"How do you get off this foul beast?" hissed the Empress.
"Allow me, Your Majesty," said Maurice. The hecatontarch came forward with a stool in his hand. He quieted the horse with a firm hand and a few gentle words. Then, after placing the stool, assisted the Empress in clambering down to safety.
Once on the ground, Theodora brushed herself off angrily.
"Gods—what a stink! Not you, Maurice. The filthy horse." The Empress glowered at her former mount. "They eat these things during sieges, I've heard."
Maurice nodded.
"Well, that's something to look forward to," she muttered.
Antonina took her by the arm and began leading the Empress into the villa. As she limped along, Theodora snarled:
"Not that there'll be many sieges in this coming war, the way things are going."
Antonina hesitated, then asked:
"That bad?"
"Worse," growled the Empress. "I tell you, Antonina, it shakes my faith sometimes, to think that man is created in God's image. Is it possible that the Almighty is actually a cretin? The evidence of his handiwork would suggest as much."
Antonina sighed.
"I take it Justinian is not listening to your warnings?"
Growl. "In His image, no less. A huge Justinian in the sky."
Growl. "Think of a gigantic babbling idiot."
Growl. "Creation was His drool."
Later, after a lavish meal, Theodora's spirits improved.
She lifted her wine cup in salutation.
"I congratulate you, Maurice," she said. "You have succeeded in bringing the provincial tractator to the brink of death. By apoplexy."
Maurice grunted. "Still peeved, is he, about the taxes?"
"He complained to me for hours, from the moment I got off the ship. This large estate represents quite a bit for him in the way of lost income, you know. Mostly, though, he's agitated about the tax collectors."
Maurice said nothing beyond a noncommittal: "Your Majesty."
Smiling, the Empress shook her head.
"You really shouldn't have beaten them quite so badly. They were only doing their job, after all."
"They were not!" snapped Antonina. "This estate is legally exempt from the general indiction, and they know it perfectly well!"
"So it is," agreed Cassian. "Res privata, technically. Part of—"
Theodora waved him down.
"Please, Bishop! Since when has a provincial tractator cared about the picayune details of an estate's legal tax status? Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Let them complain to Constantinople. By the time the bureaucrats get around to ruling on the matter, everyone'll be dead of old age anyhow."
Maurice nodded sagely. "Quite nicely put, Your Majesty. Those are indeed the usual tactics of tractators."
He took a sip of his wine. "Excellent tactics. Provided you pick the right sponge."
Theodora shook her head. "Which does not, I assume, include an estate inhabited by several hundred Thracian cataphracts?"
Maurice cleared his throat. "Actually, Your Majesty—no. I would recommend against it. Especially when those cataphracts have secrets to keep hidden from the prying eyes of tax collectors."
Theodora now beamed upon the Bishop. Again, she raised her cup in salutation.
"And a toast to you as well, Anthony Cassian! I do not believe any Bishop in the history of the Church has ever before actually caused a Patriarch to foam at the mouth while describing him."
Cassian smiled beatifically. "I'm sure you're exaggerating, Your Majesty. Patriarch Ephraim is a most dignified individual." Then, slyly: "Did he really?"
Theodora nodded. Cassian's expression became smug. "Well, that certainly places me in august company. It's not actually true, you know. That I'd be the first. The great John Chrysostom caused any number of Patriarchs to foam at the mouth."
Antonina smiled at the exchange. Until she remembered the fate of John Chrysostom. Around the table, as others remembered also, the smiles faded like candles extinguished at the end of evening.
"Yes," said the Empress of Rome. "Dark night is falling on us. May we live to see the morning."
Theodora set down her cup, still almost full.
"I've had enough," she said. "I suggest you all go lightly on the wine. We've a long night ahead of us."
For all its politeness, the suggestion was an imperial command. All wine cups clinked on the table, almost in unison. Almost—Sittas took the time to hastily drain his cup before setting it down.
"Justinian will not listen to me," began the Empress. "I might as well be talking to a stone wall." Growl. "I'd rather talk to a stone wall. At least a stone wall wouldn't pat me on the head and say it's taking my words under advisement."