In the Heart of Darkness

For another, the vengeful glee of the common folk was beginning to abate. Second thoughts were creeping in, especially as those people sat in their little apartments in the evening, enjoying the company of their families. Reservations, doubts, hesitations-as fathers began wondering about the future, and mothers worried over their children.

The death of arrogant lordlings was a thing to be treasured, true. But, at bottom, none of Constantinople's commoners thought Death was truly a friend. They were far too familiar with the creature.

No, better to go and enjoy Antonina's parades. There was nothing, there, to frighten a child. Nothing, to worry a mother or bring a frown to a father's face. There was only-

Triumph, in the victory of humble people.

Enjoyment, in the constant and casual conversations with those simple grenadiers, and their wives. And their children, for those of an age-who gazed upon those lads and lasses with an adulation rarely bestowed upon rustics by cosmopolitan street urchins. But those were the children of grenadiers-a status greatly to be envied.

And, most of all, a feeling of safety. Safety, in the presence of-her.

She-the closest friend of the Empress. Whom all knew, or soon learned, was striving to hold back the imperial madness.

She-who smote the treason of the mighty.

She-who was of their own kind.

She-who was the wife of Belisarius. Rome's greatest general, in this time of war. And Rome's sanest voice, in this time of madness.

Belisarius had already been a name of legend, among those people. Now, the legend grew, and grew. His legend, of course. But also, alongside it-swelling it and being swollen by it-the legend of Antonina.

'The whore,' she had often been called, by Rome's upper crust.

The populace of Constantinople had heard the name, in times past. Had wondered. Now, knowing, they rejected it completely.

'The wife,' they called her; or, more often, 'the great wife.'

Her legend had begun with the words of a famous holy man, spoken in distant Syria. The grenadiers passed on his words to the people of Constantinople. The legend had expanded in a kitchen, here in the city itself. The grenadiers and the cataphracts told the tale.

Soon enough, that pastry shop became a popular shrine in its own right. The shopkeeper grew rich, from the business, and was able to retire at an early age; but, an avaricious man, he complained to his dying day that he had been cheated out of his cleaver.

The legend grew, and swelled. Then, five days after the crushing of the insurrection, Michael of Macedonia arrived in Constantinople. Immediately, he took up residence in the Forum of Constantine and began preaching. Preaching and sermonizing, from dawn to dusk. Instantly, those sermons became the most popular events in the city. The crowds filled the Forum and spilled along the Mese.

He preached of many things, Michael did.

Some of his words caused the city's high churchmen to gnash their teeth. But they gnashed them in private, and never thought to call a council. They were too terrified to venture out of their hiding places.

But, for the most part, Michael did not denounce and excoriate. Rather, he praised and exhorted.

The legend of Antonina now erupted through the city. So did the legend of Belisarius. And so, in its own way, did the legend of Theodora.

By the end of the week, the overwhelming majority of Constantinople's simple citizens had drawn their simple conclusions.

All hope rested in the hands of Belisarius and his wife. Please, Lord in Heaven, help them restore the Empress to her sanity.

The great city held its breath.

An Empress and Her Tears

The Empress and her general gazed at each other in silence, until the servants placed a chair and withdrew.

'Sit, general,' she commanded. 'We are in a crisis. With Justinian blinded, the succession to the throne is-'

'We are not in a crisis, Your Majesty,' stated Belisarius firmly. 'We simply have a problem to solve.'

Theodora stared at him. At first, with disbelief and suspicion. Then, with a dawning hope.

'I swore an oath,' said Belisarius.

Sudden tears came to the Empress' eyes.

Not many, those tears. Not many at all. But, for Belisarius, they were enough.

He watched his Empress turn away from Hell, and close its gate behind her. And, for the first time in days, stopped holding his own breath.

'A problem to solve,' he repeated, softly. 'No more than that. You are good at solving problems, Empress.'

Theodora smiled wanly.

'Yes, I am. And so are you, Belisarius.'

The general smiled his crooked smile. 'That's true. Now that you mention it.'

Theodora's own smile widened. 'Pity the poor Malwa,' she murmured.

'Better yet,' countered Belisarius, 'let us pity them not at all.'

A Man and His Purpose

In the cabin of a ship, another Empress argued with a slave.

'We will arrive in Muziris tomorrow. You must now decide. I need you, Dadaji. Much more than he does.'

'That may be true, Your Majesty.' The slave shrugged. 'The fact remains, he is my legal master.'

Shakuntala chopped her hand. 'Malwa law. You were bought in Bharakuccha.'

Again, Holkar shrugged. 'And so? The sale is legally binding anywhere in the world. Certainly in the Roman Empire. Malwa India has not, after all, been declared an outlaw state.'

The Empress glared. The slave held up a hand, trying to mollify her.

'I am not quibbling over the fine points of law, Your Majesty. The truth is, even if the Malwa Empire were to be declared outlaw'-he chuckled-'although I'm not sure who would be powerful enough to do so! — I would still feel bound to my obligation.'

He took a deep breath. 'I owe my life to the general, Empress. I was a dead man, when he found me. Still walking-still even talking, now and then-but dead for all that. He breathed life back into my soul. Purpose.'

Shakuntala finally saw her opening.

'What purpose?' she demanded. 'The destruction of Malwa, isn't it?'

Dadaji leaned back. He and the Empress were seated, facing each other three feet apart, each on cushions, each in the lotus position. He eyed her suspiciously.

'Yes. That. One other.'

Shakuntala nodded vigorously, pressing the advantage.

'You can serve that purpose better as my imperial adviser than you can as his slave,' she stated. 'Much better.'

Holkar stroked his beard. The gesture, in its own way, illustrated his quandary.

As a slave, he had been forced to shave his respectable beard. That beard, and the middle-aged dignity which went with it, had been restored by Belisarius. It was a symbol of all that he owed the general.

Yet, at the same time-it was a badge of his dignity. Full, now; rich with the gray hairs of experience and wisdom. Foolish, really, to waste the beard and all it signified on the life of a slave. A slave who, as Shakuntala rightly said, was no longer of great use to his master.