"Empress," she said, turning away from the prince and leading Martina forward, out of the clutch of sycophants crowding the girl, to the edge of the marble steps. "I hope my garden pleases you."
Martina answered her smile with a faint grimace of her own and Anastasia felt a sharp moment of satisfaction, seeing ill-disguised fear hiding behind the girl's kohl-ornamented eyes and lead-white face powders. "It's… beautiful," the Empress managed, trying to turn back, looking for Maxian. "The lamps are very pretty."
"They are," Anastasia said, squeezing Martina's hand and descending the steps. The Empress, unwilling to cast off her hostess' hand, followed. "Have you seen my stream before? A cistern above the house lets it flow and the water is recaptured below by a clever siphon." Anastasia leaned close to Martina as she spoke, as if they shared a confidence during temple services. Still unwilling to protest, though looking more and more startled with each moment, Martina found herself beside the stream, candlelight shining on her face.
Anastasia spared a sideways glance behind her and was pleased to see the prince entirely surrounded by a thick crowd of well-wishers and men in search of Imperial favor. Good, she thought, I've a few moments, then.
"The boats are very beautiful," Martina said, her fancy caught by the tiny manikins of boatmen and ladies placed around the paper cones holding the candles. Caught in the slow current of the stream, the little craft were slowly bumping and whirling as they passed down the stream. "What happens when they go out of the garden?"
"Shhh…" Anastasia bent close, finger to plum-colored lips, eyes twinkling. "We mustn't speak of such things or the illusion will be spoiled." Martina answered with her own faint smile. The Duchess squeezed her hand again, radiating warmth, the tilt of her head inviting secret confidence. "I hope you enjoy the party," she said softly. "I know you must be dying to dance or hear the musicians or do anything but toil through dusty scrolls…"
"You've no idea!" Martina said, surprised and pleased. For the first time, her face opened, losing the frightened mask. "Maxian is a dear-but he'll work until everyone is dead without notice or a care! I have to speak quite forcefully to him, sometimes."
"Good," Anastasia said in an approving voice. "Some young men need guidance or they'll ignore the house while it burns." She gestured to one of the maids, politely lurking just out of earshot. The girl hurried over with a pair of fluted, delicate glasses, half-filled with a sparkling golden draught. "Here, my dear," Anastasia said, deftly taking both glasses. "Try this-it will make you forget your cares! It's from Gaul."
Martina drank from hers, both small hands on the glass. She tasted, her nose wrinkled up, she sneezed, and then she laughed. "Oh dear! It has bubbles!" Embarrassed, the Empress covered her mouth.
"It does," Anastasia said, taking a sip. The liquor was sweet and sharp on her tongue. "There is a temple of Dionysos in Gallica Belgica, where the vines are blessed and the wine light and delightful. My late husband owned some shares…" She raised the glass, tipping it against Martina's in a toast. "…and I have reaped the bounty of his investment for many years." The Duchess smiled again, leaning close to Martina. "But I do not share it with just anyone."
Martina smiled back, eyes twinkling. "Well, thank you for your confidence, Duchess. I am glad to be out of hot foundry rooms and in clean, breathable air!"
Anastasia was about to reply when a peal of bronze-throated trumpets sounded, ringing back from the high, curved ceiling with a martial blast. Everyone froze, silent expectation settling over the crowd, then all turned as one. A brace of Praetorians, breastplates gleaming silver in the lamps, appeared in the main hall. The mob of senators and merchants and Legion officers parted.
Drat! fumed the Duchess, catching sight of Martina's open, happy face closing up, becoming suspicious and mask-like. Just another few minutes and we'd have been best friends…
The Emperor appeared at the top of the steps, his son settled on one hip, his wife's hand raised shoulder height in his own. He was clad in pure white linen, a circlet of golden holly imprisoning his habitually lank hair and dark red boots. Beside him, the Empress of the West was appropriately subdued, in a dark, velvety brown, highlighted with old red gold at her neck, wrists and around her thin waist.
"The Augustus and God," bawled one of the Praetorians, his voice booming through the garden, "Galen Atreus, Emperor of the West, Protector of the East! The noble Empress, Helena, and their son and heir, Theodosius!"
The trumpets pealed again, echoes ringing through the halls, then falling away into silence. Galen, looking down into the garden, saw Anastasia and smiled, inclining his head. The Duchess knelt in response, making a flourish. Out of the corner of her eye, Anastasia saw Martina twitch nervously, then make a polite half-bow.
"Lord and God," the Duchess called, her clear voice cutting through quiet air. "We are graced and honored by your presence." Capturing Martina's hand again, she ascended the steps, taking care to match her pace to Martina's-who lagged, feet dragging, nervous and out of her depth. "Please, partake of my house, the entertainments, anything you might desire."
"Thank you, it is our pleasure." Galen said, managing a tired smile. Up close, Anastasia fought to keep down a frown. The Emperor's eyes were smudged with fatigue, his skin a poor color even disguised by powders and crushed rose dust. "Hello, Martina. Are you and your son well?"
"Yes, Lord Galen," Martina responded, her voice tight with nervousness. "And yours?"
Galen looked down at Theodosius, who was staring around with interest, most of one hand stuffed into his mouth. Anastasia felt a pang, seeing a flicker of happiness pass in the Emperor's face as he looked upon his son. "He is very well, thank you."
"Empress," the Duchess said, bowing to Helena, "welcome to my house."
"Thank you, Duchess. I see you've invited everyone I'd forgotten existed," the Empress replied, inclining her head to Anastasia. The Duchess stiffened, seeing her old friend was in a particularly sharp mood. The cutting tone in the woman's voice seemed to touch Martina as well, and the Duchess felt the Eastern Empress' grip tighten. Trying to reassure the girl, Anastasia gave an answering squeeze.
"My lord, my lady," Anastasia said quickly, before Martina had to respond, "will you be presiding this evening? Or simply private citizens, at the house of an old friend?" At the same time, the Duchess tried to catch Helena's eye, but the Western Empress was looking Martina over with a particularly calculating gaze.
"We are just private citizens," Helena said, before Galen could respond. "The party is for our dear brother-in-law, Prince Maxian, isn't it? We wouldn't want to spoil his chances for a good time by hovering, or making people bow every time we walked by. Besides, things are formal enough in the palace. Don't you think so, husband?"
"Of course." Galen nodded, seemingly relieved. Theodosius grabbed for a sweetmeat from a passing tray and the Emperor captured a grubby hand before it spilled the platter. Distracted by his son, Galen failed to notice the tense air between the three women. "Ah, good, there's Gaius Julius! Excuse me, ladies…"
"Helena," Martina said into the silence as the Emperor departed. "Good evening."
The Western Empress' eyes narrowed and Anastasia realized Martina had neither bowed nor used an honorific in addressing the older woman. And why not, the Duchess thought despairingly, she's an Empress as well, and Helena's equal…