Proclus murmured a few words of sympathy.
“Besides which, it’s the actress who’s the cause of most of the trouble between Justinian and me.” Justin sighed. “She’s the one who keeps urging him to take action. Why the haste? My nephew’s only just in his forties. A young man compared to me. He has plenty of time left to rule. First, though, he must realize that he has to dispose of that vile woman. It might be that this rift between us will help him see his folly, along with the inevitable cooling off of passion. Or so Euphemia has advised me.” The emperor moved stiffly on the bench, again shifting his weight, but not the pain from his leg.
Proclus briefly wondered how successful Justin would be in having Justinian removed from the succession in the absence of an excellent pretext, given his nephew’s popularity. He didn’t voice those thoughts, however. “I assure you I have no designs on the throne, Caesar,” he repeated, still expecting to hear stealthy movement behind him at any instant.
“You don’t want to be emperor, believe me. I was ambitious and what has it come to? As a young man I left Dardania with two companions. We had nothing but the clothes on our backs and a crust or two of bread for provisions. You know the saying that something that happened long ago might have occurred only yesterday? Well, our journey might have begun just this morning. I’m not old and sick, really, merely tired and footsore from a long day’s walk.”
Justin closed his eyes, the better to view his memories. “I recall crossing a stone bridge as we left,” he said. “The stream was low. Then a little way past the bridge there was the small cemetery where all our kinfolk are buried. Yes, we left both the living and the dead behind to come to Constantinople, seeking a better life.”
Proclus listened intently as the ailing man described his long-ago odyssey.
“The three of us walked that dusty, rutted road,” Justin recalled. “Sometimes we sang, sometimes we marched along in silence. At night we slept wherever we could find shelter. And we kept walking for many days. I wasn’t expecting a great future. The thought of rising to be Captain of Excubitors never crossed my mind, and as for one day ruling the empire, well…No, all we looked forward to each dawn was the end of the day when we could rest and eat whatever we had managed to find. I achieved more than any man could hope to accomplish, yet what does any of it matter now? It’s all behind me.”
“I pray that is not so, Caesar.”
Justin opened his eyes, but turned his head to look toward the far corner of the garden rather than at Proclus. “It is all as nothing. I might have dreamt being emperor. Memories have no more substance than dreams, and in the end all our lives will become only memories. I’ve led men into battle, seen kings kneel before me. I’ve raised great churches to the glory of the Lord, heard the accolades of thousands in the Hippodrome. Yet if I had only an hour of my life to live again, it would be the first time I shared the bed of the girl I married. So much for all our ambitions, my loyal quaestor.”
Proclus said nothing.
Justin leaned forward and peered attentively into the shadows clustered around the cascade of trailing vines at the far end of the garden. “Ah, Euphemia, my dear, there you are. I have been waiting for you. Leave us alone for a while now, Proclus.”
Proclus followed the emperor’s gaze. Back there, partially obscured by a black filigree of tree limbs, something pale caught the moonlight. It was nothing more than an unhealthy mist rising, he thought uneasily. Yet the shape was vaguely that of a woman. A statue, then. One he had not noticed before. He bowed and backed away from Justin’s presence.
Proclus did not stop until he was a few paces from the guards who waited just outside the door to the concealed garden. He did not want to risk overhearing the emperor’s conversation.
Chapter Twelve
Sitting in Lady Anna’s study the next morning, John could still feel Felix’s weight. It was as if the excubitor were perched on his shoulders like a demon which had arrived during a nightmare and refused to depart with the morning light.
“You look pained, John. Is my work so poor?” Lady Anna’s unpainted lips were set in a line of concern.
“It’s well done, Lady Anna.” John set aside the copying exercise he had been correcting and managed a smile. Anna’s answering smile blossomed.
Anna might not have been considered a beauty by court standards. There was nothing striking about her features and she did not use cosmetics to paint herself a new face. John, however, found her intelligence attractive. It was a pity that her intelligence did not extend to an understanding of more worldly concerns, or, more precisely, other peoples’ concerns involving herself.
John made an effort to banish the excubitor’s phantom weight. His memories of dark streets and recent events, so inappropriate here, drew back a step.
In this room, painted roses bloomed on walls and climbed over arbors formed by arched niches holding the scrolls and codices Anna collected as other women might hoard jewelry.
“Am I progressing well with this strange language?” Anna sounded anxious.
John smiled again. “In a few more months you will be speaking Persian like a native.” His expression clouded for a heartbeat and then cleared again. Not quickly enough to escape the notice of his aristocratic pupil.
“You hate the Persians.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Many hate them. With good reason.”
“Why then did you learn their language?”
“Of necessity.”
Lady Anna picked a scroll from the neat pile on her writing desk. “I’ve been trying to translate this romantic tale, John. It is really quite beautiful. The man has not seen the woman since childhood. One day her litter goes past and the wind disturbs its curtain. When he sees her, he is so overcome that he faints and falls off his horse!”
“Unfortunately, the Persians who formed my opinions weren’t prone to swooning in their saddles.”
“But aren’t they just like us? Most of us aren’t violent, grasping after power and wealth. Should Persians judge all Romans by the actions of a ruthless man such as the Gourd?”
“If they are prudent, they will.” John broke off, appalled not only at his own words but the tone. “I am sorry, Lady Anna. I spoke out of turn.”
“But in this perhaps you can learn from me? You are not a man filled with hatred, like so many at the palace. Why do you then hate the Persians so?”
“With respect, slaves should not burden others with their pasts.”
Anna toyed with her still furled scroll. She tapped it against her lips, then stared out over it at John. “I could order you to tell me…”
“Lady Anna…”
“I would not do that. The positions we occupy in society are not of our choosing, but our loyalties certainly are.” Anna laid her scroll back on the pile. “When I’m somewhat more fluent and have accomplished my translation I shall show it to you. The story concerns love between a man and the wife of his brother. A most improper love, yet I can understand it.”
“I shall report your continued progress to your father,” John said, changing the subject.
Anna sighed. “Yes, I’m sure father will be pleased by my achievements. I wonder why so many don’t realize there are greater enemies closer to home than at the border?”
Hardly a surprising comment, John thought, given the recent attempt on her father’s life. Seizing his opportunity, he asked her hesitantly if she had any thoughts on who might wish to harm the senator.
“When men become powerful, they have as many enemies as a ship has barnacles,” Anna replied. “Then, too often, men have long memories. They nurse grudges for years until their chance for revenge arrives. Or they have one too many burdens to carry, or some other reason, trifling perhaps in itself, but one that causes them to finally strike.” She paused. “Isn’t it said that the best revenge is one that has been contemplated for some time?”