The Storm of Heaven (62 page)

This elicited a second, slightly fuller laugh.

"Dear," Anastasia whispered, "I'm past the day when I could entertain a whole cohort. You'll do just as well by setting a gaggle of schoolboys upon me. I know you are beside yourself with worry, but I am of no more use to anyone. My policies have led only to ruin."

Helena closed her eyes briefly, overcome by her own weariness, then opened them again as warm light flowed into the pavilion. Betia returned with a lamp and a covered plate. Helena held her tongue until the blond maid hung the light on a hook and laid the plate on a table between them. A linen cover was removed, allowing steam and the aroma of fresh bread to rise up. There were strips of cut meat, steamed vegetables and a round of cheese. The smell reminded the Empress she had forgotten to eat during the day. She accepted an eating tine gladly.

"I don't care about your policies," Helena said, chewing on a rare slab of lamb covered with pressed peppercorns. "You know things that no one else does. You will answer my questions."

Anastasia looked up, violet eyes glittering for a moment over the lip of her wine cup. The vintage had been heated with iron plugs and spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. Steam curled around the older woman's high brow and the oily curls of her hair.

"Will I?" There was a trace of amusement hiding in the tired voice.

"You will," Helena said, her voice cold. "You may have been replaced by my husband, but I do not trust your successor and I
know
that he does not have the grasp of the whole empire as you do. Tell me this, do you still receive reports from your various agents and factors throughout both empires?"

"I do," Anastasia allowed, staring at the steamed vegetables. Betia had settled in beside her mistress and was watching like a hunting falcon, ready to respond to any command. The Duchess picked out a single carrot from the plate and nibbled on it. "They are downstairs, in the study, if you wish to see them."

"Do you still read them?"

"No," the Duchess said, chewing thoughtfully. "But Betia insists on interrupting my naps by reciting them aloud." The woman turned slightly and made a face at the maid. "She is a very irritating girl."

"Have you heard of these matters before I spoke of them?"

"Some," Anastasia said, poking about on the plate with an eating tine. "This business of the fleet is new."

"Yes," Helena said, biting at her thumb. "I heard of it just today. The news is fresh in Constantinople."

"Is it?" Anastasia found a carrot and carefully broke it in two, then ate the smaller of the pieces. "They must be in quite a panic"

"Empress Martina is at her wits' end," Helena said in a dry tone. "Is there a man you can trust in the Eastern capital? Someone I could send word to? Someone who can
do
something there?"

Anastasia sighed and put her eating tine away. She slumped back in her chair, letting the cowl of the robe fall over her face. "I will give you the lists of names and cities, if you so desire. Then you can play at this business yourself, without wearying me. There is a man there, a tribune in charge of the Office of Barbarians. He's supposed to be Heraclius' agent, of course, but we've had an understanding for years."

"Good. Could he see about killing a man?"

The Duchess made a sound like a snort and a laugh mixed together. She raised herself up in the chair and motioned for another glass of wine. Betia pressed it into her hands. She drank deep, then put it aside. "You've taken to this business, haven't you? Do you really think that you can change anything with plots and murders? I thought so once... it's addictive, you know, but then I don't suppose that you care, either. It's too much like a story in one of your letters."

Helena put down her own cup, wondering bitterly if she would have to summon guardsmen to threaten the Duchess. It seemed they had come a very long way from that first day, when Helena had been the nervous young woman out of her depth and Anastasia the wise councillor. Their respective ages could not be that far apart—perhaps only a decade. Were they enemies now? "Will you answer my questions? I will tend to the details."

"Will you?" Anastasia said, her voice sounding almost normal. "Would you trade the citizens of two large cities and countless towns to destroy a single man? Ha! I see the look on your face—you wouldn't, would you? You think these things can be finessed, avoided, fate circumvented because you are
smarter
than everyone else!"

The Duchess' voice rose to almost a shout. The cowl fell away, revealing a face lined with tiny fine wrinkles and the burden of age. The artful powders and unguents that normally composed a perfect visage had not touched her face in weeks. Coupled with her anger, she suddenly seemed terribly real to Helena and the Empress drew back in confusion.

"Do not play at these games, child," the Duchess said in a sneering voice. "Go back to your letters and your gossip and your dream worlds. You could not stomach the smell of blood."

Helena clenched her jaw, biting back a furious retort. At least Anastasia seemed to be taking an interest in the world around her. "And you, O arbiter of what is real and what is not—will you come forth from your grave? Put aside your funeral cloth and rejoin the living? You are hiding in your own dream, a luxury that I cannot afford." The Empress' eyes narrowed and she scowled at the Duchess. "I will not abide the living dead in my husband's realm. You must either be alive or I will see that you find the grave with my own hands!"

Anastasia laughed aloud, a full, belly laugh that spilled out of her like water from a shattered dam. Once she started, the Duchess was unable to stop. Helena sat back in her chair, feeling the hard grain of the wood under her fingers. Betia was alarmed, then went for a towel and dabbed tears from her mistress' eyes. Finally, exhausted and aching, Anastasia was able to take the cloth from the blond slave and clean her face.

"You have been reading those melodramas of Petronius' again," she gasped at last. "The living dead? What fine dialogue you write for yourself!"

Helena shot her a look, then folded her arms over her chest. "You're no better," she said in a surly voice. "Languishing about in sackcloth and ashes. Sitting in your abandoned, empty house with servants hidden away in the cellars. Artful drifts of leaves and dirt scattered about. The next time you try this flummery, make the gardeners use the right kind of leaves! The oak make a pretty red display, I agree, but not in high summer!"

Anastasia harrumphed, then clapped her hands for more wine. She moved like an invalid. The Duchess took another cup from Betia, who remained in her shadow. "Leave me alone. I do not want to go through all of this again, Helena dear. I feel it in my gut now, like a Spartan fox. All those men and women... I must go away. Far away."

"There's not going to be anyplace far enough," Helena snapped, "to get away from me. My husband may be a big fool, spurning you because you did what he feared to do, but I am not. Please, Anastasia, help me! Help us."

The Duchess turned her head away, putting the back of her hand to her mouth. Helena sat quietly, watching. Betia remained motionless, right by the older woman's side. Night deepened outside of the circle of warm light thrown by the oil lantern. Bats fluttered over the roof of the pavilion, darting around the edge of the garden. The night promised to be warm.

At last, Anastasia turned back to the Empress, her eyes in shadow. "You are a poor friend, Helena. You barge in and demand food, drink, conversation—then want help for no particular reward. In some circles, you would be a boor!"

"I cannot be a bad guest." Helena smirked. "I'm an empress."

"I had noticed," Anastasia answered in a dry tone. "Very well. I do not think there will be any rest for me, here or anywhere."

"You would hate rest." Helena smiled knowingly. "How would you know you were alive?"

"I am not like that," the Duchess said, a distant look in her eyes. "Intrigue is no longer my elixir. I am afflicted by worse than lotus blossom—conscience bears on me."

"Then give in," the Empress said, leaning forward and tapping on the table. "This mess in Constantinople needs to be cleaned up—if you have a man in place, let us dispatch a message to him."

"To what end?" Now the Duchess' voice was sharp and she seemed fully awake. "Whose death will 'clean up this mess'?"

"Prince Theodore, of course! While he is stirring the pot in the Eastern capital, Martina cannot direct the Imperial government as Heraclius' regent. With him gone—"

"There will be civil war," the Duchess interjected, shaking her head. "Your correspondence with the girl has turned your head. She is entirely unsuitable to manage that snake pit and even less able to command a defense of the capital."

"A defense? What are you talking about?"

Anastasia let out a long, slow sigh, then motioned for Betia. "Dear, bring us a map. You know the one."

The slave hurried off, white legs flashing in the darkness that lay upon the villa.

"The matter of her marriage has compromised her role in Constantinople," Anastasia said. "Her regency would be constantly under attack. Consider: young Constantius, the son of Heraclius by his first wife, Eudocia, is the heir. Martina would have to put him ahead of her own son. How likely is this? No, she would intrigue against her stepson and try and put the infant Heracleonas in his place. The great nobles would revile her and the state will be paralyzed—again.

"Theodore is an equally bad choice. These rebels have bested him twice and he is of poor character. No, a third option is required. Of course, the optimum outcome would be to restore Heraclius to good health, then all of these problems would fall by the wayside."

"Martina," Helena ventured, "believes that he is near death. The captain of the Faithful Guard is attempting to treat the Emperor in secret with some herbal remedy, but it does not seem to work. The priests of Asklepius are at loggerheads over the marriage issue, so they will not help."

Anastasia nodded, thinking. Then she smiled slightly as Betia returned with a rolled leather map. "Ah, let us examine the other problem." Betia unrolled the map and laid it out on the table.

"These rebels out of the Decapolis have a canny leader," Anastasia said. "He knows victory in this war depends on control of the sea, thus his efforts to obtain a fleet and to drive the Eastern ships away from the Phoenician coast. This done, he has one of two objectives—Constantinople or Egypt."

Helena nodded, examining the carefully painted depiction of the eastern end of the
Mare Internum
. "Galen believes Egypt is the target, for it is the richest province in the Empire and without its grain, Constantinople will starve."

"This is possible." Anastasia paused. "But our enemy has moved swiftly and with an obvious plan. Look, he could have seized Egypt by land if he so desired, marching swiftly down the coast and crossing the desert at Pelusium. He did not. His first blow was to capture the great port and the fleet at Caesarea Maritima. I think his aim is here instead."

Her thumb laid alongside the tiny figure of Pallas Athena marking Constantinople at the junction of the Sea of Darkness and the
Mare Aegeum
. "The Imperial Army has been shattered. Theodore is disgraced. Heraclius is bedridden. There is no fleet to defend the approaches to the city by sea. A daring man might sail into the Propontis and land an army, besieging the Eastern capital by both land and water."

"Impossible! The walls of Constantinople are impregnable! It would be a disaster."

"Perhaps. Perhaps this rebel thinks he can force a peace settlement if he blockades the city. How long could Rome stand if the flow of African grain were cut off? Constantinople is even bigger, with even more mouths to feed."

"Oh." Helena stopped and considered. "That could be... the rebel king would gain time and land to mount a proper defense, or further attack."

"Exactly. He moves very swiftly, this one, because he knows that keeping the Empire off balance is his only hope for victory. A negotiated settlement will give him legitimacy amongst the Eastern cities. Persia is in disarray, so there is a sliver of time for him to build a new state between the old empires."

"Then we must move swiftly, too."

"Yes, dear. Is Galen in the city?"

"No." Helena shook her head. "He's gone off to Portus for a few days to oversee the dredging operations—they're clearing the channels in the harbor of Trajan with some contrivance of Aurelian's."

Anastasia raised an eyebrow approvingly. "A boring but worthy project. Your husband is sometimes wise, I see."

"I suppose, but I am reminded of Nero and his lyre."

Anastasia laughed, but nodded in agreement. Then she said, "There are several new legions being mustered at Mediolanum, I believe."

Helena shrugged. She had no idea.

"Here is a solution to this business in the Eastern capital, my dear. Listen closely, for you must make your dear, dull husband believe this is
his
idea. Some time ago an arrangement was made between the emperors of East and West regarding the command of military detachments operating in the other's territory. Do you know of it?"

"No," Helena said, a little taken aback by the Duchess' effortless command of the situation.

"It was agreed that each emperor, or his designate, would serve as the
Dux Militaris
for the other, if a combined operation were undertaken. Thus, during the recent war in Persia, Galen was Heraclius'
dux
. If a war were fought here in the West, Heraclius would be Galen's second. In this case, if a Western army were to arrive at Constantinople under the command of a Western
Caesar
, then that leader could take command of
all
the Roman forces in the area."

Helena nodded, committing the proposition to memory.

"This will allow someone competent," Anastasia continued, "to deal with this invasion. It is unlikely the entire Eastern fleet was destroyed in this latest disaster—the Western fleet will have to gather up the survivors and then hunt down these rebellious ships."