Again, he saluted everyone with an upturned cup.
“How are you so sure the report isn’t true?” grated the Empress.
By the time Sittas replaced his cup on the table, his cheerfulness had given way to serenity.
“Worry about something else, Your Majesty,” he said. “Worry that the sun will start rising in the west. Worry that fish will sing and birds will grow scales.” He snorted derisively. “If you really insist on fretting over fantasy, worry that I’ll start drinking water and do calisthenics early in the morning. But don’t worry about Belisarius committing treason.”
Antonina interrupted. Her voice was cold, cold.
“If you pursue this, Theodora, I am done with you.”
The room froze. For all Theodora’s unusual intimacy with that small company, it was unheard of to threaten an Empress. That Empress, for sure.
But it was Theodora, not Antonina, who broke off their exchange of glares.
The Empress took a deep breath. “I am—I—” She fell silent.
Antonina shook her head. “Never mind, Theodora. I don’t expect an actual apology.” She glanced at Sittas. “Anymore than I’d expect him to start doing calisthenics.”
“God save us.” The general shuddered, reaching for his wine cup. “The thought alone is enough to drive me to drink.”
Theodora, watching Sittas drain his cup, suddenly smiled. She picked up her own cup and extended it.
“Pour for me, Sittas. I think I’ll join you.”
When her cup was full, she raised it aloft.
“To Belisarius,” she said. “And most of all, to trust.”
Two hours later, after Theodora had finished bringing her little band of cohorts up to date with all the information which Irene had collected over the past months in Constantinople, the Empress announced she was off to bed.
“I’ve got to be at my best tomorrow morning,” she explained. “I wouldn’t want your new regiment of peasants—what did you call them?”
“Grenadiers,” said Hermogenes.
“Yes, grenadiers. Has a nice ring to it! I wouldn’t want them to be disappointed in their Empress’ inspection. Which they certainly would be if I collapsed from nausea.”
All rose with the Empress. After she left, guided to her chamber by Antonina, most of the others retired also. Soon, only Sittas and Anthony Cassian were left in the room.
“Aren’t you going to bed, too?” asked the general, pouring himself another cup.
The bishop smiled seraphically.
“I thought I might stay up a bit. The opportunity, after all, will come only once in a lifetime. Watching you do calisthenics, that is.”
Sittas choked, spewed out his wine.
“Oh, yes,” murmured Cassian. “It’s only a matter of time, I’m convinced of it. A miracle, of course. But miracles are commonplace this evening. Didn’t I just see the Empress Theodora give a toast to trustfulness?”
Sittas glowered, poured himself a new cup. The bishop eyed the bottle.
“I’d be careful, Sittas. That’s probably turned into water.”
The Empress did not disappoint her new regiment, the next morning. No, not at all.
She appeared before them in full imperial regalia, escorted to her throne by Antonina, Sittas, Hermogenes and Bishop Cassian.
The peasant grenadiers, watching, were impressed. So, standing next to them in the proud uniforms of auxiliaries, were their wives.
By the regalia, of course. By the august nature of her escort, to be sure. Mostly, though, they were impressed by the throne.
Clothes, when all is said and done, are clothes. True, the Empress wore the finest silk. They wore homespun. But they were a practical folk. Clothes were utilitarian things, in the end, no matter how you dressed them up.
The tiara, of course, was new to them. They had no humble peasant equivalent for that splendor. But everyone knew an empress wore a tiara. Impressive, but expected.
Even her escort did not overawe them. The young Syrians had come to know those folk, these past months. With familiarity—the old saw notwithstanding—had come respect. Deep respect, in truth. And, in the case of Antonina and Cassian, adoration. Yet it was still familiarity.
But the throne!
They had wondered what the thing was, during the time spent waiting for the Empress to make her appearance. Had passed rumors up and down the lines. The regulars from Hermogenes’ infantry who served as their trainers and temporary officers had tried to glare down the whispers, but to no avail. The grenadiers and their wives had their own views on military discipline. Standing in well-ordered formation seemed sensible to the peasants—very Roman; very soldier-like—and so their ranks and files never wavered in the precision of their placement. But maintaining utter silence was obvious nonsense, and so the grenadiers did not hesitate to mouth their speculations.