"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."

Eugenia lowered her eyes, chastened and worried. "Theodora never made any excuses for herself."

"That was Theodora," Antonina said bitterly. "Theodora was not like her husband in many ways. She was not shamed by her past and she appreciated her rise and the favor she attained." She turned too quickly and knocked over the wine cup that stood at her elbow.

"I'll summon a slave," Eugenia said, dabbing ineffectively at it with the edge of her rosy-beige paenula.