan takes you, I will burn out your eyes with my urine!”
After the Cappadocian was gone, Theodora lowered her eyes to Justinian’s body.
“Release me,” she commanded.
Hesitantly, but inevitably—as if giving way to a force of nature—the excubitores relinquished their grip. They were traitors, now; but they had been too many years in the imperial service to refuse that voice.
The Empress rose and walked down from the dais, onto the floor. She knelt beside Justinian. The Emperor was still unconscious. Firmly, but carefully, Theodora rolled him into her arms. She brushed the hair back from his ruined face and stared at the gaping, puckered wounds which had once been her husband’s eyes.
When she spoke, her voice held not a trace of any emotion. It was simply cold, cold.
“There is wine in the adjoining room. Fetch it, traitors. I need to bathe his wounds.”
For an instant, something almost like humor entered her voice. Cold, cold humor: “I come from the streets of Alexandria. Do you think I never saw a man blinded before? Did you think I would shrink from death and torture?”
Humor left. Ice remained: “Fetch me wine. Do it, cowards.”
Two excubitores hastened to obey her command. For a moment, they jostled each other in the doorway, before sorting out their precedence.
A minute later, one of the excubitores returned, bearing two bottles. The other did not.
Theodora soaked the hem of her imperial robes with wine. Gently, she began washing Justinian’s wounds.
The man who had brought her the wine slipped out of the door. Less than a minute later, another followed. Then another. Then two.
Theodora never looked up. Another man left. Another. Two.
When there were only four excubitores left in the room, the Empress—still without raising her head—murmured:
“You are all dead men.”
Hell-murmur.
All four scurried from the chamber. Their footsteps in the corridor echoed in the empty room. Quick footsteps, at first. Soon enough, running.
Now, Theodora raised her head. She stared at the door through which the traitors had fled.
Hell-stare. Hell-hiss:
“You are all dead men. Wherever you go, I will track you down. Wherever you hide, I will find you. I will have you blinded. By the clumsiest meatcutter in the world.”
She lowered her head; turned her black eyes upon her husband’s face.
Slowly, very slowly, the hell-gaze faded. After a time, the first of her tears began bathing Justinian’s face.
There were not many of those tears. Not many at all. They disappeared into the wine with which Theodora cleansed her husband’s wounds, as if they possessed the wine’s own hard nature. A constant little trickle of tears, from the world’s littlest, hardest, and most constant heart.
Chapter 27
The first rocket awed the mob in the Hippodrome. By sheer good fortune, the missile soared almost straight and exploded while it was in plain view of the entire crowd. A great flaming burst in the sky, just over the unoccupied southwestern tiers.
The faction thugs roared their approval. Many of them rose in their seats and shook their weapons triumphantly.
In the imperial box, Hypatius and Pompeius seemed suitably impressed as well, judging from their gapes. But Narses, watching them from behind, spotted the subtle nuances.
Hypatius’ gape was accompanied by the beginning of a frown. The newly crowned “Emperor”—his tiara wobbling atop his head—was not entirely pleased. The crowd’s roar of approval for the rockets was noticeably more enthusiastic than the roar with which they had greeted his “ascension to the throne,” not five minutes earlier.