“What’s the matter?” sneered Antonina. “Are Ephraim’s silk robes wearing out?”
There was a bit more humor in John’s smile, now. Just a bit.
“Not that I’ve noticed. Hard to keep track, of course, all the robes he’s got. No, I think maybe he’s peeved because he doesn’t have as many pounds of gold on the rings of his left hand as he does on the right. Makes him list when he promenades through the streets of Antioch, blessing the poor.”
The naval officer snorted, sighed. He cast a glance around the room. They were sitting in the main salon of the villa, at a table in the corner. “I’d suggest selling one of your marvelous tapestries,” he muttered, “except—”
“We don’t have any.”
“Precisely.”
Antonina’s smile turned into a very cheerful grin. She shook her head.
“I should stop teasing you. I’m ashamed of myself. The fact is, my dear John, that money is no longer a problem. I have acquired a new financial backer for our project.”
She reached down and hauled up a sack. Hauled. The table clumped when she set it down.
John’s eyes widened. Antonina, still grinning, seized the bottom of the sack and upended it. A small torrent of gold coins spilled across the table.
“Freshly minted, I hope you notice,” she said gaily.
John ogled the pile. It was not the coins themselves which held his gaze, however. It was his knowledge of what lay behind them.
Power. Raw power.
Since the reign of the emperors Valentinian and Valens, gold coin—the solidus, inaugurated by Constantine the Great, which had been Rome’s stable currency for two centuries—were minted very exclusively.
There were many legal mints in the Roman Empire. Big ones, in Thessalonica and Nicomedia, and a number of small ones in other cities. But they were restricted to issuing silver and copper coinage. By law, only the emperor minted gold coin. In Constantinople, at the Great Palace itself.
“You told Theodora,” he stated.
Antonina nodded.
“Was that wise?” he asked. There was no accusation in the question, simply curiosity.
Antonina shrugged. “I think so. Under the circumstances, I didn’t have much choice. I became deeply embroiled in imperial intrigue while I was in Constantinople. The reason Irene didn’t come back with me is because she’s now—in fact if not in theory—Theodora’s spymaster.”
John eyed her with deep interest.
“Malwa?”
“Yes. They’re developing some kind of treacherous plot, John. So far all we know is—” She broke off. “Never mind. It’s a long tale, and I don’t want to have to tell it twice in the same day. Anthony, Michael and Sittas will be coming for dinner tonight. Maurice and Hermogenes will be there, too. They’re also both involved, now. I’ll explain everything then.”
She reached out a hand and began scooping the coins back into the sack. “Anyway, I think telling Theodora was necessary. And the right thing to do, for that matter. We’ll know soon enough. She’ll be coming here later this summer. For a full tour of the project.”
“What?” cried John. “This summer?” He leapt to his feet. Waved his arms angrily. “Impossible! Impossible! I won’t have anything ready by then! Impossible!” He began stumping back and forth furiously. “Crazed women! No sense of reality—none at all. Impossible. The gunpowder’s still too unpredictable. The grenades are untested. Rockets aren’t even that!”
Stump, stump, stump.
“Lunatic females. Think chemistry’s like baking bread. There’s something wrong with the way the powder burns, I know there is. Need to experiment with different ways of mixing the stuff.”
Stump, stump, stump.
“Idiot girls. Maybe grind it, if I can figure out how to do it without blowing myself up. Maybe wet it first, that’s an idea. What the hell, can’t hurt.”
Stump, stump, stump.
“Hell it can’t! That moron Eusebius could blow up anything. Blow up a frigging pile of cow dung, you don’t watch him. Careless as a woman.”
Stump, stump, stump.
The early hours of the evening, before and during the meal, were primarily devoted to Procopius. It was not difficult. From months of practice, Antonina had developed the craft of Procopius-baiting to a fine art.
In truth, her expertise was largely wasted. By now, Procopius was so well-trained that literally anything would serve the purpose. Like a yoked and blinkered mule pulling a capstan, he could see nothing before him but the well-trod path. Antonina had but to remark on a fine horse—Procopius would scribble on the infamy of bestialism. Chat with a peasant housewife—a treatise on the ancient sin of Sappho was the sure result. Place her son in her lap—ah! splendid!—Procopius would burn his lamp through the night, producing a veritable treatise on pedophilia and incest.