“Now you declaim like the emperor.” Theodora’s smile turned into a small grimace of disappointment. She moved away from the desk and Anatolius found himself enveloped in her scent, so like a summer garden after rain, the smell of musky blossoms and damp earth. “And indeed I confess that it is a statement I could almost wish to see tested on the floor of the Hippodrome, kalamos against spatha.”
Anatolius tried to suppress a shudder. Even the most extravagant whims of the imperial couple had a nasty way of becoming reality.
Theodora laughed and lowered her darkened eyelids. “Don’t worry, Anatolius. I would not want to see those black rebellious curls matted with dust and blood.”
She reached out and touched his hair. Anatolius could not be certain whether the ice he felt brush his temple was one of the empress’ rings or her flesh.
“I appreciate your…uh…kind thought, highness,” he stammered.
Theodora gave a girlish laugh. “And now, tell me, where is my poem, Anatolius? I have been waiting.”
With panic the young man recalled the scurrilous verse which had so alarmed his father. “Your poem?”
“Why do you look so surprised? Every lady at court has had a verse, and not a few of the servants as well by all I hear. Have you then nothing left for your empress?”
Anatolius’ relief was short-lived. Theodora took another step toward him, bringing her near enough so he could feel the warmth of her breath, faintly fragrant with some spice exotic beyond his experience and certainly one not to be found in the public markets or even at the table of a senator. She was wearing a heavy gold necklace, a chain of interlocking dolphins. Were those kindly sea creatures not said to bring good fortune? Perhaps not for him, not under these circumstances. He stared at the faint pulse in her slim white neck.
“If it is the wish of the empress I would welcome the opportunity to compose a panegyric.”
“A panegyric? They are for emperors and architecture. I would prefer a love poem,” she pouted.
“As you command, highness.”
“And not about the empress bare either.”
Anatolius tried to reply but could not. He half expected the tread of military boots in the hallway and the prod of iron between his shoulder blades announcing he was to be hauled off to the dungeons.
But Theodora just laughed again. Not a girlish laugh this time but the coarse sort of guffaw sometimes heard emanating from behind closed doors at Isis’ house.
“Oh, don’t worry, I quite enjoyed your little verse. But your evocation of my talents left something to be desired. Perhaps your sensibilities are much too delicate, Anatolius. But a pretty love poem, that’s what I’ll have from you.”
Her slightly upturned face was near to his. He knew he must back away from her. Were Justinian to arrive at the door there would be no time for explanation. But he could not force himself to move, even though his heart pounded with fear.
“It is indeed a pity,” she whispered, her piquant breath hot against his face, “that you are presently spoken for. I am sorely tempted to inform the lady’s husband and claim you for myself.”
Anatolius stared at her lips, stained fashionably red, the furtive movements of her tongue visible behind dainty teeth. Then she leaned forward and her lips touched his so lightly he would wonder afterwards if he had only imagined it. Before he could respond she was turning away towards the door.
“The poem, dear Anatolius,” she said, firmly. “You won’t forget, will you?”
He was left alone with the wraith of her perfume.
In a daze, he moved to the cluttered desk where he would sit writing as Justinian restlessly paced the small room, dictating letters carried by imperial couriers to all corners of the empire. Clearly the empress was playing with him. But to what end? Had his verse angered her so much? Was he to be made to suffer before his inevitable demise? Or did she have some other purpose?
He forced himself to look quickly through the correspondence on his desk. Her scent seemed to cling to him, reminding him that it was everywhere rumored that the empress’ lovers were often of a much lower class than a senator’s son. But a senator’s son…
Immediately Anatolius was horrified that he could even allow himself such speculation. Perhaps it would be safer were he, like John, beyond such unthinkable folly. He became aware of the sour odor of his sweat.
He found the missive he sought and sat thankfully down.
His hand trembled as he put kalamos to a scrap of parchment. An errant blob of ink spidered across one corner of the original document. It did not matter, Anatolius told himself as he started to work. All John needed was a verbatim copy of the first message delivered from Michael.
Hektor the court page was bored. It was his job, along with the other boys who served as pages, to ornament Justinian’s court. Elaborately and fancifully dressed, lounging and strolling about the palace and its grounds, they served their emperor as small, glittering gems in the splendid tapestry of imperial power, tales of whose splendor awed ambassadors would carry back to their distant homelands.
“For all its vast magnificence, the Great Church would be but a dark cavern if not for the ten thousand lamps burning inside,” the Master of the Offices had told the boys. “Likewise, each one of you is a shining lamp in your emperor’s court.”
The pompous old fool had not added that pretty perfumed boys could also perform certain services for palace officials that shining lamps, not to mention in many cases the officials’ wives, could or would not.
However, the religious zealots camped on the other side of the Golden Horn were casting a gloomy shadow into the palace. Receptions were delayed, banquets cancelled and foreign emissaries sent away while court officials prowled about with long faces. It was as if that ghastly holy man was already in charge, thought Hektor.
So he was bored-and that usually heralded trouble.
Already he had painted and repainted his face and tried on four different garments before making his final choice of finery for the day. Then he had ruined his azure tunic by lying in ambush in one of the palace gardens for a hour, hoping to catch the small brown cat he had seen hunting there. No doubt a captive cat would have afforded the inventive boy an hour or two of pleasure. However, the animal had not hunted that morning. Perhaps it had succumbed to religious fever and rejected meat, as had the emperor long ago.
He wandered idly through the well-kept grounds until he arrived at the menagerie, not far from the stables. Most of the enclosures were empty, the imperial couple having temporarily lost interest in exotic fauna, but the largest cage was still occupied.
The boy snapped a branch from one of the carefully pruned ornamental trees clustered nearby and banged it furiously at its bars.
“Hey, Felix!” he shrieked, that being the name he had given the caged bear.
The shaggy animal shifted sluggishly in its shady corner and emitted a half-hearted deep rumble. It seemed hardly more awake than a mosaic.
Disappointed, Hektor poked the branch through the cage bars, jabbing at the bear. The animal raised its furry head tiredly but made no effort to lash out.
“Ah, Felix, you’re a sorry excuse for a murderous beast,” Hektor grumbled. It was hard to believe the huge animal had killed a man. That was why Theodora had insisted it be brought to the palace, or so Hektor’s fellow page Tarquin had claimed. But that wasn’t so surprising, was it, considering that the empress had an affinity for bears. After all, her father had been a bearkeeper for the Greens and she must have spent a good deal of time around them as a girl.
Spent time with both bears and Greens, Hektor thought with a pleased smile. No doubt that was where she had acquired some at least of her more violent tendencies. Unfortunately, two years or so of captivity seemed to have taken its toll on Felix’s murderous instincts.