A Flame in Byzantium aoc-1

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  "It's… my nature," she said slowly and with great care.

  "Your Roman nature," he ventured.

  "If you like." It was not an answer she wished to give, but one she had learned long ago. There was, deep within her, a yearning to be without guile, to tell Drosos everything about herself—her life and death, five hundred years before, her life since then, the truth of her nature—and she knew that if she did, he would be lost to her. She was amazed to discover how much that mattered to her; she saw Drosos through new eyes.

  He rubbed his chin, his thumbnail rasping against his beard. "You are worried about talking to Belisarius, aren't you?"

  "Not really," she said. "If he is willing to talk, then I'll know it fairly quickly and that will be all right. If he isn't, then he and I will merely talk like the friends we are. He will apologize for the ruin of my villa and I will tell him how much it saddens me to see him in his… predicament."

  "I did mean everything I said," he told her, speaking quickly. "I want him to understand that. For him I would risk perdition, but for no one else."

  "Drosos, if Belisarius is as devoted to the Emperor as you are and for the same reasons, he will not permit you to act on his behalf. He might not permit it in any case, for he is protective of his men." She wanted to move closer to him, to offer him what little comfort she could, but she remained where she was, watching him.

  "Yes," he said, frowning. "But I must try; I have to find out. You understand, don't you?" This last was a plea, and she felt his anguish.

  "I understand. And I will do what I can. Trust me, Drosos. I will find out whatever you need to know, and I will not expose you or Belisarius or myself to any risk beyond the risk of speaking to a man in disgrace." She held out her hand. "Is that enough, Drosos? Will that suffice?"

  "I don't know," he said ruefully. He stared at her, respect in his deep brown eyes.

  "You're honest, at least," she said, waiting for him to touch her.

  "You are willing to take a great chance for me," he said as if aware of it for the first time.

  At another time she might have shrugged this off, finding an easy dismissal, but there was something in his face that stopped her. "I value you more than the risk, Drosos."

  "I never…"He took three hasty steps toward her. "I didn't realize what…"

  "Then you weren't paying attention," she teased him.

  "Do you believe that?" he countered, his hands on her shoulders. "Do you?"

  "You were paying attention to other things," she said, her eyes half-closed as she studied him. "You have had so many things on your mind."

  "You're a sorceress," he said, his hands holding her more tightly.

  "No," she said, "and that is one jest that might be dangerous."

  He nodded, sobered. "I wish it weren't so. You're enchanting. Will that do?" He pulled her to him, his lips against her brow. "What is it about you? Why do you possess me this way? What makes you so much more than any other woman?"

  She wondered briefly if she ought to answer him, but she could not bring herself to do much more than say, "Why are you unlike other men? Why do I prefer you to anyone else?"

  He kissed her abruptly, his mouth hard on hers, his arms confining her. As he drew back, he would not release her, but kept his grip on her, as if he feared she would escape him.

  "Drosos," she said softly, and kissed the corner of his mouth for punctuation. "Do not fret."

  His expression relaxed a bit. "Is that what I'm doing?"

  "Isn't it?" She slid her arms from around his waist and lifted them so that her hands touched at the back of his neck. "You are so mercurial."

  "Me?" he said with surprise. "I'm steady as a rock. Mercurial!" he scoffed.

  "You are, you know," she told him, her voice little more than a whisper.

  "It's because of you. You do things to me, make me feel things, and then I don't know myself anymore." He was not desperate now, but there was a look to him that would have brought tears to her eyes had she been able to weep.

  "That's a wonderful gift to give me," she said, and this time kissed him with passion, leaning into him so that she could feel his body through his clothes.

  He was breathing more quickly when they moved apart, and as she stepped back, he kept one hand on her, as if parting from her was unbearable. "Which room?" he asked as she started toward the door.

  "Mine, of course," she said, smiling back at him. "There are fresh roses and a vial of perfume and sweet oils in my room."

  "Decadent. So decadent." He made the word an endearment.

  "Roman," she concurred.

  "Roses and perfume and oil," he said as they entered the hallway.

  "Yes."

  He stopped and drew her to him again, his lips lingering on hers, then brushing her cheek, her eyes, her hair. "Why didn't I do this when I first arrived?" he wondered aloud.

  "Because you didn't want to," she said honestly.

  "More fool me," he murmured, his hands fumbling with her paenula. "You don't have anything on under this, do you?"

  "No," she admitted.

  "Shameless, too." He nuzzled her neck, then gently caught her earlobe between his teeth.

  "Careful," she warned him playfully.

  "Why? you do it to me."

  "That's different," she said, moving back a step and taking his hand. "Come. We don't want to entertain the servants."

  He laughed aloud. "Of course not," he said, trying to sound prim and failing.

  At the door of her bedroom, they kissed again, more intensely, tongues exploring, hands spread wide and moving over backs and shoulders. "For love of—"

  "You," he finished for her.

  "Of Aphrodite," she corrected, although it was not what she had intended to say at first. "Inside, and get out of those clothes. You are going to madden me if you make me wait too long for you."

  "Will you rage and pull out your hair?" he prompted.

  "No, I will seize heavy objects and throw them at you," she promised. "Inside."

  Chuckling he allowed himself to be tugged through the door, and once it was closed, he reached to her tablion to unfasten it. "Let me. I want—" He could not speak of what he wanted; his eyes were eloquent, his hands explained, his mouth formed a poetry that was more sublime for its lack of words.

  Olivia, carried by his passion, felt a wonderful stillness about her, a rapture that was so complete that it suspended both of them with its enormity and its tenderness. She opened all of herself to him, so that when he entered her he penetrated much more than her body. It was the sweetest de.lirium to move with him, to know his savor and weight, his fervor, his ecstasy. She was imbued with his ardor, discovering an awe within herself that had remained inaccessible until now.

  As Drosos plunged into release, Olivia found her fulfillment, and so immense was their joy together that her special appetite was gratified almost as soon as her mouth touched him.

  They remained as they had been, flesh held by flesh, now unmoving, neither willing to sacrifice their intimacy by separating even to lie in each other's arms.

  Olivia looked up into his face, her desires so replete that she could say or do nothing that could add to her bliss. She could feel a thin ribbon of sweat down her ribs and another on her shoulder, and wondered idly if it might be hers as well as his. Damp tendrils of hair clung to her face and the smell of their passion blended with the scent of the roses around them.

  They kissed slowly, their lips so sensitive that they barely grazed; exquisite sensations surged through them.

  He started to speak, but she stopped the words with her lips, longing to sustain their glorious, prodigal delight. "I must be squashing you," he whispered some while later.

  Reluctantly Olivia let herself slip from passion to contentment. "I don't mind."

  "Um." He plucked a few stray hairs from his beard off her cheek. "I can't stay in anymore," he said with regret.

  Finally they rolled to the side, still together, though the intoxi
cation of their union no longer consumed them.

  "Let me move my arm," she offered, shifting so that they would both be more comfortable.

  They lay together, her head on his shoulder, her leg over his thigh, the hair of his chest making patterns on her skin. Their hands were joined.

  "Every time I think that it cannot be better than the last, and every time it is," he said when he was starting to drift into sleep.

  She turned her head so that her lips pressed his shoulder.

  "Olivia?" he whispered a little later.

  "Yes?"

  "In two months, I am being sent to Alexandria." There was devastation in his words.

  She felt her throat tighten. "Alexandria?"

  "In Egypt," he explained.

  "I know where it is," she said, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice.

  "So anything that is going to happen has to be before then." He made an angry slash with his free arm. "I'm a toad!"

  "Shhush," she admonished him.

  But he could not stop. "I shouldn't have said that. It wasn't what I meant. I wanted to tell you all the things in my heart. I wanted you to know what you give to me. I didn't want to say anything about plots or Alexandria, and I did both."

  Olivia moved onto her elbow and looked down at him. "It's all right, Drosos," she assured him, hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt.

  "I was going to say something later, when we'd slept, when it wouldn't matter as much." His fingers sought her face, tracing the planes of it.

  "It would matter whenever you said it." She bent her head and kissed his nipple. "And it doesn't change what we have together."

  "It doesn't?" he pleaded.

  "No. And you're right. You had to tell me sometime." There was a fine line between her brows, but otherwise her features were tranquil. "We'll have to make the best of the time we have."

  "Can we?" His fingers stopped moving and he looked at her with an intensity that was so pure that it was like a light among them.

  "It's what we always do," she pointed out with great gentleness. "At least we know what time we have. That makes us more fortunate than most."

  "Does it?" He sighed and fought to get the next words out. "I need you, Olivia."

  Only twice before had anyone said that to her, and one had been her husband, who had admitted it with abhorrence. The other had been a boy struggling into manhood. Neither had moved her as she was moved now. "I love you, Drosos."

  "And I love you; but that's not the same thing," he said, clearly and softly.

  "No." She lay down once more, her head tucked under the curve of his jaw. "It's been so long since I mattered that much to anyone. Thank you for—" She stopped.

  "For?" he echoed.

  "For you." Under her, his chest rose as he stifled a yawn. "Go to sleep. In the morning we will make our plans."

  "But… it was so perfect. I wrecked it." He patted her shoulder, suddenly ineffective.

  "Things like that can't be wrecked, Drosos, no matter what comes after." She wished she could find a way to show him that she was telling him the truth, and it hurt her more than she wanted to admit when at last he drifted into sleep with a murmured fragment of an apology.

  Drosos awakened shortly before sunrise, his mood terse. After a small meal of bread and figs he was able to jest about the hour and to remark that Olivia managed better in the morning than many soldiers on campaign did. Olivia accepted the compliment playfully; she did not mention that she hardly ever slept.

  * * *

  Text of an anonymous letter to the physician Mnenodatos.

  To the learned Mnenodatos of the Crown of Martyrs' Church, on the Feast of Saint Iakobis of Nisibis, hail from one who wishes you well.

  It is known of you that you have much skill in the detection and treatment of poisons, and that is what I must consult you about on this occasion. You certainly understand why it is that I will not reveal myself, for such inquiries are often misunderstood. I have sent a messenger and will send one for your answer in a day's time.

  The person I am eager to have you assess is a woman of middle years, well-born and strong, with a tempestuous and commanding manner and a fit constitution. This woman has often suffered from extreme emotions, as women will, and when episodes of this sort occur, she is likely to do herself and others an injury.

  Composing draughts have sometimes been tried, and have had some limited success, but it is apparent that they are not sufficient to the problem, and something stronger is needed if any lasting relief is to be obtained.

  I am reliably informed that most composing draughts are made from herbs and other substances that have elements of poison in them, but are concocted in such a way as to minimize the poison. Is there any way to make such substances more efficacious without rendering them more dangerous to the person taking them, and have them act so that the woman would not be convinced that she was being poisoned? She is the sort of woman who might believe such a thing. She often assumes that others are working against her, and for that reason it is likely that she would be willing to believe that those who have her welfare most truly at heart would instead act to her distress.

  If there is anything that might aid her, please present the substance, with instructions, to the slave who will call upon you tomorrow. It is of the utmost importance that we carry out this transaction in secrecy and with discretion, for not only is the woman of an uneven temper, her husband of late has had to be careful of unseen enemies, and he would be severe with those he believed were not caring for his wife as they ought.

  I have taken the liberty of sending eight pieces of Egyptian gold with my request, both to insure your prompt compliance and to reward you for your silence. You may rest assured that your substance will be treated with care and respect and nothing will be permitted to cast doubts on you or your profession.

  A Sincere Friend

  4

  Rain scraped the walls and spattered in on the mosaic floors where the oiled parchment windows had given way under the onslaught of the storm. The room was a miserable place to sit, filled as it was with sudden, hostile draughts and the chill rattle of the rain.

  Antonina offered a second cup of hot spiced wine to her visitor, then pulled her plain wool paenula more closely around her shoulders. "I am still surprised that you came to visit me," she said to Eugenia. "From your last two notes, I thought that you no longer wished the association." Since Belisarius' disgrace the two white streaks in her hair had become more pronounced but her face, in contrast, appeared more glacially serene than it had before.

  "Well," Eugenia began, accepting the hot wine gratefully; not only was the warmth needed in this dreadful reception room, but she needed a little time and help to build up her courage. "I have to be sensible, as you've told me time and time again," she began.

  "And you are going to be sensible," Antonina said tonelessly.

  "To a degree. I must, Antonina." She took a larger gulp than she had intended and tried to swallow it without choking. "I must be careful, being a widow with limited funds. If anything were to render me more questionable as a possible wife, I might not be able to marry again, not for years."

  "I know," Antonina said, and although her voice was harsh, she did understand the predicament of her friend. "I don't blame you for doing what you must. I don't even think that you are being disloyal, for you must first be loyal to the Emperor and his rulings."

  "Antonina—" Eugenia began, then stopped.

  "Have some of these stuffed dates. They're excellent." There was no enthusiasm in the offer, but Eugenia obediently helped herself. "You are placed in the same awkward position as most of my husband's officers are, but you are not as much a risk as they. But if you want to place yourself well, doubtless being seen here will not help you." She poured herself more of the wine but did not drink it.

  Eugenia nibbled the dates and ordered her thoughts. "I am aware that you are under constraints. Like many other Konstantinoupolitans, I believe that the
treatment is unfair and unnecessary, but it will take time for the

  Emperor to see this. Those close to him are determined to continue this estrangement as long as possible."

  "So I understand," said Antonina.

  "And for that reason, if I curtail my visits, I hope you will not be too horrified by my actions, and will not be too severe in your judgment of me." This last was in a lower tone, and she dared not look too closely at her hostess.

  "In your position, I would be tempted to do the same thing," said Antonina. "You have so much to lose, and certainly I do not wish you to have to endure what we are enduring now."

  Eugenia cringed under this assault, but she continued to keep herself in check. "I have hopes of a ship's captain. He has eight merchantmen. While he is not as well-placed as my husband was, he is interested in wedding me. And it does not matter to him that I am still seen here. He is not part of the court and has no aspirations to be." She sighed. "He is over fifty and has a belly like a captive bear, but it is something."

  "You had your sights higher at one time," Antonina reminded her.

  "I still do. But if it becomes necessary, it is rewarding to know that I am not wholly without those who admire me." She tossed her head defiantly, a gesture that had been applauded when she was young and now she did out of habit.

  "I would hate to see you stuck with your captain of merchantmen," admitted Antonina. "I had such hopes for you, when I could still command some interest and some respect from those within the ranks of the Guard." She sipped the wine and glanced at the torn windows.

  "You have been my staunchest supporter and friend," Eugenia said firmly. "It disgusts me that we are reduced to this when you and I had such hopes. If Theodora could rise from her place, why should not I? I am in a far better position than she was, and I have some fortune to offer a husband."

  Antonina held up a warning hand. "Don't speak that way. There are those who would be eager to report what you have said to others who are not your friends. It would do you more harm than simply drinking hot wine with me." She leaned back in her low chair. "It's true, but with Theodora dead, none of us dare remember what she came from. Justinian would not like to hear such things said of her."