The Palatine, Roma Mater
"Everything is ruined," Martina wailed, her voice and image distorted in the fiery disk of the telecast. "The fleet is destroyed and old Andrades is dead! Everyone blames me for this, I can tell! I can see them, scheming and talking about me!"
Helena frowned in distaste, watching the girl's face grow streaked with tears. She had been in her solarium, detailing the latest scandal among the Vestals, when a runner had come from the "viewing room" upstairs. Generally, the telecast lay unused during the day, as experience had shown the device more reliable by night. The Emperor was out of the city, viewing the dredging work under way in the great hexagonal harbor of Portus at the mouth of the Tiber. The thaumaturge on duty, a large overdressed German named Gart, had dithered about for an hour before sending for her. Helena glanced sideways at him, viewing the side of his head-all sweaty under his red beard-with mild nausea.
"Dear, you must calm yourself." Helena stifled a sigh and pinched her nose. "Weeping and blubbering will gain you nothing in this business. Look, you've already ruined your eye powders. Martina!" She raised her voice and the Eastern Empress looked up, wiping her button nose. "One of the rules of being empress," Helena said sternly, "is that you do not cry, whimper or generally act like a spoilt child denied a sweet. Certainly not in public! That includes the young man there, who does such good and loyal service."
The image in the burning disk was poor and streaked with shuddering lines of blue and white, but Helena could see the Eastern Empress turn, staring at the portly young priest who was maintaining-with considerable effort-the operation of the mechanism. Some of the Western thaumaturges thought the influence of the sun was in opposition to the motive elements inherent in the disk. Martina turned back, obviously trying to muster herself.
"But things are impossible now! I've been placed under close watch by the Faithful; even Rufio is distant and cold. No one will listen to me at all-everyone knows I sent the fleet out to stop these bandits! It's not my fault they defeated that smelly old man!"
"Martina! You will stop whining." Helena's voice cut into the girl's tirade. "Tell me this; has any of the fleet returned?"
"Yes," Martina sniffled, blotting her nose again. "Some. Everyone says that most of the ships were destroyed or captured by the bandits."
Helena nodded. "I do not think," she said in an acerbic tone, "that these people are bandits anymore. I think they are a nation. But, be that as it may, tell me-where is the Imperial army?"
"I don't know!" Martina managed to stop crying. It was a small improvement, but it made Helena feel much better. Dealing with her colicky son and his noise was enough for her without some spoilt princess as well. "No one talks to me about those things. Rufio, he might know… but I can't even see him anymore."
"Can you send him a message? Do you know any of the generals personally?"
"No," Martina muttered, looking at the floor. "I didn't like them. I just saw them at court or when we had a party or something."
Helena restrained her tongue, though she longed to verbally disembowel this child-queen. Memory held her back, for she had felt the same when she became empress. Luckily, the egotistical lady from the provinces had found a mentor in the city. Anastasia had been waiting for the new empress on her first day, even before Galen had received the Purple and the acclamation of the Senate. The Duchess, impeccably dressed as ever, had taken her aside and begun to teach her about being an empress. This child had not learned those lessons yet. Helena was disappointed-only a few weeks before, Martina had been maturing to meet the challenge. Now, given this reverse, she had lost confidence in herself.
"Do you," Helena bit out, "know their wives?"
Martina hung her head low and then shook it no.
Helena sighed in disappointment. "They've not sought you out? Looking for favors or your husband's ear?"
"Oh yes." Martina brightened. "They are always about, snooping for crumbs. But I don't know any of them. They're not… friends or anything."
"Crumbs are good enough," Helena said, considering what to do with this girl. Emperor Heraclius was bedridden, an invalid, his brother, Theodore, disgraced, the Empress isolated by her unwise marriage, the Faithful distrusted by the Legion commanders… who did that leave? "Martina, are there any of the ministers or high priests who will speak to you?"
"No," Martina moaned, looking like she was going to cry again. "The temples have turned their backs on us. Only the priests of the Asklepius wanted to help my husband, but he sent them away. The ministers-they're afraid of me-or… wait. There are two that would talk to me, I think. But only one of them could help… maybe."
"Who are they?"
Martina shuddered slightly, clasping her arms over her chest. The movement pushed her breasts up in the low-cut palla. The image in the telecast suddenly flickered and went out, leaving a vision of swirling green fire. Helena sighed, then sat back in the cane chair positioned before the ancient bronze mechanism. The boy-priest Alexos was very easily distracted. Even through the poor image of the telecast, it was clear the priest was helping the Empress due to a bad case of puppy love. His masters, in fact, would probably be very angry if they knew the boy was allowing the Empress to spy on them.
"Gart, who made this device?" Helena pointed at the slowly rotating sphere. It had reverted to an image of the world as seen from on high. White clouds covered most of the Western Empire. If one watched long enough, one could see them move. "Is it Egyptian?"
The big sorcerer shook his head.
"No, Empress. It was found in Hispania, though the signs and symbols incised in the bronze are reminiscent of Egyptian glyphs. There has been some discussion, amongst our order, as to its antecedents. Most of us believe it is an artifact from before the Drowning."
"Really?" Helena sat up, straightening her back. Sitting in this chair for hours gave her aches and pains. She would have to visit the baths afterwards and have one of the masseurs restore the proper humors. "Can anyone read the signs?"
"No." Gart sighed, an oddly feminine sound to come from such a large man. "It is beyond our art. We can ken the basic use of the device, we can make it perform some feats, but understand it? Read the lines of symbols? I cannot. Perhaps they cannot be read at all."
Helena coughed politely. The thaumaturge sounded just like the old men in the ludi historiae who bickered about the ruins along the Nile or the strange, unnamed tombs in the hills of Etruria. When one of the historians said, "It cannot be known," it meant "I haven't a clue." All scholars were loath to admit ignorance. The Empress found it amusing. Her correspondence showed nothing clearer than men barely knew what was going on in their own homes, much less the world at large. "Gart, we have one of these useful devices here. The Eastern Emperor owns one. Are there more?"
The German nodded, his red beard bouncing on his fat chest. "When the device is woken from sleep there is a moment when I feel it reaching out, attempting to find its brothers. All these devices were made by one hand at one time. They were forged from the same metal, drawn from the same ore. This is an old technique-the same craftsman incised the runes and smoothed the edges of the metal with the same motions. In this way, they are very close to being the same device in the hidden world. They yearn for each other."
Helena raised an eyebrow at the fat German's poetic interpretation. However, she was not a thaumaturge, so perhaps his description was accurate. "How many are there?"
Gart raised a finger, saying, "This cannot be known with surety, but I believe besides this one and its brother in Constantinople, there are five more. If you press me, I could not say why, but I believe it is so."
"Interesting," Helena mused, but she turned back to the spinning world. A rising hum was beginning to emanate from the telecast. "They are trying again?"
"Yes," Gart hissed, attention focused on the burning sphere. "Here!"
Martina, her hair half in front of her face, wavered into view. Again, Helena could see the dim chamber in the distant city and the sweating, pale face of Alexos off to one side. His cheek was bright red, showing the outline of a small, furious hand.
"Empress!" Helena barked and Martina's eyes widened at the tone. "Do not strike the man who aids you! If you do so again, I will neither speak to you nor help you. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," Martina said, blushing. "I'm sorry."
"Don't say it to me," Helena growled. "Say it to him." She jabbed a carefully manicured finger at Alexos. "And stop distracting him with those flimsy tight gowns. Wear something elegant and refined, suitable for an empress, not a Persian harem girl."
Martina scowled, jutting her round chin out. "I can wear what I want," she said defiantly. "At least people look at me when I dress this way. I hate being ignored! Some of the men like it-is that so bad?"
"It is," Helena said, taking control of her temper. "An empress does not care if she is loved by her people, only if they fear her. Would you want your uncle Theodore to look at you with desire?"
Martina flinched. A moment of violent emotion passed in her eyes, though her face itself remained frozen. Helena's carefully plucked eyebrows narrowed in concern. Raw hatred leaked out of the Eastern Empress for a moment, but then it was gone.
"No," Martina said, her voice cold. "I understand what you mean."
"Good," Helena said gently. "Tell me-each thematic governor must send regular dispatches to the capital, yes? Who receives those reports? Is there anyone who acts upon them?"
Martina nodded, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes. She seemed very tired.
"There are reports-they are delivered to the logothete of the notitia, who collates them and produces a summary for the Emperor and his council. With my husband in seclusion, these summaries and the letters were being left in the office, where I could read them and respond. Unfortunately, since the ministers have found me out, I do not know who reads them now. Certainly none of these fumblekins has the wit to act on his own."
Helena tapped the back of one almond-shaped nail against her lips. "The destruction of the fleet leaves your enemy with many options. He can now strike all along the Asian coast or even against Greece. No city or province is safe until the enemy is driven from the sea. Listen, Martina, you said that there are two ministers or officials who will listen to you. Who are they?"
"One is Nidus, the logothete of the tombs." Martina's voice revealed a clammy terror at the thought of the man. "The other is really no one, just the master of the kitchens. He's a funny little gray man, but he doesn't seem to care that I married my uncle."
"Martina-you need any kind of ally now, so do not dismiss even the cooks. This Nidus, now, you've told me before that the other ministers fear him. Will they listen to him if he orders them to do something?"
"I don't know." Martina frowned, which did not improve her looks. Helena suspected the girl had been spending far too much time mewed up in the damp, underground room housing the telecast. Her complexion was suffering. "I don't believe that he's ever ordered anyone to do anything! But they will listen to him."
"That is enough." Helena glanced sideways and saw that Gart was tiring. It was taxing work to hold the two devices in communication. "Quickly now-you must change your dress. Look as Imperial as possible at all times! Seek out Nidus and press him to call regular meetings of the ministers. Have the dispatches from the provinces read aloud to everyone. If no one can order the others to act, perhaps they will do so on their own. You must find more allies amongst the priests and the nobles-stop ignoring them! Listen attentively to them, no matter how boring. Someone will want to help you, if only for his own advancement."
"I will!" Martina stood, raising a hand in parting. The sphere shimmered and collapsed, whirling down into a flurry of green and white and blue sparks and then, with a rattle, to a set of flat, interlocking bronze disks.
Helena tapped her teeth with her thumb again, nodded to Gart and hurried out.
– |Twilight was falling as Helena stepped down from her sella onto the street in front of the Villa of Swans. She waved irritably at the troop of husky men, then waited, face covered by the edge of her stole, until they had trooped off down the hill with the covered litter on their shoulders. There was moderate traffic on the street-slaves on their masters' business-but no one approached the gate of this house. A drift of leaves had blown up in the recess of the doorway. The Empress' nose twitched at the mess, but she tapped on the door regardless.
There was no answer for a long time, and the sun was close to the western horizon before Helena heard movement in the yard behind the high gate. She redoubled her efforts, using the heel of a small knife she carried to trim pen quills and cut twine. It made a tinny sound on the travertine panel.
At last the gate opened a crack and a pair of smudged blue eyes stared up at her, surmounted by a cap of blond hair.
"Go away," the little girl said. "Her ladyship is not accepting visitors today."
"Or ever, I warrant," Helena said in an acerbic tone. "Let me in, Betia, or I'll have the Praetorians up here and they'll knock the door down."
For a moment the maid considered this, then pushed the heavy door open enough for Helena to turn sideways and step inside. The inner yard, which was little more than a court for people to dismount from their litters at parties, was strewn with dead orange and red leaves. Willows hung over the walls on either side, planted in the garden circling the house. Betia padded away, ghostly in a plain white tunic and gray shawl. The Empress followed, slowly taking in the disrepair and ruin that had overtaken the villa. She was outraged by its poor state. Once, this had been the most gracious and elegant home in the city. Her own summerhouse in Catania followed the same floor plan.
Now the house was dark and silent. Even the great sea hall with its mighty Poseidon seemed dingy and filled with gloom. Following Betia, Helena passed through many dark rooms until, at last, they climbed a flight of stairs and reached the roof. The sun had set, though the western sky was a riot of color. The white domes of the villa glowed copper in the last vestige of the day. A wooden pavilion stood on the roof at the end of one wing of the house. It commanded a sweeping view of the seven hills. In the purple gloaming, the city was beginning to blaze with light. Lanterns and torches glowed in windows; bonfires lit the docks along the river; sacred fires gleamed in the temples. It would be a clear night, allowing the glory of the stars to shine down on Rome.
Helena stepped into the pavilion and saw Betia kneeling next to a wooden chair facing the south. A figure sat in the chair, swathed in dark cloth. Helena stepped to the edge of the pavilion and turned, one hand on the painted wooden half-wall marking its edge. "Anastasia."
The woman in the chair leaned on one arm, chin resting on the back of her hand. In the poor light, her face was a pale oval marked by the dark smudges of her eyes. She did not appear to notice the Empress.
Helena jerked her chin at the slave girl. "Betia, fetch some lamps and wine and something hot to eat."
The figure in the chair moved slightly, rustling, but then subsided at Helena's glare. Betia slipped off into the twilight, quiet as a dove.
"There is trouble in the east," Helena said in a matter-of-fact voice. "I need your help to sort it out." The Empress moved about until she found, painfully, a chair with her shin. She drew it over to where Anastasia was sitting, then sat herself, folding her shawl over her hands. It would grow cold as night deepened. The Duchess said nothing, but Helena thought she could sense a weary interest.
"Emperor Heraclius remains sick, an invalid. His policies in the Decapolis have yielded insurrection and the rebels-aided by Arabian mercenaries-have seized half the Eastern fleet from the great port at Caesarea. To compound these troubles, I learned today the drungaros Andrades has been defeated off the Lycian coast, losing the other half of the Eastern fleet. Empress Martina and her uncle, Prince Theodore, are locked in a stupid but inevitable struggle to control the Imperial bureaucracy in Constantinople, playing at draughts while the Empire burns."
There was a breathy laugh from the Duchess' cowl and a white hand emerged from the heavy robe. Helena took the cold fingers in her own, controlling a flinch.
"Succinct," Anastasia said, her voice weary. "Why do you trouble me with this?"
"I don't care if you are stricken with grief," Helena said in a fierce voice. "I know your adopted daughters were killed in the eruption, that you sent men to murder my brother-in-law, that they may have failed. You account yourself responsible for all the dead. This means nothing to me. These events are in the past. This trouble is in the present and my husband will have to deal with it. You will help me, or I will have you given to the Praetorians for their supper."
This elicited a second, slightly fuller laugh.
"Dear," Anastasia whispered, "I'm past the day when I could entertain a whole cohort. You'll do just as well by setting a gaggle of schoolboys upon me. I know you are beside yourself with worry, but I am of no more use to anyone. My policies have led only to ruin."
Helena closed her eyes briefly, overcome by her own weariness, then opened them again as warm light flowed into the pavilion. Betia returned with a lamp and a covered plate. Helena held her tongue until the blond maid hung the light on a hook and laid the plate on a table between them. A linen cover was removed, allowing steam and the aroma of fresh bread to rise up. There were strips of cut meat, steamed vegetables and a round of cheese. The smell reminded the Empress she had forgotten to eat during the day. She accepted an eating tine gladly.
"I don't care about your policies," Helena said, chewing on a rare slab of lamb covered with pressed peppercorns. "You know things that no one else does. You will answer my questions."
Anastasia looked up, violet eyes glittering for a moment over the lip of her wine cup. The vintage had been heated with iron plugs and spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. Steam curled around the older woman's high brow and the oily curls of her hair.
"Will I?" There was a trace of amusement hiding in the tired voice.
"You will," Helena said, her voice cold. "You may have been replaced by my husband, but I do not trust your successor and I know that he does not have the grasp of the whole empire as you do. Tell me this, do you still receive reports from your various agents and factors throughout both empires?"
"I do," Anastasia allowed, staring at the steamed vegetables. Betia had settled in beside her mistress and was watching like a hunting falcon, ready to respond to any command. The Duchess picked out a single carrot from the plate and nibbled on it. "They are downstairs, in the study, if you wish to see them."
"Do you still read them?"
"No," the Duchess said, chewing thoughtfully. "But Betia insists on interrupting my naps by reciting them aloud." The woman turned slightly and made a face at the maid. "She is a very irritating girl."
"Have you heard of these matters before I spoke of them?"
"Some," Anastasia said, poking about on the plate with an eating tine. "This business of the fleet is new."
"Yes," Helena said, biting at her thumb. "I heard of it just today. The news is fresh in Constantinople."
"Is it?" Anastasia found a carrot and carefully broke it in two, then ate the smaller of the pieces. "They must be in quite a panic"
"Empress Martina is at her wits' end," Helena said in a dry tone. "Is there a man you can trust in the Eastern capital? Someone I could send word to? Someone who can do something there?"
Anastasia sighed and put her eating tine away. She slumped back in her chair, letting the cowl of the robe fall over her face. "I will give you the lists of names and cities, if you so desire. Then you can play at this business yourself, without wearying me. There is a man there, a tribune in charge of the Office of Barbarians. He's supposed to be Heraclius' agent, of course, but we've had an understanding for years."
"Good. Could he see about killing a man?"
The Duchess made a sound like a snort and a laugh mixed together. She raised herself up in the chair and motioned for another glass of wine. Betia pressed it into her hands. She drank deep, then put it aside. "You've taken to this business, haven't you? Do you really think that you can change anything with plots and murders? I thought so once… it's addictive, you know, but then I don't suppose that you care, either. It's too much like a story in one of your letters."
Helena put down her own cup, wondering bitterly if she would have to summon guardsmen to threaten the Duchess. It seemed they had come a very long way from that first day, when Helena had been the nervous young woman out of her depth and Anastasia the wise councillor. Their respective ages could not be that far apart-perhaps only a decade. Were they enemies now? "Will you answer my questions? I will tend to the details."
"Will you?" Anastasia said, her voice sounding almost normal. "Would you trade the citizens of two large cities and countless towns to destroy a single man? Ha! I see the look on your face-you wouldn't, would you? You think these things can be finessed, avoided, fate circumvented because you are smarter than everyone else!"
The Duchess' voice rose to almost a shout. The cowl fell away, revealing a face lined with tiny fine wrinkles and the burden of age. The artful powders and unguents that normally composed a perfect visage had not touched her face in weeks. Coupled with her anger, she suddenly seemed terribly real to Helena and the Empress drew back in confusion.
"Do not play at these games, child," the Duchess said in a sneering voice. "Go back to your letters and your gossip and your dream worlds. You could not stomach the smell of blood."
Helena clenched her jaw, biting back a furious retort. At least Anastasia seemed to be taking an interest in the world around her. "And you, O arbiter of what is real and what is not-will you come forth from your grave? Put aside your funeral cloth and rejoin the living? You are hiding in your own dream, a luxury that I cannot afford." The Empress' eyes narrowed and she scowled at the Duchess. "I will not abide the living dead in my husband's realm. You must either be alive or I will see that you find the grave with my own hands!"
Anastasia laughed aloud, a full, belly laugh that spilled out of her like water from a shattered dam. Once she started, the Duchess was unable to stop. Helena sat back in her chair, feeling the hard grain of the wood under her fingers. Betia was alarmed, then went for a towel and dabbed tears from her mistress' eyes. Finally, exhausted and aching, Anastasia was able to take the cloth from the blond slave and clean her face.
"You have been reading those melodramas of Petronius' again," she gasped at last. "The living dead? What fine dialogue you write for yourself!"
Helena shot her a look, then folded her arms over her chest. "You're no better," she said in a surly voice. "Languishing about in sackcloth and ashes. Sitting in your abandoned, empty house with servants hidden away in the cellars. Artful drifts of leaves and dirt scattered about. The next time you try this flummery, make the gardeners use the right kind of leaves! The oak make a pretty red display, I agree, but not in high summer!"
Anastasia harrumphed, then clapped her hands for more wine. She moved like an invalid. The Duchess took another cup from Betia, who remained in her shadow. "Leave me alone. I do not want to go through all of this again, Helena dear. I feel it in my gut now, like a Spartan fox. All those men and women… I must go away. Far away."
"There's not going to be anyplace far enough," Helena snapped, "to get away from me. My husband may be a big fool, spurning you because you did what he feared to do, but I am not. Please, Anastasia, help me! Help us."
The Duchess turned her head away, putting the back of her hand to her mouth. Helena sat quietly, watching. Betia remained motionless, right by the older woman's side. Night deepened outside of the circle of warm light thrown by the oil lantern. Bats fluttered over the roof of the pavilion, darting around the edge of the garden. The night promised to be warm.
At last, Anastasia turned back to the Empress, her eyes in shadow. "You are a poor friend, Helena. You barge in and demand food, drink, conversation-then want help for no particular reward. In some circles, you would be a boor!"
"I cannot be a bad guest." Helena smirked. "I'm an empress."
"I had noticed," Anastasia answered in a dry tone. "Very well. I do not think there will be any rest for me, here or anywhere."
"You would hate rest." Helena smiled knowingly. "How would you know you were alive?"
"I am not like that," the Duchess said, a distant look in her eyes. "Intrigue is no longer my elixir. I am afflicted by worse than lotus blossom-conscience bears on me."
"Then give in," the Empress said, leaning forward and tapping on the table. "This mess in Constantinople needs to be cleaned up-if you have a man in place, let us dispatch a message to him."
"To what end?" Now the Duchess' voice was sharp and she seemed fully awake. "Whose death will 'clean up this mess'?"
"Prince Theodore, of course! While he is stirring the pot in the Eastern capital, Martina cannot direct the Imperial government as Heraclius' regent. With him gone-"
"There will be civil war," the Duchess interjected, shaking her head. "Your correspondence with the girl has turned your head. She is entirely unsuitable to manage that snake pit and even less able to command a defense of the capital."
"A defense? What are you talking about?"
Anastasia let out a long, slow sigh, then motioned for Betia. "Dear, bring us a map. You know the one."
The slave hurried off, white legs flashing in the darkness that lay upon the villa.
"The matter of her marriage has compromised her role in Constantinople," Anastasia said. "Her regency would be constantly under attack. Consider: young Constantius, the son of Heraclius by his first wife, Eudocia, is the heir. Martina would have to put him ahead of her own son. How likely is this? No, she would intrigue against her stepson and try and put the infant Heracleonas in his place. The great nobles would revile her and the state will be paralyzed-again.
"Theodore is an equally bad choice. These rebels have bested him twice and he is of poor character. No, a third option is required. Of course, the optimum outcome would be to restore Heraclius to good health, then all of these problems would fall by the wayside."
"Martina," Helena ventured, "believes that he is near death. The captain of the Faithful Guard is attempting to treat the Emperor in secret with some herbal remedy, but it does not seem to work. The priests of Asklepius are at loggerheads over the marriage issue, so they will not help."
Anastasia nodded, thinking. Then she smiled slightly as Betia returned with a rolled leather map. "Ah, let us examine the other problem." Betia unrolled the map and laid it out on the table.
"These rebels out of the Decapolis have a canny leader," Anastasia said. "He knows victory in this war depends on control of the sea, thus his efforts to obtain a fleet and to drive the Eastern ships away from the Phoenician coast. This done, he has one of two objectives-Constantinople or Egypt."
Helena nodded, examining the carefully painted depiction of the eastern end of the Mare Internum. "Galen believes Egypt is the target, for it is the richest province in the Empire and without its grain, Constantinople will starve."
"This is possible." Anastasia paused. "But our enemy has moved swiftly and with an obvious plan. Look, he could have seized Egypt by land if he so desired, marching swiftly down the coast and crossing the desert at Pelusium. He did not. His first blow was to capture the great port and the fleet at Caesarea Maritima. I think his aim is here instead."
Her thumb laid alongside the tiny figure of Pallas Athena marking Constantinople at the junction of the Sea of Darkness and the Mare Aegeum. "The Imperial Army has been shattered. Theodore is disgraced. Heraclius is bedridden. There is no fleet to defend the approaches to the city by sea. A daring man might sail into the Propontis and land an army, besieging the Eastern capital by both land and water."
"Impossible! The walls of Constantinople are impregnable! It would be a disaster."
"Perhaps. Perhaps this rebel thinks he can force a peace settlement if he blockades the city. How long could Rome stand if the flow of African grain were cut off? Constantinople is even bigger, with even more mouths to feed."
"Oh." Helena stopped and considered. "That could be… the rebel king would gain time and land to mount a proper defense, or further attack."
"Exactly. He moves very swiftly, this one, because he knows that keeping the Empire off balance is his only hope for victory. A negotiated settlement will give him legitimacy amongst the Eastern cities. Persia is in disarray, so there is a sliver of time for him to build a new state between the old empires."
"Then we must move swiftly, too."
"Yes, dear. Is Galen in the city?"
"No." Helena shook her head. "He's gone off to Portus for a few days to oversee the dredging operations-they're clearing the channels in the harbor of Trajan with some contrivance of Aurelian's."
Anastasia raised an eyebrow approvingly. "A boring but worthy project. Your husband is sometimes wise, I see."
"I suppose, but I am reminded of Nero and his lyre."
Anastasia laughed, but nodded in agreement. Then she said, "There are several new legions being mustered at Mediolanum, I believe."
Helena shrugged. She had no idea.
"Here is a solution to this business in the Eastern capital, my dear. Listen closely, for you must make your dear, dull husband believe this is his idea. Some time ago an arrangement was made between the emperors of East and West regarding the command of military detachments operating in the other's territory. Do you know of it?"
"No," Helena said, a little taken aback by the Duchess' effortless command of the situation.
"It was agreed that each emperor, or his designate, would serve as the Dux Militaris for the other, if a combined operation were undertaken. Thus, during the recent war in Persia, Galen was Heraclius' dux. If a war were fought here in the West, Heraclius would be Galen's second. In this case, if a Western army were to arrive at Constantinople under the command of a Western Caesar, then that leader could take command of all the Roman forces in the area."
Helena nodded, committing the proposition to memory.
"This will allow someone competent," Anastasia continued, "to deal with this invasion. It is unlikely the entire Eastern fleet was destroyed in this latest disaster-the Western fleet will have to gather up the survivors and then hunt down these rebellious ships."