Photius was struggling with unmanly tears. “I’ll miss you,” he whispered.
Irene chucked him under the chin. “So come and visit. And we’ll do the same.”
Photius managed a smile. “I’d like that! Theodora hates to travel, but I think it’s exciting.” He hesitated; a trace of apprehension came to his face, as he glanced quickly at the taller girl standing next to him.
Tahmina had his little arm firmly held in her hands. “Whatever my lord and husband desires,” she crooned.
Irene grinned. “Well said! My own philosophy exactly.”
Kungas grunted. Irene ignored the uncouth sound. A very stern expression came to her face, and now she was wagging her finger in front of Photius’ nose.
“And remember! Every new book that comes out! I’ll expect it sent to me immediately! Or there’ll be war!”
Photius nodded. “Every one, as soon as it comes out. I’ll get the very first copy and sent it to you right off, by fast courier.” He stood straight. “I can do that, you know. I’m the Emperor of Rome.”
“Quite so,” crooned Tahmina.
* * *
That evening, in the suite of the imperial palace which had been set aside for the use of Kungas and Irene, a different ceremony took place. At sundown, Antonina bustled into the room. Behind her came a servant, carrying a large and heavy crate.
Antonina planted her hands on hips and gave the men sitting on the various divans scattered about the large salon a ferocious glare. The glare spared no one—not her husband, not his chief commanders Maurice and Sittas and Agathius, not Ousanas and Ezana, not Kungas nor his chief officers, not the Persian general Kurush. If they were male, they were dead meat.
“Out!” She hooked her thumb at the door. “All of you, at once! Take this military folderol somewhere else. This room is hereby dedicated to a solemn ritual.”
Maurice was the first to rise. “Got to respect hallowed tradition,” he agreed solemnly. “Let’s go, gentlemen. We’re pretty much done with everything except”—he sighed heavily—”the logistics. And Agathius and I can do that with Belisarius in his own chambers.” He gave Antonina a grin. “It’ll take us hours, of course, but so what? This one won’t be coming back tonight.”
As he moved toward the door: “Not on her own two feet, anyway.”
Antonina growled. Maurice hastened his pace. Antonina’s growl deepened. A small tigress, displeased. The rest of the men followed Maurice with considerable alacrity.
When they were gone, Antonina ordered the servant to place the crate on a nearby table. He did so, and then departed at once. With a regal gesture, Antonina swept the lid off the crate. More regally still, she withdrew the first bottle of wine.
“Soldiers,” she sneered. “What do they know about massacre and mayhem?”
Irene was already bringing the goblets. “Nothing.” She extended them both. “Start the slaughter.”
Chapter 4
“I wish you’d stop doing this,” grumbled Agathius. “It’s embarrassing.” The powerful hands draped on the arms of the wheelchair twitched, as if Agathius were about to seize the wheel rims and propel himself forward. Then he had to hastily snatch the maps and logistics records before they slid off his lap onto the tiled floor.
Seeing the motion, Maurice snorted. “Are you crazy?” The grizzled veteran, striding alongside the wheelchair, glanced back at the young general pushing it. “It’s good for him, doing some honest work for a change instead of plotting and scheming.”
Belisarius grinned. “Certainly is! Besides, Justinian insisted on a full and detailed report—from me personally. How can I do that without operating the gadget myself?”
Agathius grumbled inarticulately. The wheelchair and its accompanying companions swept into one of the vaulted and frescoed chambers of the imperial palace. A cluster of Persian officers and courtiers scrambled aside. By now, many days into the ongoing strategy sessions at Ctesiphon, they had all learned not to gawk in place. Belisarius did not maneuver a wheelchair with the same cunning with which he maneuvered armies in the field. Charge!
When they reached the stairs at the opposite side of the chamber, leading to the residential quarters above, Belisarius and Maurice positioned themselves on either side of the wheelchair. As Agathius continued his grumbling, Belisarius and Maurice seized the handles which Justinian had designed for the purpose and began hauling Agathius and his wheelchair up the stairs by main force, grunting with the effort. Even with his withered half-legs, Agathius was still a muscular and heavy burden.