"Personally. I mean. On myself. Don't need it."
Victorious against all odds, she flopped against the back of the couch, staring blearily at one of the magnificent tapestries on the opposite wall. She couldn't really see it, anymore, but she knew it was magnificent. Incredibly magnificent.
In the way that it happens, at such times, exultant triumph collapsed into maudlin tears.
"What matters to me is that the Empress of Rome wants me for her spymaster. That's"-hiccup-"enormously gratifying to my vanity, of course. But it also means I now have access tomb pelear-to imperial-resources. Resources."
She twirled her finger in a little gesture which encompassed the entire villa.
"Look at this! It's nothing but a damned stake-out, for Chrissake."
She beamed upon her friend, beamed upon the tapestry, sprang to her feet, and spread her arms in a great gesture of pure exultation.
"Oh, God-I'm going to have so much fun."
Antonina tried to catch her on the way down, but only succeeded in flopping onto the floor herself. From her belly, cheek pressed against the parquet, she did manage to focus on Irene long enough to be sure her friend was not hurt. Just, finally, dead drunk.
"Woman can't handle her liquor," she muttered; although, to a cold-hearted observer, the word "liquor" would have sounded suspiciously like a snore.
"Come on, Hermogenes, let's get them to bed."
Maurice bent, scooped the little figure of Antonina into his thick arms, and carried her through the door. He padded down the corridor effortlessly. Hermogenes followed, with like ease. Irene was taller than Antonina, but, slim rather than voluptuous, weighed not a pound more.
Antonina's room came first. Maurice, turning backward, pushed his way through the door and lowered Antonina onto her bed. Like every other piece of furniture in the villa, the bed was splendid. Very well made, very luxurious, and-very large.
Maurice turned and looked at Hermogenes. The young general was standing in the doorway, Irene cradled in his arms. Maurice gestured him in.
"Bring her here, Hermogenes. We may as well let them sleep it off together."
Hermogenes hesitated for an instant, looking down at Irene's slack, lolling head. A tiny little twitch in his mouth gave away his regrets.
"Come on," chuckled Maurice. "You won't be enjoying her company tonight. If you put her in her own bed, you won't get any sleep yourself, since you're sharing it with her. You'll just wind up sleeping on a couch. She'll be snoring like a pig, you know it as well as I do."
Hermogenes smiled, ruefully, and brought Irene into the room. Gently, he lowered her onto the bed next to Antonina. On that huge expanse, the two women looked like children.
"I've never seen her get drunk before," said Hermogenes softly. There was no reproach in his voice, just bemused wonder. "I've never even seen her get tipsy."
Maurice glanced at Irene. "She's a spymaster," he grunted. "Greek nobility, to boot."
He then gave Antonina a long, lingering, considering stare. There was no reproach in his gaze, just love. "I've seen this one get drunk before," he murmured. "Twice."
He began ushering Hermogenes out of the room.
"Once, the first time Belisarius went on campaign. I stayed behind, for a few days, organizing the logistics. She got plastered the night he left. The next morning, she climbed onto a horse and rode off to join him in camp. I sent five cataphracts with her as an escort. Anastasius was in command. He told me later he thought he'd have to tie her onto the horse to keep her from falling off. But she made it, all on her own."
He stopped in the doorway, looking back fondly. "I was impressed, when he told me."
Hermogenes nodded, smiling. "That's tough, riding a horse with that kind of hangover. I know. I've done the same thing myself."
Maurice eyed him scornfully.
"No, you haven't. You already knew how to ride a horse. It was the first time she'd ever been in a saddle."
Hermogenes gaped. Maurice grinned.
"Oh, yes. A very tough little woman, in her own way. Though you wouldn't think it, just looking at her." He reached out and closed the door.
"What was the second time?"
The humor faded from Maurice's face.
"The second time was the day after he left for India. The next morning, she stumbled down to the stables and spent four hours there. Just sitting on a pile of hay, staring at a horse."
Hermogenes puffed his cheeks, blew out the air.
"Christ."
Maurice shrugged. "Ah, hell. I wish she'd do it more often."
He started down the corridor.
"That's too great a pain to keep in such a small body."
When Irene awoke the next morning, it took her a full minute to focus her eyes. The first thing she saw was Antonina, dressed in a robe, staring out the window onto the street below.
Irene watched her for ten minutes, never once moving her eyes away.
At first, simply because she couldn't move her eyes. Then, when she could, because she immediately encountered pain. Then, after pain had been properly introduced, because she hoped it would go away if she ignored it politely. Then, after pain made clear it was settling in for a nice long visit, because she wanted to think about anything else. Then, finally, because she started to think.
"What in the hell are you doing?" she croaked.
"Nothing much," came the soft reply. "Just looking at a horse."
Chapter 5
Ranapur
Spring 530 AD
On the tenth day after their arrival at Ranapur, as Belisarius and his cataphracts rode out to the small knoll where they usually observed the siege, their Rajput escorts intercepted them before they had gone more than half a mile. The cavalrymen seemed tense and edgy, although their unease did not seem to be directed toward the Romans.
Rana Sanga himself, when he drew his horse alongside Belisarius, exhibited nothing beyond his usual reserved, courteous manner. But his first words made clear that today would be out of the ordinary.
"You and your men will not be watching the siege from your normal vantage point, General Belisarius."
Belisarius frowned. "If you move us further back, Rana Sanga, we might as well watch the battle from the moon!"
Sanga scowled. "You need have no fear on that account, General!" he snapped. "Quite the contrary." The Rajput shook his head in a sharp, short manner. "Excuse me," he muttered. "I am being impolite. I am-somewhat aggravated. I fear I am lashing at you for lack of a better target. Please accept my apology."
Belisarius smiled. "Gladly, Sanga. Gladly. But-well, it's none of my business, but-"
Again, Sanga shook his head.
"You will see for yourself, soon enough. The high commander of the army, Lord Harsha, has decreed that Ranapur will fall today. The Emperor himself has come out to observe the conquest of the rebel city. You have been invited to watch the crushing of the rebellion from the Emperor's own pavilion. I have been instructed to escort you there."
"Ah," said Belisarius. Since they had arrived at Ranapur, the Roman delegation had been studiously ignored by the emperor and his entourage. Even Venandakatra had not sent so much as a formal note. The diplomatic discourtesy, Belisarius was certain, was calculated to impress upon the Romans their humble place in the Malwa scheme of things. He was equally certain that the sudden invitation to share the emperor's august presence was calculated to impress the foreigners with the Malwa empire's might and ruthlessness.
There was no point in lodging a protest against this shameful treatment. Certainly not to Rana Sanga, who was himself consigned to the periphery of the Malwa court. (Except, Belisarius suspected, when the clash of arms required the Rajput's skill.)