B009KUWVHG EBOK

by Thornton, Stephanie

  We were within the shadow of the Sacred Palace when a gaunt old man lurched into our path. He grabbed my arm and twisted it, and I cried out at the spasm of pain as he stumbled to the cobbles. His fever-glazed eyes bored into me, a giant black bubo like a rotten apricot bursting from his neck. I stared wide-eyed at the hand on my arm, the ragged fingernails edged with dirt and pale, knobby knuckles.

  “Unhand the Empress.” Areobindus shoved the man away.

  I ignored the lance of pain in my shoulder to bend over the man. He had already exposed me with his touch, and soon I would be at my husband’s deathbed. If God—or a demon—chose to call me to Him now, so be it.

  “May God rest your weary soul.” I squeezed the man’s hand, his flesh like parchment over bones so brittle they felt ready to snap in half.

  He coughed, a bloody gurgle, and closed his eyes. His trial was almost over, but mine had only begun.

  The guard posts at the bottom of the Chalke were empty, but someone looked down on us from the chapel atop the gate, a black head against the gray sky.

  “The palace is closed, you fools,” he hollered, his voice muffled. “Go back to where you came from.”

  “How dare you? Do you not know who this is?” Areobindus bristled like a peacock but stopped at my hand on his arm.

  “Open the gate for the Empress,” I said. “Now.”

  “Augusta?” the guard sputtered. “But you should be in Hieron—it’s not safe here.”

  “Yet I’m already here.” I tried to keep my voice level. “Open the gate.”

  There was scrambling from the other side, and a few moments later the massive hinges groaned and the thick bronze doors crept open. The guard bowed as I entered, one hand over his heaving chest—he was probably hoping I wouldn’t impale him—and the other clutching a posy of herbs to his nose. His face still bore the pocks of youth, yet he appeared to be the lone guard on duty. Heaven help us if the Empire was threatened now.

  “My apologies, Augusta.”

  I passed under the dome of the Chalke, watched by glittering eyes from the mosaic I’d ordered to commemorate Belisarius’ campaign in Rome. It depicted the Senate, Belisarius, Justinian, and me, all celebrating victory over the Gothic and Vandal kings. Lifetimes ago.

  I scanned the courtyard, its fountains barren and walkways empty. A stack of bodies filled one corner, arms and legs splayed among heads and torsos. A fly landed on my arm, and I slapped it without thinking. Its iridescent wings came away on my palm. I shuddered, not wanting to think of what it had touched before me. Justinian’s massive balcony loomed at the far end of the courtyard, and I waited a moment, half hoping to see him emerge. “Where is the Emperor this hour?”

  The guard snapped to attention. “In his apartments.”

  “At least he’s not still out in the streets.”

  The guard stared straight ahead. “The Emperor did take to the streets to rally the people, but that was before he fell ill.”

  No. Not Justinian. His empty balcony mocked me now.

  I might be too late, too late to apologize, to tell Justinian the truth. Too late to tell him how much I loved him.

  My sandals slapped over the cobbles as I ran. Slaves huddled in doorways reached out as I passed, but I vaulted the stairs two at a time. Weary guards slouched outside Justinian’s chambers while a flock of black-robed patricians rustled at my approach. Carrion crows, all of them. I forced myself to slow and keep my head high as I passed, but one barred my way at the doors.

  “Augusta,” he said. “You cannot go in there. The Emperor—”

  I held up my hand to stop him. “I am well aware of the situation.”

  “You would expose your most sacred person to the bad air within.” A physician crossed his arms in front of him. “We cannot allow that.”

  “Get out of my way before I permanently relocate you below the palace.”

  The physician blanched and removed his cap to wipe the few hairs on his head. “As you wish, Augusta.” He pressed a fresh sachet of herbs into my palm. “Take this.”

  I breathed in the now-familiar tang of rosemary and vervain, my hand on the door as blood pounded in my ears. “Is he very bad?”

  The physician had the decency to look me in the eye. “A saint has already said his last rites. I think he’s been waiting for you.”

  I managed to keep the tears at bay until I was inside. An Emperor’s death chamber was usually crowded with witnesses, but Justinian’s bed curtains were drawn and the room was dark save for a fire in the brazier. A portly physician stood sentinel at the bedside.

  My husband lay in the same wide bed as his uncle when he’d lost his battle with death, but Emperor Justin had been an old man with his wife and family waiting to greet him on the other side. Justinian wasn’t yet sixty. I needed him here.

  I drew a curtain but let it drop with a gasp as the shaft of light fell on Justinian. His face wore the waxy mask of death, but the skin on his neck was a violent shade of red, an angry black bubo under his right ear.

  “There is another on his leg,” the physician said.

  “Holy Mother,” I moaned. “Help him. For the love of God, help him.”

  I put my hand on Justinian’s forehead and was shocked to feel the fire of Hephaestus’ furnace under his skin. His fingers looked charred, black as if covered in soot.

  “Bring me hot water.” I wiped my forehead and banked the fire. “And linens.”

  The physician cleared his throat. “Water transmits the sickness, Augusta.”

  “My husband is already ill.”

  “The Emperor’s life is in God’s hands. There is nothing more to do but pray.”

  God helps the helpless.

  I recalled Severus’ advice from long ago. Justinian was certainly helpless now, but I wasn’t. I would save my husband or die trying.

  I pushed my sleeves to my elbows. If the physician wouldn’t fetch the water, I’d get it myself. “You are dismissed.”

  “You should remove yourself from the palace. The Empire shall need someone near the throne in case—”

  That didn’t bear thinking about.

  “Get out. I’ll care for him myself.”

  The physician opened his mouth several times, then sputtered and stormed off. I was alone, and I had no idea what to do. Justinian couldn’t die; I wouldn’t allow it.

  Areobindus stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “What can I do?”

  I drew a ragged breath. “I need hot water. And willow bark and a set of heavy needles. Bronze, not ivory.”

  “Needles?”

  “To lance his buboes.”

  My son grimaced, a look I probably reflected back at him, but he hurried off. I fell to my knees and prayed to the Virgin not to take Justinian before I had the chance to make things right. To tell him how much his love had meant to me.

  I lost track of time. Day turned to night and night to an eternity of darkness. My hands shook as I lanced the bubo on Justinian’s neck, but he screamed in his unconsciousness, the cry of a dying animal so heart wrenching I couldn’t bring myself to touch the blain on his leg.

  “I’m sorry,” I cried through my tears. “For everything.”

  I washed Justinian’s fevered limbs, massaged his blackened hands, and begged him to fight for his life. Unconscious, he still managed to vomit, his frail body racked with convulsions, but I bathed him and cleaned his sheets. Areobindus always hovered nearby, and for that I was thankful.

  Justinian woke once, eyes wide and skin burning as he kicked off the damp sheets. An incoherent stream of garbled Latin flowed from his lips. Then he closed his eyes and was still. I feared that might be the last time I’d see his eyes, their mosaic of cinnamon flecked with gold.

  I awoke disoriented to a gentle tap on my shoulder, asleep in my chair with my head on Justinian’s mattress. I straightened slowly and winced at the crick in my neck. Justinian’s illness would rob me of my youth, but I would gladly barter that and more for his life.
<
br />   I expected Areobindus, but Narses hovered over me instead. His face glowed white as a skull. I grasped Justinian’s hand, dreading the cold I might find having settled in his skin, but his fingers felt like the flames of Gehenna. I exhaled, feeling the stench and filth of the room on my skin and in my mouth.

  I wiped my brow and sat back in my chair. “News from Cyzicus?”

  He shook his head. “The Cappadocian has disappeared, but I’ll find him.” He scanned Justinian’s prone form. The Emperor who never slept lay like a man in his coffin. “How is he?”

  “Unchanged,” I said. The bubo on Justinian’s thigh was the size of my fist now, the skin around it peeling away like an asp shedding its skin. I would know by next sunset whether I would emerge from this chamber dressed in purple or swathed in black. I doubted whether I possessed the strength to survive Justinian’s passing.

  “The generals of the realm are taking measures to secure the throne,” Narses said. “Amongst themselves, of course.”

  “What if he recovers?”

  “Justinian hasn’t named an heir. The generals have taken it upon themselves to choose his successor for him.”

  My husband struggled for his life while his men plotted to steal his throne. A forgotten emotion, rage, pushed through my grief and terror.

  “They’ve chosen Belisarius, haven’t they?”

  “They’ve done everything short of crowning him and draping him in purple.”

  “Justinian isn’t dead yet.” I slammed my fist into the arm of my chair and felt the impact echo up my bones. “This is treason!”

  I’d always known Belisarius couldn’t be trusted. The general despised me and was unlikely simply to exile me after his humiliation. I could claim sanctuary and become a nun, but the discovery of my living son, a possible heir for Justinian, would prove a huge obstacle in Belisarius’ path to the throne. I could remarry and put a man of my own choosing on the throne, but the very idea repulsed me. If Justinian died, I would join him before Belisarius could reenter the city.

  There was no reason to surrender now, not with the fight yet to come.

  “The Emperor might still survive,” Narses said, but he didn’t believe the lie any more than I did. Only a miracle saved a soul from plague, and Justinian had already been granted more than his share of miracles.

  “And if he does, we must be ready to punish the traitor.” I paced the room. “I may have heard a rumor that Belisarius claimed he’d never accept another despot like Justinian as Emperor.” Words were powerful weapons, ones that could be twisted to suit my own needs.

  Narses’ lips curled back in a smile stolen from the devil. “Indeed. It’s difficult to tell precisely what was said from such a distance.”

  “Such treason demands Belisarius be invited back to Constantinople.”

  “He will refuse. The fighting has stopped as the officers try to keep the men isolated to avoid the plague. They cannot even receive supplies—there are reports of men eating their horses.”

  “He will come if he thinks Justinian is already dead.”

  “And if the Emperor doesn’t survive?”

  I would forgive Narses’ treason as the same question filled my mind. I shrugged. “Then we will have invited him to the capital to seize the throne.”

  Although I didn’t plan to be around if it came to that.

  …

  I didn’t have to wait long to learn Belisarius’ mind on the subject. Had his letter been from anyone else, I might have burned it for fear of contagion. I wished after I read it that I had.

  Theodora,

  It is with great sorrow that I heard of Justinian’s illness and with a heavy heart that I assume the mantle he leaves behind. You are his widow and as such, I cannot allow you to continue your rule. I offer you two options. First, you may take orders and live cloistered among the women of God for the remainder of your life. Second, you may choose to join your husband.

  I trust you will have made your decision by the time I’ve reached the Golden Gate.

  —Belisarius, General of the East and the West

  The Empire held its breath as the fields lay fallow and the markets empty. I ordered invocations as the final black sores on Justinian’s body burst, weeping their putrid contents as my eyes burned with hot tears and my husband moaned in merciful unconsciousness.

  I washed his blains of their blood and pus, and bathed his shrunken body, dressing the blisters with compresses of lavender and chamomile, the scent of spring in a deathbed. The herbs helped with minor kitchen burns and scarring, but Justinian’s skin appeared as if he’d emerged from an inferno. Yet I didn’t know what else to do.

  I crawled into bed next to Justinian, tucked myself into his fiery heat, and held him tight. Whether he woke or not, he would not be alone.

  My body shook, and I wept hot tears for the man I was about to lose, for the lost days I could have spent in his arms instead of in my cold bed in Hieron. I’d have done anything at that moment to take his place.

  I meant to stay awake, but exhaustion pulled me into the abyss of sleep. When I woke, the sun’s golden glow warmed the cracks in the shutters. I was nestled next to Justinian with my head still on his chest. His skin was cool for the first time in days.

  I scrambled to feel for his breath, but his fingers were woven into my hair. He looked at me with bloodshot eyes sunken deep in their sockets.

  Open. His eyes were open.

  “Thanks be to God,” I cried out in relief. My hand lingered on his clammy brow as I kissed his cheeks. “If you ever scare me like that again, I will murder you myself.”

  Justinian winced as he tried to sit up. “It feels like you already did.” His voice creaked like an ancient hinge.

  I moved to rise, but he grasped my arm. “Stay. Please.”

  I did as I was told, sending prayers to the Virgin to thank her for her mercy. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks to catch like diamonds in the dark hair lightly scattered on Justinian’s chest.

  “I’d have fallen ill months ago if I’d known this was what it would take to bring you home,” Justinian whispered.

  I mock-punched his side but burrowed closer to him, filling my lungs with the scent of lavender. And life.

  “You didn’t fall ill?” he asked.

  “The devil protects his own.”

  “That explains why I’m still alive.” He winced and his lips tightened. “How many dead?”

  I thought to lie, but he’d soon learn the truth. “Some say ten thousand a day. It’s too early to tell.”

  He gave a mangled exhale and squeezed his eyes shut. I’d have to spoon-feed Justinian bits of information over the next few days. There was so much to tell.

  Belisarius. Areobindus.

  We lay together as the light gained strength. I was loath to announce the miracle of his recovery and share him with the Empire, but finally I had to rise—Justinian wanted water, and his bandages needed changing.

  Areobindus startled when I opened the door, the late sunlight from Justinian’s windows streaming into the hall. He glanced to the imperial bed and then back to me, hand raised to cross himself. “The Emperor?”

  “Has recovered through the grace of God.” The words felt like a glorious hymn. “The city needs to know of the miracle.”

  Precious few recovered from plague, but God’s anointed Emperor would survive. It wasn’t the devil that protected him, no matter what Justinian claimed.

  I found a boiling pot of fish broth in the kitchen and fixed a tray with two bowls. Almost half the kitchen slaves had perished during the time I’d been cloistered in Justinian’s sickroom, as had much of the palace, courtiers and slaves alike. I hadn’t the heart to verify the claim that the pile of bodies in the courtyard now reached the height of the palace walls.

  A trickle of broth slipped from the corner of Justinian’s lips into the beard that now covered his jaw as Narses and Areobindus were announced. Cyr wove his way through my son’s legs—the dog had grown since I�
��d seen him last. I wiped my husband’s chin and gave them a look of warning.

  “Narses.” Justinian inclined his head. “And who is this?”

  “Areobindus,” I said. “My steward.”

  “I see.” Justinian’s tone was suddenly frigid.

  “Augustus.” Narses gave a deep bow. “The Queen of Cities gives thanks for your recovery.”

  “What is the state of the Empire?”

  Not even a brush with death would coerce my husband to rest. I took away the soup and mixed his wine and water with my back turned, adding a healthy dose of valerian. I’d tie him to his bed if I had to.

  “The fields are deserted. It’s estimated the plague claimed half the population of the Empire,” Narses said. “There are reports of sickness from Alexandria to Persia.”

  Justinian perked up at the mention of Persia, but he glowered in the direction of my son as he sipped his wine. “So the fire-eaters must face this as well.”

  “The war is at a standstill,” Narses said. “General Belisarius has been recalled to the capital.”

  “Recalled? Why?” Justinian looked to Narses, but I gave a minute shake of my head. Word of Belisarius’ treachery might kill him.

  “He wished to see to the well-being of his family,” Narses continued smoothly. “Plague has been reported at his villa in Rufinianae.”

  “No.” My hand fluttered to my mouth. “Antonina and her daughter? Are they stricken?”

  “I have not heard of Belisarius’ wife or child, Augusta.”

  “Find out. Please.”

  Narses’ lip curled—he’d probably consider the plague a fair exchange if it claimed Antonina—but gave a terse nod and bowed again. His eyes crinkled with a smile for Justinian. “It is good to see you well, Augustus.”

  He backed from the room as Areobindus bowed to me. “Is there anything else I can bring you, Augusta?”

  Justinian shoved his goblet to my chest so fast his wine splashed onto my lap. I wiped the front of my stola with a frown, but I might be surly, too, if I’d almost died of plague. The valerian should soon hasten him to sleep.