The Secret History: A Novel of Empress Theodora (48 page)

Anger brought welcome color to Justinian’s cheeks, and he banged his fist on a pillow as if it were his throne, sending puffs of white feathers to drift in the air like snowflakes. “You dare mock me?” Gold sparks flared in his eyes, but I scrambled up to his bed and covered his face with kisses, his cheeks, nose, and chin. He stared at me as if I were mad.

“You fool. Areobindus is not my lover.” I could scarcely get the words out. “He’s my son.”

“But I thought—” Justinian stared at me. “Your son? How is that possible?”

So much for spoon-feeding him.

I took a deep breath and spilled the entire story, sparing no detail
as the horizon swallowed the sun and an orchestra of crickets welcomed the night.

My conscience was finally clean, come what might.

Justinian looked older than his fifty-eight years by the time I finished. He rubbed his temples—I could see the weight of the valerian in his eyes.

“I had reports of a young man you were taken with in Hieron, that you’d made him your steward. I should have known better.”

“I have always been faithful to you.” I dragged my eyes to his. “Can you forgive me?”

“I wish you had told me long ago.” He kissed my palm, letting it linger on his lips. “I understand why you hid the truth, but things might have been so different—”

Justinian cleared his throat, looking at the stars through the window as he stroked my palm. “And you’re positive Areobindus is your son? He couldn’t be lying?”

“He has my cross and the scar from his fight with Photius. He remembers the procession to Bithynia. There’s no doubt he’s my son.” I wanted to smooth the wrinkles from his eyes. “You need to sleep. We can discuss more of this tomorrow.”

Not to mention Belisarius.

“I love you, Theodora. No matter what.”

“I love you, too. Rest well.” I unfolded my legs to fluff his pillow and snuffed out the oil lamp at his bedside. I craved several hours of uninterrupted sleep in my own bed, my thoughts no longer plagued by an uncertain future.

I opened the door and almost ran into Narses, his hand raised to knock, a contingent of Scholarii guards behind him. “The Emperor sleeps,” I said. “Whatever it is will have to wait until morning.”

“Antonina and her daughter are in good health, untouched by the illness.” He looked almost disappointed at the news. “She sent this for you.”

I tore into the vellum, uncaring whether the paper carried plague.

Belisarius deserved death, but he’d been lenient with Antonina when her treachery was revealed. Perhaps I might be creative with his punishment.

“Thank you.” I waited for Narses to leave, but he didn’t move. “Is that all?”

“Belisarius docked this evening and awaits your pleasure in your receiving room.” He folded his hands behind him. “He believes the Emperor to be in a grave state.”

Sleep would have to wait.

I found Belisarius fiddling with the ties on my silk curtains, a picture of life and vitality while my husband looked as if God still might claim him. “I’m disappointed, Theodora,” he said. “You haven’t taken either of my recent suggestions.”

I gave him a silky smile. “Unfortunately, I’m not fit for a nunnery. And your other option—” I pretended to shudder.

He stroked his beard. “Well, we can’t have you underfoot while I am crowned.”

“Perhaps you can tell Justinian that yourself.”

The smug smile fell from his face. “The Emperor lives?”

“Through the grace of God.”

Belisarius swallowed hard. We both knew his fate.

“But I was only planning.…The Empire must have an heir.”

“And it will. Unfortunately, that won’t be you.” I snapped my fingers for Narses and his guards. “Your new accommodations await below the palace.”

“You’d let me live?”

“Perhaps. You’ll have plenty of time to think on your treason while you await my judgment.”

Belisarius unsheathed his sword and stiffly handed it to the guards before Narses escorted him to the depths of the palace. He could share a dark cell next to Photius.

Belisarius would remain below the palace until I forgot about him and rats ate his bones. Or until I broke him in half.

T
he plague abated, but Justinian’s bones still rattled when he coughed, and he could scarcely rise from his bed without his knees knocking together. He was already troubled with a kingdom decimated by plague and a distinct lack of tax revenues that made the current Persian campaign especially problematic. But I could no longer put off telling him of Belisarius.

“I cannot believe Belisarius would deceive me so.”

I rinsed the bronze blade to shave away the fresh stubble on his jaw and forced myself not to speak. Justinian sat for a long moment, half his face lathered with sheep tallow and the other smooth with a fresh sheen of olive oil. A tiny trickle of blood marred his throat where I’d nicked him on his Adam’s apple.

I dabbed a towel at the cut. “He cannot go unpunished.”

“You’d have him killed, wouldn’t you?”

“But you would not.”

Justinian tilted his chin so I could finish. “Belisarius is a good man. Misguided, perhaps, but I will not have his blood on my hands.”

“Of course.” The sarcasm dripped from my voice. “Plotting for
your throne and asking me to commit suicide certainly deserve a gentle response.”

He inspected my handiwork in a bronze mirror and yanked the towel from his neck. “Now is not the time to execute Belisarius. Plague bodies are washing up in the Bosphorus, and we need him to deal with Persia. And possibly Italy again in a few years.”

I hated how logical my husband could be sometimes.

“Find a nice rock in the Aegean to banish him to.” I was willing to go along with Justinian’s leniency, but only because I had another plan for Belisarius. “Even Antonina agrees he’s overstepped his bounds this time.”

“You two are as ruthless as Scylla and Charybdis.”

I didn’t relish the comparison to the sea monsters, but I let it go. “At least strip him of his belt. Show everyone you no longer favor the traitor.”

Justinian kissed my hand, twining his fingers with mine. I could see how much this cost him and wished I could lighten his burden. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right,” I said. “It’s one of my better qualities. Speaking of which—”

“What are you up to now?” Justinian smiled, but his eyes looked heavy. Yet I had to broach the subject.

“You must name an heir. Nothing like this could happen again if the succession was secure.”

“And I’m sure you have a candidate in mind.”

“Several, actually.”

His eyebrow arched.

“Antonina and Belisarius’ daughter would make a good match for Athanasius. A betrothal between their daughter and Tasia’s son would bind Belisarius to us through family so he’d be less tempted to play this little game again. And Vigilantia’s son, Justin, would make a good
pair with Comito’s daughter, Sophia.” My eyes flicked to him. “And then there’s Areobindus.”

Justinian frowned. “I’m hesitant to name a man I’ve scarcely met as my heir.”

“He’s my son.”

Justinian kissed my forehead. “My darling little imp, I just cheated death. I have no intention of dying anytime soon. Be patient and everything will fall into place.”

I’d be patient, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

“Release Belisarius to the custody of his wife and write a letter telling him of his demotion,” Justinian said.

“You won’t see him?”

“Not yet.”

“As you wish.” I kissed his forehead and let my hand trace the outline of his jaw before giving him a long, slow kiss. I breathed in the smell of the tallow on his skin and his usual scent of mint. I would never take this man for granted again.

He groaned. “Get out now, or I might have to rouse myself to chase you around the bed.”

We both knew that wasn’t going to happen, but the heat in his eyes was reassuring.

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

His eyes lit with the spark I’d so missed. “Both. Now go and let me sleep.”

I gave a mock bow and sashayed from the room. I felt ten years younger with my conscience clean and Justinian on the mend. And I would take Justinian’s plan for Belisarius one step further.

Back in my chambers, I ordered Belisarius’ release and retrieved a fresh sheet of vellum, choosing a warm patch of sunlight on the balcony to put the final nail in the general’s coffin. I wondered if Belisarius would be waiting at his villa for a summons, or worse, the
footsteps of an imperial assassin. The tables were turned, and I intended to remain on this side of the game. Fear could be a powerful weapon.

My pen scratched the paper as birds twittered outside my window. I chose my words carefully, praying to the Virgin that this would be the last time I would have to protect my throne and my husband’s.

Now Belisarius would owe not only me, but Antonina, too, for the very air he breathed. The man who had vanquished Africa and Rome would be beholden to two women.

While I waited for a reply, slaves scrubbed me with lavender salts and massaged my skin with olive oil so pure it looked like water in its jar. My scalp stung with the scrubbing, but my hair shone like ebony, although my nose and eyes burned with the lead oxide and slaked lime that I’d used in my hair to mask the feathers of silver at my temples.

I waited all day, but there was no response from Rufinianae. I was not a patient woman. The afternoon was chilly, as if summer dared not show her face in a city still sunk in mourning. A few people hurried in the streets, but the atmosphere was that of a house after a funeral.

Even Antonina’s villa at Rufinianae seemed sedate as Areobindus and I approached the deserted entrance in our sedans. Antonina
emerged as we stepped from our litters, an ancient slave out of breath behind her.

“Forgive my tardiness, Augusta,” she said as she straightened. “Plague claimed my former herald, and Basil here is still learning.”

I smiled at the slave as Antonina led us inside—the poor man would attain sainthood by the time he finished serving my friend.

We settled among the silk cushions of the
triclinium
, a room so lavishly appointed that a visitor to the city might have mistaken it for the Royal Treasury, but only if the Royal Treasury contained chartreuse silk curtains and a life-sized ivory statue of a grinning baboon with gilded nipples. Antonina’s shrines to the gods were absent, likely a result of Belisarius’ orthodoxy, but Areobindus gaped at a randy mosaic of nymphs and satyrs on the ceiling, one that could have made the madam of any
lupinar
blush. There was even a tree of life, complete with erect phalluses hanging from the branches.

“How does Theodosius fare?” I asked.

Antonina fiddled with her curls—they had taken on a rather flagrant reddish hue. “He’s well, glad he no longer has to hide while Belisarius is in the capital.” She chuckled. “After your letter to Belisarius, I think Theodosius and I could be caught
in flagrante delicto
in the Hippodrome and Belisarius wouldn’t protest.”

That was hardly my intent when composing the letter to her husband, but so be it. “So he received my message?”

“The poor man thought you had sent an assassin to kill him. He actually kissed my feet for saving his life and swore he’d be my slave for the rest of our lives.”

The man had a passion for life, but what shade of life without his belt? For a moment I pitied Belisarius, for all he had been and never would be again.

Antonina turned her attention to Areobindus, still standing at the door. Her brows rose to the flames of her hair. “And who is this fine young patrician?”

I motioned him forward, my heart in my throat. “This is Areobindus, or as you knew him, John.”

Antonina’s gaze flew to mine.

I touched the amber cross at his throat. “He had this.”

Antonina barely glanced at the necklace, her gaze intent on Areobindus’ temple. Her fingers fluttered to her mouth. “And the scar. I suppose Photius was good for something.”

I cringed at her callousness toward her own son. Photius was still imprisoned below the palace, in a secret cell so dark that night and day were indistinguishable. I would let him escape at a later date and perhaps encourage him to become a monk.