The Dance of Time

By the time he was done, Antonina was looking cross-eyed. But since they'd just entered their bedroom, she was also looking cross-eyed at the bed.

'I hope you haven't forgotten everything.'

'Well. Not that.'

An emperor and his queries

The next morning, it was his son Photius who was complaining.

'Theodora's going to have a fit, when we get back. She always appoints my bodyguards. Well, not Julian and his men. But they're real bodyguards. Not, you know, fancy imperial appointments.'

'Stop squirming,' his wife hissed at him. 'People are coming in. The audience is about to begin.'

'I hate these stupid imperial robes,' Photius muttered. 'You know that.'

'I hate mine, too,' Tahmina whispered in return. 'So what? It's part of the job. And so what if Theodora has a fit? It won't be worse than a Sour Beta.'

'You're crazy.'

'Am not. First, because Justinian's coming back with us on the same ship, and however much she shrieks and hollers she actually does love the man. God knows why, but she does.'

'Well, that's true.' Since the audience room was now filling up, Photius lowered his voice still further. 'What're the other reasons?'

'Belisarius and Antonina are coming back too, all at the same time. She'll be too busy hollering at Belisarius and trying to stay on Antonina's good side at the same time to worry much about what you've done.'

'Well, okay. But that only knocks it down to a Sour Gamma, at best. How do you figure Beta?'

'Because-'

But she had to break off. A Roman courtier was stepping forward. The official audience was about to begin.

Photius forgot about his complaints, then, because he was too busy worrying about remembering the lines he was supposed to speak, when the time came.

Especially because it didn't come very quickly. Roman courtiers giving speeches extolling the virtues of emperors were almost as long-winded as Persian ones. Even more long-winded than Indian ones, if you subtracted all the silly parts about divinity that nobody listened to anyway.

But, eventually, he got to the point.

'— first time by the emperor himself to the ranks of the imperial bodyguards. A body whose august members, in times past, have included the great general Belisarius himself.'

Photius took a gleeful satisfaction in being able to start his speech by correcting the courtier. It was the first time he'd ever done that, too.

'This is not an appointment,' he said forcefully. 'I can't do that here. It's a request, not a command.'

Alas, in his glee, he'd forgotten the rest of his speech. He fumbled, for a moment, and then decided to continue on with the same course.

Call it free will. He was the emperor, wasn't he?

So he just looked at the son of Rana Sanga, standing by his father's side, and said: 'I'd like it very much if Rajiv would accept the offer. It is, in fact, very prestigious. Although it does mean that Rajiv would have to accompany us back to Constantinople. And, well, probably stay there for some years.'

Since he'd veered wildly off the planned course, anyway, he decided to end with a note that might seem lame, from one angle, but wasn't lame at all from the angle he looked at things.

'And it would be really nice for me, to have an imperial bodyguard who was my own age. Well, pretty close.'

The courtier had turned an interesting color. Photius thought it was the one called 'puce.' He'd have to ask his wife later. She knew about that stuff. She knew about most stuff, in fact.

Rajiv, on the other hand, just looked solemn. He stared at Photius, for a moment; then, at his father. Then, at a Roman soldier standing off to the side.

'Ask him,' Sanga said, quietly but firmly.

Valentinian didn't wait for the question. 'Do it, boy. The experience will be good for you. Besides, every one of Photius' bodyguards-the real ones, I'm talking about, my sort of men-like him. He's a nice kid. Especially for an emperor.'

The courtier's color got even more interesting. Sort of a cross between liver and old grapes. Photius wondered if he might have died, standing on his feet.

No, he couldn't have. He was still quivering.

Pretty badly, in fact.

Fortunately-or maybe not, depending on how you looked at it-the courtier seemed to start recovering after Rajiv accepted. By the time the audience ended, his color had returned to that first weird shade.

'Is that 'puce'?' Photius whispered.

'No. 'Puce' is when he looked like he was dead. This is magenta.'

'You're so smart. I love you.'

As soon as they entered their private chambers, after the audience, Tahmina turned to him. 'That's the first time you've ever said that.'

'No, it isn't.'

'Yes, it is. That way.'

'Oh. Well. I'm getting older.'

She sat down on a divan, sighing. 'Yes, you are. Awfully fast, actually, when I look at it cold-bloodedly. Which I never do, any more.'

'Maybe that's because you're getting older, too.'

She smiled, almost as crookedly as Belisarius might. 'My dear husband. The difference between 'puce' and 'magenta' is absolutely nothing, compared to the difference between 'getting older' and 'can't wait.' '

Photius thought he was probably a pretty interesting color himself, then.

His father walked in, that very moment. After looking back and forth between the two of them, Belisarius said: 'Why are you bright pink? And why are you smiling like that?'

Tahmina gave no answer. Her smile just got more crooked.

Photius, rallying, said: 'I did what you asked me to, Father. About Rajiv, I mean. Is there something else I can do?'

Belisarius seemed to get sad, for just an instant. But then, he rallied too, and the smile that came to his face made it clear that Tahmina still had a long way to go when it came to 'crooked.'

'Yes, as a matter of fact. As soon as you can manage it, I'd like a lot of grandchildren.'

'Oh.'

'That's called 'scarlet,' ' Tahmina said, to Photius.

To Belisarius, she said: 'Consider it done.'

An empress and her distractions

Tahmina proved to be quite right. After they finally returned to Constantinople, whatever empress regent fury might have fallen on Photius for his presumptuous appointment was almost completely deflected. Photius and Tahmina never had to suffer worse than a Sour Beta. Maybe even Sour Alpha.

First, as Tahmina had foreseen, by Theodora's joy at being reunited with her husband.