Antonina smiled at the exchange. Until she remembered the fate of John Chrysostom. Around the table, as others remembered also, the smiles faded like candles extinguished at the end of evening.
“Yes,” said the Empress of Rome. “Dark night is falling on us. May we live to see the morning.”
Theodora set down her cup, still almost full.
“I’ve had enough,” she said. “I suggest you all go lightly on the wine. We’ve a long night ahead of us.”
For all its politeness, the suggestion was an imperial command. All wine cups clinked on the table, almost in unison. Almost—Sittas took the time to hastily drain his cup before setting it down.
“Justinian will not listen to me,” began the Empress. “I might as well be talking to a stone wall.” Growl. “I’d rather talk to a stone wall. At least a stone wall wouldn’t pat me on the head and say it’s taking my words under advisement.”
She sighed. “The only ones he listens to are John of Cappadocia and Narses. Both of them, needless to say, are encouraging him in his folly. And assuring him that his wife is fretting over nothing.”
For a moment, she looked away. Her face was like a mask, from the effort of fighting down the tears.
“It’s Narses’ words that do the real damage,” she whispered. “Justinian’s never actually had too many illusions about the Cappadocian. He tolerates John because the man’s such an efficient tax collector, but he doesn’t trust him. Never has.”
“He’s too efficient,” grumbled Sittas. “His tax policy is going to ruin everyone in Rome except the imperial treasury.”
“I don’t disagree with you, Sittas.” The Empress sighed. “Neither does Justinian, actually. It’s one of the many ironies about the man. Rome’s never had an Emperor who spends so much time and energy seeing to it that taxes are fairly apportioned among the population, and then ruins all his efforts by imposing a tax burden so high it doesn’t matter whether it’s evenly spread or not.”
Theodora waved her hand.
“But let’s not get into that. There’s no point in it. My husband’s tax policy stems from the same source as his religious policy. Both are bad—and he knows it—but both are required by his fixed obsession to reintegrate the barbarian West into the Roman Empire. That’s all he sees. Even Persia barely exists on his horizon. The Malwa are utterly irrelevant.”
Bishop Cassian spoke.
“There’s no hope, then, of Justinian putting a stop to the persecution of Monophysites?”
Theodora shook her head.
“None. He doesn’t encourage it, mind. But he resolutely looks the other way and refuses to answer any complaints sent in by provincial petitioners. All that matters to him is the approval of orthodoxy. Their blessing on his coming invasion of the western Mediterranean.”
Antonina spoke, harshly.
“I assume, if he’s listening to John and Narses—especially the Cappadocian—that also means Belisarius is still under imperial suspicion.”
Theodora’ smile was wintry. “Oh, not at all, Antonina. Quite the contrary. John and Narses have been fulsome in your husband’s praise. To the point of gross adulation. It’s almost as if they know—”
She stopped, cast a hard eye on Antonina.
The sound of Sittas’ meaty hand slapping the table was startling.
“Ha! Yes!” he cried. “He’s tricked the bastards!” He seized his cup, poured it full. “That calls for a drink!”
“What are you babbling about, Sittas?” demanded the Empress.
The general smiled at her around the rim of his wine cup. For a moment, his face disappeared as he quaffed half the wine in a single gulp. Then, wiping his lips with approval:
“If they’re so resolute in advancing Belisarius at court, Your Majesty—you know how much John of Cappadocia hates him—that can only mean they have information about him which we don’t. And that—”
The rest of the wine disappeared.
“—can only be a report from India that Belisarius is planning treason against Rome.”
He beamed around the room. Reached for the wine bottle.
“That calls for a—”
“Sittas!” exploded the Empress.
The general looked pained. “Just one little drink, Your Majesty. What’s the harm in—”
“Why is this cause for celebration?”
“Oh. That.” Cheerfully, Sittas resumed his wine-pouring. “That’s obvious, Your Majesty. If they’ve heard news from India—and I can’t see any other interpretation—that tells us two things. First, Belisarius is alive. Second, he’s doing his usual thorough job of butt-fu—outwitting the enemy.”