Laughter again. The man was smooth as a courtier but his manner was direct and unassuming, the teasing rough and easy as a soldier's. Rustem watched the military men in the room as they gazed at the speaker. There was adoration written in their features. The wife, motionless as a statue now, seemed vaguely bored.
"And I fear," Leontes was saying, "that we do not have a great deal of time today, so the Lady Styliane and I are not able to join you in sampling the delights prepared by Strumosus of the Blues in a Green household. I do commend the factions for this rare conjunction and hope it bodes well for a peaceful racing season." He paused, an eyebrow raised for emphasis: this was an authority figure, after all. "We came that we might salute the groom and his bride in Jad's most holy name, and to convey a piece of information that may add in some small way to the felicity of the day."
He paused again, sipped his wine. "I addressed the bridegroom as tribune of the Fourth Sauradian just now. I was behind the tidings, as it happens. It seems that some Supreme Strategos or other, anxious to put a certain mellifluous voice far away from his overburdened ears, rashly signed papers this morning affirming the promotion of the tribune Carullus of Trakesia to his new rank and appointment… as chiliarch of the Second Calysian, such position to be assumed in thirty days… which will allow the new chiliarch time here with his bride, and a chance to lose some of his increased pay at the Hippodrome."
There was a shout of pleasure and laughter, nearly drowning out the last words. The bridegroom came quickly forward, his face flushed, and knelt before the Strategos.
"My lord!" he said, looking up, "I am… I am speechless!"
Which elicited its own burst of laughter from those who knew the man. "However," added Carullus, lifting a hand, "I do have a question I must ask."
"Speechlessly?" said Styliane Daleina, from behind her husband. Her first comment, softly spoken, but everyone heard it. Some people did not need to raise their voices to be heard.
"I lack that skill, my lady. I must use my tongue, though with far less skill than my betters. I only wish to ask if I may decline the promotion."
Silence fell. Leontes blinked.
"This is a surprise," he said. "I would have thought…" He let the sentence trail off.
"My great lord, my commander… if you wish to reward an unworthy soldier, it will be by allowing him, at any rank at all, to fight at your side in the next campaign. I do not believe I am saying anything untoward if I suggest that Calysium, with the Everlasting Peace signed in the east, will be no such place. Is there nowhere in… in the west where I might serve with you, my Strategos?"
At the reference to Bassania, Rustem heard the Senator beside him shift a little, uneasily, and clear his throat softly. But nothing of note had been sped. Yet.
The Strategos smiled a little now, his composure regained. He reached down, and in a gesture almost fatherly, ruffled the hair of the soldier kneeling before him. His men loved him, it was said, the way they loved their god.
Leontes said, "There is no campaign declared anywhere, chiliarch. Nor is it my practice to send newly married officers to a war front when there are alternatives, as there always are."
"Then I can be attached to you, since there is no war front," said Carullus, and he smiled innocently. Rustem snorted; the man had audacity.
'Shut up, you idiot!" The entire room heard the red-haired mosaicist. The laughter that followed affirmed as much. It had been intended, of course. Rustem was quickly coming to realize how much of what was being said and done was carefully planned or cleverly improvised theatre. Sarantium, he decided, was a stage for performances. No wonder an actress could command so much power here, induce such prominent people to grace her home-or become Empress, if it came to that. Unthinkable in Bassania, of course. Utterly unthinkable.
The Strategos was smiling again, a man at ease, sure of his god-and of himself, Rustem thought. A righteous man. Leontes glanced across at the mosaicist and lifted his cup to him.
It is good advice, soldier," he said to Carullus, still kneeling before him. "You will know the pay difference between legate and chiliarch. You nave a bride now, and should have strong children to raise soon enough, in Jad's holy service and to honour his name."
He hesitated. "If there is a campaign this year-and let me make it clear that the Emperor has offered no indications yet-it might be in the name of the poor, wronged queen of the Antae, which means Batiara, and I will not have a newly married man beside me there. The east is where I want you for now, soldier, so speak of this no more." The words were blunt, the manner almost paternal-though he wouldn't be older than the soldier before him, Rustem thought. "Rise up, rise up, bring us your bride that we may salute her before we go."
"I can just see Styliane doing that," the Senator beside Rustem murmured under his breath.
"Hush," said his wife, suddenly. "And look again."
Rustem saw it too.
Someone had now come forward, past Styliane Daleina, though pausing gracefully beside her for an instant, so that Rustem was to carry a memory for a long time of the two of them next to each other, golden and golden.
"Might the poor, wronged queen of the Antae have any voice at all in this? In whether war is brought to her own country in her name," said this new arrival. Her voice-speaking Sarantine but with a western accent-was clear as a bell, bright anger in it, and it cut into the room like a knife through silk.
The Strategos turned, clearly startled, swiftly concealing it. An instant later he bowed formally and his wife-smiling a little to herself, Rustem saw-sank down with perfect grace, and then the entire room did so.
The woman paused, waiting for this acknowledgement to pass. She hadn't been at the wedding ceremony, must have just this moment arrived. She, too, was clad in white under a jewelled collar and stole. Her hair was gathered under a soft hat of a dark green shade and as she shed an identically hued cloak now for a servant to take, it could be seen that her long, floor-length garment had a single vertical stripe down one side, and it was porphyry, the colour of royalty everywhere in the world.
As the guests rose in a rustle of sound, Rustem saw that the mosaicist and the younger fellow from Batiara who'd saved Rustem's life this morning remained where they were, kneeling on the dancer's floor. The stocky young man looked up, and Rustem was startled to see tears on his face.
"The Antae queen," said the Senator in his ear. "Hildric's daughter."
Confirmatory, but hardly needed: physicians draw conclusions from information gathered. They had spoken of this woman in Sarnica, too, her late-autumn flight from assassination, sailing into exile in Sarantium. A hostage for the Emperor, a cause of war if he needed one.
He heard the Senator speak to his son again. Cleander muttered something fierce and aggrieved behind him but made his way out of the room, obeying his father's orders. The boy hardly seemed to matter just now. Rustem was staring at the Antae queen, alone and far from her home. She was poised, unexpectedly young, regal in her bearing as she surveyed a glittering crowd of Sarantines. But what the doctor in Rustem-the physician at the core of what he was-saw in the clear blue northern eyes across the room was the masked presence of something else.
"Oh dear," he murmured, involuntarily, and then became aware that the wife of Plaufus Bonosus was looking at him again.
A feast for fifty people was not, Kyros knew, particularly demanding for Strumosus, given that they often served four times that number in the Blues" banquet hall. There was some awkwardness in using a different kitchen, but they'd been over here a few days earlier and Kyros-given larger responsibilities all the time-had done the inventory, allocated locations, and supervised the necessary rearrangements.