Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1 (15 page)

‘Legatus,’ he said, striking a faist off his breastplate.

Bas returned the salute. ‘You’ve a message?’

‘From the Senate itself.’ He nodded happily.

They stood there looking at each other.

‘Are you going to give it to me?’ Bas asked finally.

The man blushed, stammered some, reached into his purse and passed over a packet, along with a stream of apologies.

Bas ignored them and cracked open the seal. The parchment was soft vellum and still had the faint scent of perfume. It was dated a week back, just after word of the victory would have arrived by pigeon. The formal greetings took up half the first page, but Bas skipped past without really seeing any of it. What remained were three or four lines of intricately traced calligraphy that upended the world.

In recognition of the great and noble services you have provided to the Empty Throne, it is the privilege of the Senate to recognise you as Strategos. It is also the wish of the Senate that you return to the capital with all possible speed, that the state may thank you properly, and determine where in the Commonwealth your talents can be most effectively utilised. Legatus Alexios will take over your command.

Bas reached the end of the missive and went back to the beginning. When he had finished he repeated the exercise a third time.

The news that he had been promoted went through Bas’s mind without triggering any hint of excitement, gratitude or even pleasure. It was no more than his due, given the recent victory – would have been a strange and deliberate slight had he not received it. It was the second part of the message that had struck him like a cudgel blow, left him confused and struggling with its obvious meaning.

Isaac had snuck up behind him, anxious to find out the news but trying not to show it. ‘The foraging party has returned,’ he said. ‘Time to start planting some Marchers.’

Bas didn’t answer, though after a moment he handed over the letter. His adjutant took it with some surprise. Bas watched his lips move silently for about a minute and a half, and then Isaac looked up at him blankly. ‘We’re going home?’ he asked.

Bas shrugged. That was not the way Bas would have put it. That was not the way Bas would have put it at all.

E
udokia was in her bedroom, getting ready for the evening’s festivities. In contrast to what most of the women attending the party would be wearing, Eudokia’s outfit was distinctly traditional, even old-fashioned, though of course it made the best use of the figure that remained to her. When she’d been younger her tastes had run towards the innovative and occasionally the salacious, but in latter years she had cultivated a more conservative style. This enlightened simplicity was difficult to pull off, required fine attention, and Heraclius was making it no easier with his constant interruptions.

He was a scion of one of the lower bits of nobility, holding on to a name, a decaying manor in the provinces and very little else. He was big and strong and well formed, the muscles of his abdomen and arms clearly defined against the light. He never really did anything with all that meat, apart from occasionally carry her into bed, but then that was all she required of him. He was dressed in formal blue robes, which she had bought him some months back. Of course, he was never dressed in anything that she hadn’t bought him, nor did he make use of anything for which she had not already paid. He had been her lover for two years now – no, Eudokia corrected herself, only a year and a half. That it seemed longer was not, to her thinking, a particularly good sign.

‘Does the blue suit me, katkins?’

‘I’ve told you before never to call me that,’ Eudokia said, too involved in putting on her make-up to get properly angry.

‘I can’t help but think the green might go better with my eyes,’ he said, not hearing or not listening.

‘You look lovely as you are,’ she said, which was true but which she also hoped would shut him up.

Quite the opposite effect, sad to say. ‘Do I please my little katkins?’ he asked, taking her by the arm and drawing her in nearer, reaching his other hand round to firmly grip her buttocks.

Eudokia wondered, as she had wondered many times in the past, why men suddenly grew engorged just when any attempt at serious affection were certain to set one’s preparations back an hour. Presumably it was a veiled attempt at control, insistent that lust dominate any external considerations. Under different circumstances, Eudokia had no problem playing the submissive, even found it erotic. But, of course, that was play and tonight was mostly work. She pushed Heraclius away and went back to her make-up.

And he seemed to forget it quickly enough, returning to his dresser to continue his own preparations. ‘Have you seen my gold chain?’

‘Did you check your closet?’

‘No.’

‘Check your closet.’

Heraclius disappeared into said armoire, returned with a medal she had procured for him last year in recognition of a state service that he had never actually performed. ‘It was in the closet,’ he said, smiling that gorgeous smile that increasingly failed to hide the vacuity beneath.

‘Next time,’ Eudokia said, giving herself a final once-over before standing, ‘check before asking me.’

He seemed dimly to recognise this as reproach.

‘Now remember, dear. Wait forty minutes, then slip out the back door and come in through the front.’

Heraclius pouted, another affectation that he imagined to be ingratiating but which was really just insipid. ‘Must we truly?’

‘You’d rather we descend the main stairway arm in arm?’

‘Who would object? You know as well as I do that once the Revered Mother commits an indiscretion the whole court adopts it as custom.’

This was more flattering than accurate, though it held a fair portion of honesty. In truth, Eudokia was little enough concerned about causing gossip. In matters political, there were still a handful of other players who imagined themselves her rival, but in the social arena, Eudokia’s position was as secure as if she had been seated on a mountain of skulls.

‘Well?’ Heraclius asked, drawing close enough to her that she could smell through his perfume to the scent of his flesh beneath. ‘Shall we throw caution to the winds and announce ourselves together? Why ever not?’

When at all possible, Eudokia preferred not to lie. A lie was an admission of weakness, evidence that you needed to fear the target of your dishonesty. Occasionally imperative, never preferable and, in this circumstance, happily unnecessary. Eudokia allowed herself to be pulled tighter, gave Heraclius a light kiss where his neck joined his shoulder. ‘Because I don’t want you stealing any of my shine, darling,’ she said, retreating and smoothing out her dress. ‘Forty minutes, no sooner.’

Eudokia left a sulking child in her bedchamber, though it did nothing to dampen her spirit.

The herald announced her just as she reached the top of the staircase, and she descended with the slow grace that had long since become second nature. The party was in full swing – the chamber musicians talented, the dancers beautiful, the food excellent, the decor bright and stylish. This all but went without saying – it was her party, after all, and among her manifold other accomplishments, it was widely agreed by that swathe of Aelerian society whose opinion mattered that the Revered Mother had no close second when it came to playing host.

Eudokia could see Prisca making a beeline for her almost as soon as she had reached the floor, a small, plump, dark-haired girl dressed in a perfect reproduction of the moment’s high fashion, though somehow without the personal style that would have rendered the costume complete. ‘Revered Mother, please, do you have a moment?’

Prisca’s eyes were magnificently bright, and between that and her pleasant if lopsided smile, she managed to slip just barely onto this side of pretty. ‘Of course, darling. There’s a seat in the corner I’d be happy to fill. These shoes were not meant for standing.’

Prisca so hummed with enthusiasm that it was a struggle for her to remain silent during the minute-long trek to the side alcove. When they arrived she all but flung herself into the cushions, began her chatter even before Eudokia was seated.

‘I can’t wait any longer, Mother, I swear, not another moment. He’s all I think about, day and night.’

Eudokia made soothing sounds and scanned the gathering, keeping careful count of the faces, ensuring that the evening’s actors had all arrived.

‘Father’s dead set against it of course.’

‘Fathers are always against their daughters marrying,’ Eudokia said, forcing her eyes back to the girl. ‘It’s the way of the world.’

‘He says Galerius is only interested in our money, and that we haven’t very much anyway, and that if I only wait a little while longer he’ll make a match that will have me forget Galerius completely.’

‘Your father is a wise man,’ Eudokia half lied.

‘He’s a fool! I could never forget Galerius. As soon ask the flower to forget the sun!’

‘Ask the flower to forget the sun’ had been the refrain to one of the more grating of last season’s popular ditties. Eudokia had forbidden it to be played in her presence, but the thing had taken off anyway. Likely Prisca didn’t even realise she’d stolen the line.

‘He’s the noblest man in the whole kingdom,’ she continued, ‘and the handsomest!’ Though Eudokia felt confident that it was the second that Prisca found more important. ‘And his eyes, Mother, have you seen his eyes?’

‘Both of them.’

‘You mock me, Mother, and perhaps you are right to do so. I know I can sound like a girl, but my love is as true and honest as anyone ever felt for anyone.’

This was a rather definitive statement to be making of such a vast swathe of the world and its history, Eudokia thought. ‘Your passion does you credit, but your father’s will is iron. You know as well as I that his consent is necessary for your betrothal, and that he will not give it.’

‘Revered Mother, surely there must be something that you could do?’

‘Me?’ Eudokia said it as if the idea had never occurred to her. ‘It saddens me to say this, but the vagaries of fortune have placed your father and me in somewhat opposing camps. I don’t imagine he’d take kindly to any suggestions on my part.’

Prisca said nothing for a time, her face flushing rose, trying to work up the courage to spit out her request. It was some way from fascinating, especially as Eudokia already knew the punchline – had written the joke in its entirety, in point of fact. ‘Revered Mother, if only Galerius had some government position, something that would prove his suitability, I’m sure I could convince my father to allow our marriage. Oh, Mother, you don’t suppose … I don’t suppose … you don’t imagine …’

But even Eudokia had limits to her patience, and while she would have preferred Prisca to be the first one to raise the issue, she couldn’t very well wait around all night for the girl to remember her words. ‘That I might find an office befitting a man of Galerius’s talent and ability?’

Prisca nodded frantically.

Eudokia struck her index finger against her cheekbone twice, in even rhythm. ‘Voting for Second Consul is next month. I could put in a strong word for him among those electors who remain unaware of his quality.’ Which would be the entirety of the population, Prisca excluded.

The girl was so beside herself with gratitude that she seemed on the verge of crying, a possibility that would only enmesh Eudokia further, and which she moved quickly to avoid. ‘Think nothing of it, child, think nothing of it at all. To do my small part to bring together such a powerful love – well, I’m not so old as to have forgotten what youth was like.’

But that proved to be too much for Prisca, who succumbed completely to the tide of emotion, throwing her arms round Eudokia’s shoulders and weeping salt water into her dress. Eudokia let her continue on like that for a few moments, somewhat less than thrilled, before pushing her away lightly. ‘Find a bathroom, girl,’ Eudokia said. ‘Your make-up is all a-run.’

Prisca managed this task on her own, and Eudokia retreated to the main room. Irene was in the corner looking painfully beautiful, surrounded by a semicircle of men with ravenous eyes. Eudokia was slightly surprised to find Heraclius among the wolves. Presumably he imagined he was engendering some sense of jealousy by paying more attention to her handmaiden than to her, but in fact she was thrilled to have him out of her hair for a few hours, busy as she was. Irene gave Eudokia a little nod as she came in, then turned her attention back towards her suitors.

Konstantinos had arrived some time earlier, and the gala had predictably and gratifyingly celebrated his arrival with a sustained bout of applause, applause that he did a less than competent job of pretending he did not enjoy. There were moments when her adopted son looked so very much like her husband Phocas that it caught the breath in her throat. The same hair, dark as a clouded evening, the same brown eyes, at once jovial and vital, the same high cheekbones, the same shoulders. Phocas had been dead for almost three decades now, cut down at Scarlet Fields, the defining battle of the Seventh Other War, and still hardly a week passed that she didn’t think of him. If he had lived, how different it all would have been.

Eudokia broke herself free from memory, went to save her stepson from his current predicament, cornered by the senatorial grandee of a rival faction.

‘Our forefathers—’ Manuel was pontificating, but Konstantinos was quick to take Eudokia’s arrival as an opportunity to interrupt the senator, so Eudokia never enjoyed the benefit of whatever scintillating bit of wisdom the senator was about to bestow.

‘Revered Mother,’ Konstantinos said, greeting Eudokia with a quick kiss. Manuel settled for a stiff bow. The Incorruptible, they called him, though what vice could be found in exchanging basic pleasantries, Eudokia could not figure.

‘Dearest child,’ Eudokia returned. ‘Senator.’

Manuel Ogust, senator and protector of the Empty Throne, was easy to spot, inevitably the worst-dressed person in a crowd. As part of his claim to an anachronistically rigid sense of morality, Manuel steadfastly refused to adhere to fashion, making do with an undyed robe of coarse cotton – the same style of dress that had been popular in the days when the Throne had been filled. Supposedly, at least, though Eudokia found it hard to imagine she had ever had an ancestor so lackwitted as to wear hemp when silk was available. The robes were a clever bit of political propaganda, but they’d have served as well had he worn the costume in public, and made do in private with some form of dress that did not hold odour as a jail does convicts.