No, better to go and enjoy Antonina’s parades. There was nothing, there, to frighten a child. Nothing, to worry a mother or bring a frown to a father’s face. There was only—
Triumph, in the victory of humble people.
Enjoyment, in the constant and casual conversations with those simple grenadiers, and their wives. And their children, for those of an age—who gazed upon those lads and lasses with an adulation rarely bestowed upon rustics by cosmopolitan street urchins. But those were the children of grenadiers—a status greatly to be envied.
And, most of all, a feeling of safety. Safety, in the presence of—her.
She—the closest friend of the Empress. Whom all knew, or soon learned, was striving to hold back the imperial madness.
She—who smote the treason of the mighty.
She—who was of their own kind.
She—who was the wife of Belisarius. Rome’s greatest general, in this time of war. And Rome’s sanest voice, in this time of madness.
Belisarius had already been a name of legend, among those people. Now, the legend grew, and grew. His legend, of course. But also, alongside it—swelling it and being swollen by it—the legend of Antonina.
“The whore,” she had often been called, by Rome’s upper crust.
The populace of Constantinople had heard the name, in times past. Had wondered. Now, knowing, they rejected it completely.
“The wife,” they called her; or, more often, “the great wife.”
Her legend had begun with the words of a famous holy man, spoken in distant Syria. The grenadiers passed on his words to the people of Constantinople. The legend had expanded in a kitchen, here in the city itself. The grenadiers and the cataphracts told the tale.
Soon enough, that pastry shop became a popular shrine in its own right. The shopkeeper grew rich, from the business, and was able to retire at an early age; but, an avaricious man, he complained to his dying day that he had been cheated out of his cleaver.
The legend grew, and swelled. Then, five days after the crushing of the insurrection, Michael of Macedonia arrived in Constantinople. Immediately, he took up residence in the Forum of Constantine and began preaching. Preaching and sermonizing, from dawn to dusk. Instantly, those sermons became the most popular events in the city. The crowds filled the Forum and spilled along the Mese.
He preached of many things, Michael did.
Some of his words caused the city’s high churchmen to gnash their teeth. But they gnashed them in private, and never thought to call a council. They were too terrified to venture out of their hiding places.
But, for the most part, Michael did not denounce and excoriate. Rather, he praised and exhorted.
The legend of Antonina now erupted through the city. So did the legend of Belisarius. And so, in its own way, did the legend of Theodora.
By the end of the week, the overwhelming majority of Constantinople’s simple citizens had drawn their simple conclusions.
All hope rested in the hands of Belisarius and his wife. Please, Lord in Heaven, help them restore the Empress to her sanity.
The great city held its breath.
An Empress and Her Tears
The Empress and her general gazed at each other in silence, until the servants placed a chair and withdrew.
“Sit, general,” she commanded. “We are in a crisis. With Justinian blinded, the succession to the throne is—”
“We are not in a crisis, Your Majesty,” stated Belisarius firmly. “We simply have a problem to solve.”
Theodora stared at him. At first, with disbelief and suspicion. Then, with a dawning hope.
“I swore an oath,” said Belisarius.
Sudden tears came to the Empress’ eyes.
Not many, those tears. Not many at all. But, for Belisarius, they were enough.
He watched his Empress turn away from Hell, and close its gate behind her. And, for the first time in days, stopped holding his own breath.
“A problem to solve,” he repeated, softly. “No more than that. You are good at solving problems, Empress.”
Theodora smiled wanly.
“Yes, I am. And so are you, Belisarius.”
The general smiled his crooked smile. “That’s true. Now that you mention it.”
Theodora’s own smile widened. “Pity the poor Malwa,” she murmured.