"He is a stranger, unrecognizable." The Empress' voice was soft and low, barely audible. Her face was in shadow, barely illuminated by a single candle that stood on a long tapering holder by the door to the sleeping chamber. Martina had come by a hidden way, heavily veiled and shrouded in a thick cloak and long gown. The clothes were none of her own. One of the Faithful had purchased them in the city some days before. Rufio had held himself apart from the murk of intrigue and conspiracy that occupied the idle time of the city fathers, but he had not ignored its lessons.
"My lady," he said, his rough voice lowered as well. "In this poor light, he looks more like the man you remember than under the sun. He is not well. His body has rebelled against him."
Martina turned, her glorious brown eyes shining with tears, just visible between two bands of the veil. Rufio could see that the young woman longed to touch her husband's hand, but dared not. Of late, to keep Heraclius in some kind of effective state, Rufio had been adding one or two drops of poppy juice to the heavy wine that the Emperor would consent to drink before sleeping. Even that was difficult, for the Emperor's fears extended to anything liquid. The African knew that this was a dangerous business, but he could see no alternative. If he did not, then the Emperor's sleep would be wracked by terrible dreams.
If the Emperor did not sleep at night, he was in a hallucinatory daze during the day. Too much needed to be done for that to be allowed. Now, with Heraclius in a drugged stupor, Rufio had brought the Empress to look upon him. It was the first time that she had seen her husband in months.
"Is he dying?" For all her youth and bookish nature, the Empress was of a practical mind.
Rufio nodded, his gnarled hands clenching behind his back.
"How long?"
"Perhaps a year: he will not allow a priest of Asklepios to attend him. Sviod- one of the Faithful- has seen this kind of thing before. Those so afflicted will linger and slowly decay into death. Madness already comes and goes."
Martina turned away, her hand rising to her lips. Rufio stood, waiting, until she could speak again. "They say that this thing is my fault." The Empress' voice was very faint, barely a whisper. "My handmaids hear them; in the market, in the baths, at the Hippodrome. They are merciless and cruel. Did you know, there are plays in the low houses of the Racing District that: that depict what the common people think transpired in our courtship? It is rude work, no Ion of Chios surely, but I know it is what the fine ladies and gentlemen of the nobility are thinking when they titter behind their fans and handkerchiefs."
Rufio said nothing. He had heard all the same spiteful gossip and outright condemnation of the marriage of a niece and uncle. He knew them both, and had seen for three years that they loved one another deeply. What mattered to him, today, was that he needed an ally.
"My lady, there is a thing I would do, but I need your help."
Martina had heard nothing. She stared off into the darkness, her arms crossed over her chest. "They say that the gods have turned their backs on us, because of our marriage. We are cursed, our blood corrupt. My children have all died, save little Heracleonas. He is so small and weak- will he live? Is it true?"
"Empress!" Rufio turned the woman, his big hands enveloping her thin shoulders. Why not compound two treacheries by laying hands on the body of the Empress, too? He almost laughed, but stifled it with a cough. "You must listen to me." He bent down, catching her eye.
"Sviod, the blond youth, he says that among his people this affliction is not unknown. He says that if certain medicinal leaves and berries can be acquired, the Emperor may be cured."
Martina stared at him with such a blank expression that Rufio feared she had retreated into her own madness.
"Empress?"
"Oh. Yes, Rufio: what did you say?"
The guard captain, quelling an impatience that pressed him to shake her until she came to her senses, repeated what he had said before. The Empress was openly puzzled.
"How can I help you? My husband will not even admit me into his presence, much less allow physicians or priests to attend him. I am imprisoned in my quarters: I have no friends or allies: His brother hates me and conspires against my son!"
Rufio sighed. The Empress had a great love for the ancient classics, and histories and all matter of obscure things about the natural world. Her education in the matter of palace intrigue, however, was sorely lacking. He raised a finger and pressed it to her lips, halting the flow of words. Her eyes widened in shock, but she remained silent.
"My lady, the medicines that Sviod desires are also used for the treatment of diverse women's ailments. It would be very odd indeed if one of the Faithful were to be seen purchasing such a thing. Your handmaids, however, could seek out a merchant in the lower city and acquire them with ease. No one would think anything of it. Will you help me?"
"Yes," Martina nodded vigorously. "How will you make him take it? I have heard he refuses all medicines:"
Rufio nodded, saying, "this is so. But when he sleeps, I believe that his lips may be moistened with the elixir and he will not even be aware of it. His body craves the things he denies- food, sleep, water. While his mind is in the arms of Morpheus, we may yet save him."
Martina smiled and took Rufio's hand in her own and squeezed. The guard captain barely felt the pressure through the sword calluses and muscle. He did not return her smile. His thoughts were occupied with all the things that might go wrong. The Prince Theodore was gone from the city at last, but his adherents and supporters were many in the palace. Soon, the mere possession of the Emperor's body would be crucial.
Petra, Nabatea
An old man with a snow white beard lay sleeping. Heavy quilts, stitched with squares of green and cream and gold covered him like a mountain. Thick down pillows lay under his head. Long butter yellow slats of sunlight crept down a wall above the bed. The wall was plastered and painted a deep mottled sandstone, though at the joint of the wall and the roof there was a line of black-painted figures and block script. The man's breathing was even and steady, his mustaches riffling with each breath. His beard had been combed out in a fan across the top of the quilts. At his side, her head cushioned on her arms, a young woman was folded up in a wicker chair. Its cushions were skewed under her, and a cotton blanket had been laid over her during the night.
Full day ruled outside the room, though the vines and flowers that grew in the window almost shut out the light. What sun did enter found a dim green place. Circular pipes along the upper course of the walls allowed a breath of air to enter.
The young woman's long black hair was tangled and matted with burrs and dirt. Grime streaked her high-boned cheeks and collected under her fingernails. Despite this, and the filthy tattered clothing she wore, she slept deeply and without dreams. By habit, a knife was clasped in one hand, its sheathed blade resting under her cheek.
The sun settled along the wall, drooping lower and lower until the light, now almost fading, touched the old man's face. His noble nose twitched and he stirred. The heavy quilts made it difficult to move. An eyelid flickered and then opened. Then the other joined it. For a moment, they stared in interest up at the ceiling, seeing a pattern of cross-hatched slats and plaster. Then they became aware and the old man turned his head, seeing the young woman in her chair and then a low table bearing a pottery jar, dark with water sweat.