The Office of the Emperor, The Bucoleon, Constantinople
A soft, insistent tapping sound filtered through the air. Martina blinked woozily, realizing she had fallen asleep at her desk. She raised her head, tasting something foul on her tongue. Across the room, beside little Heracleonas' bassinet, Arsinoe rose, gathering a gown around her dark shoulders. The maid padded to the door, then leaned against the close-grained panel, listening. "Who is there?"
There was a soft answer and the maid turned to Martina, her black eyes wide. "Mistress? It is Rufio, with two priests of Asklepius."
"Oh, what now?" The Empress rose, trying to clear the taste from her mouth. "Can't they let me sleep?" She tugged her tunic straight, then draped a woolen stole around her shoulders. A heavy krater of wine on the desk made a poor mirror, and she made a face when she saw the heavy smudges under her eyes. "Let them in."
Rufio entered quietly, sliding through the door as it opened. Two men, one large and heavyset, the other small and old, followed him. Arsinoe, looking very worried, closed the panel behind them. Martina flicked her head, pointing the maid to the bassinet. The African girl scurried to the baby.
"Well, what do you want?" Martina failed to keep scorn from her voice. The two men with Rufio were clothed in the archaic himation and chiton of their order. The taller man, his face dignified by a thick dark beard, bowed politely.
"Dear lady, Empress, we must apologize for the abuse you have suffered at the hands of some members of our order. Please know that neither myself-and I am Tarsus-nor my colleague, Hipponax, agree with or condone the insults offered you and your husband."
Both priests bowed again and Martina found her expression softening in response. Years had passed since any priest she had met in the city greeted her with such civility. "I see! You are well-spoken priests, at least. My apologies. How can I help you?"
The two men shared a glance, and then the smaller one bobbed his round head and smiled gamely. "Lady, we hoped that we would be allowed to tend to your husband. Both of us are blessed with the healing art and we were thinking…"
Tarsus followed smoothly, "…that we might do some good, for everyone."
Martina sat down in her chair, overcome by a surge of emotion. She fought back tears, motioning weakly to Rufio. "The captain of the Guard can tell you what has happened before."
"We know," Tarsus said, stepping around the desk. He knelt in front of the Empress, his light brown eyes kind and his voice gentle. "The captain told us of the previous attempts and of their failure. Please, mistress, let us try. We are loyal citizens. You must know the Emperor's sickness is like a poison in the body of the state."
"It will do no good." Martina pressed a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes. Tears seeped from between the lids, stained black and leaving a gray trail down her cheeks. "The gods have cursed him."
Tarsus stood and looked at Hipponax, a grim look on his face. "Have the other priests said this? Or do you fear such a thing?"
"The other priests," Rufio rumbled from the shadows, "have said many things. That does not mean they are true."
"My lady," Hipponax urged, "may we see him?"
"What harm can it do?" Martina waved at Rufio, her eyes still pressed tight. "Take them through the passage."
Rufio nodded, his eyes glinting in the light of the candles. "This way."
Tarsus dithered for a moment, then turned away from the Empress, Hipponax's hand on his arm. Together, they followed Rufio, who had pressed a concealed latch and opened a panel in one of the walls. The shadows swallowed all three men.
Once they were gone, Arsinoe crept up to her mistress, who was clutching the side of the chair, shaking violently. The maid laid a quilt over the small, brown-haired woman, then pressed a cup into her hand. Martina drank swiftly, spilling a thin trail of dark red wine down her chin. The stain on her tunic spread slowly, creeping down across her breast.
– |Each time Rufio entered the Emperor's presence, the foul smell struck him as if for the first time. The guard captain wondered if there had been any change, really, since they had begun feeding Emperor Sviod's remedy. The glassy, distended skin, the puffy limbs, the hoarse, croaking breath-they all seemed the same.
Tarsus and Hipponax knelt on either side of the Emperor, knees sinking into the plush quilts covering the Imperial bed. Both men discarded their bulky himation, rendering Rufio a grim, armored clothesrack. As soon as the two priests entered the chamber, a change fell over both of them: their timidity and nervousness were gone, replaced by a swift, professional manner.
"Dropsy." Tarsus met Hipponax's eyes and the smaller man nodded in agreement. "Fluids are gathering in the limbs; the lungs are being crushed by the weight of clear humors in his chest." Tarsus gently laid back the silk sheets covering the Emperor's grotesque body. Neither man flinched at the fish-pale flesh or the bulging navel standing up like a tiny phallus. Hipponax ran his hands down the swollen legs, his fingertips close to but not touching the gray flesh.
"The motive threads in his legs may be damaged." Hipponax pulled the sheets from the Emperor's feet. "His toes are beginning to turn dark. Blood is pooling in them, perhaps stultifying. His circulation of bile and blood must be very poor."
Tarsus laid a hand on Heraclius' forehead, eyes closed. There was a soft humming sound and the Emperor suddenly lost some of the stiffness in his body. Rufio moved slightly, hand moving towards a knife at his waist. Hipponax looked up, then shook his head. "Do not be alarmed, Captain. Tarsus has only made him sleep without dreams."
The little round priest sat up, tapping a thumbnail against his teeth. "Tarsus, if this were simple dropsy, any priests who treated him before would have been able to set the balance in his body aright."
"Yes." Tarsus leaned close, smelling the gargling breath issuing from the Emperor's slack mouth. "Captain, is he drinking an infusion of juniper berries?"
Rufio started, then said, "Yes. Compounded with some other herbs."
"Parsley seeds. How much have you been giving him at a time? For how long?"
"Only a little, but over the last several months." Rufio shrugged. "He refuses to drink when he is awake, he fears any liquid, and at night it must be done in secret. There are too many hostile eyes in the palace."
Tarsus looked at Hipponax, disturbed. "Such a course of treatment should have greatly reduced these symptoms."
The little priest bobbed his round head in agreement, the fringe of hair around his ears catching the faint light of a single candle. "Not a normal disease, then, something else."
Tarsus settled back, closing his eyes. Hipponax did the same. After a moment, Rufio jerked his head around, thinking he heard a sound in the hidden passage. When he looked back, the two priests had placed their hands on the torso of the Emperor. A soft white glow was seeping from under their fingers, trickling across the swollen flesh.
Rufio's face contorted, filled with undisguised horror and loathing. His nerveless fingers dropped the two cloaks to the ground in an untidy pile. Then he looked away, his fist clenched around the knife at his waist. His knuckles whitened with a crushing grip. Silently, his face gyrated between anguish and rage. Then-with an effort visible in his shoulders and neck, where the veins bulged-he mastered himself. When he turned around, the soft white light washed over a stoic face, unmarked by tears or any kind of emotion in his black eyes.
– |"You failed." Martina's voice was dead and cold.
"Yes." Hipponax seemed drained, reduced, his face graven with weariness. "But there is the tiniest seed of hope, Empress."
Martina raised an eyebrow, her powders and colors a ruin. Neither of the priests looked any better in this dim orange light. "Tell me."
"The Emperor has made himself sick." Tarsus leaned forward, haggard face intent. He met Martina's eyes with a candid look. "We used our arts simply to divine the cause of his ailment. I-we-believe he ate too much dry salted meat while on campaign. This caused his body to begin retaining fluids. A common enough occurrence in the desert, particularly when a man's humors are out of balance. But-but-when the swollen feet and distended limbs struck him, he believed the gods cursed him. Now, the mind torments the body."
Hipponax nodded in agreement. "My lady, your husband cannot be treated by our arts because he will not let himself be cured. He is consumed by fear. I would guess, from what I have heard, he believes his marriage to you has brought the wrath of the gods upon him."
Martina jerked up, face white with rage. Her wine cup flew across the room and shattered, making a shockingly loud sound in the quiet room. "I am sick of hearing this is my fault! Get out, both of you. Rufio, take them away. You are no better than these other priests-at least they had the bravery to say this from the first."
Tarsus stood, shocked and dismayed. "My lady! You've no fault in this I can see! The Emperor's mind is set against his body, to the detriment of both. If he can be convinced to live, to set aside this self-loathing, then he can be cured. Please-you can help him-your son can help him. From your love, he can find the strength to become well."
"What pap!" Martina groped on the desk for something heavy and sharp. "My son is weak, his blood corrupt. He will follow his father across the dark river soon enough." Her hand found a marble blotting pin. It felt good in her hand. Rufio stepped in front of the priests.
"I will take them away," the captain said, muscular hand pinning hers to the desk. "They mean you no disrespect, Empress."
"Get out." Martina's voice was reduced to a hiss. "What is he doing? Get away from him!"
Hipponax, his brows drawn together in dismay, had stepped to the bassinet. The priest laid a gentle hand against the sleeping baby's head, ignoring the scuffle behind him. Warm light reflected in the little priest's eyes, then he smiled.
"Empress, your son will be healthy." Hipponax turned, then raised an eyebrow at the sight of the captain of the Faithful Guards forcibly restraining the Empress, one hand over her mouth. A trickle of blood seeped from fine white teeth biting into his palm. Rufio did not seem to notice. "You should have someone see to that, Captain. Bites suppurate quickly.
"Empress." Hipponax walked to the struggling woman, his voice gentle. "We are not your enemies, though I know you have been poorly treated by our order. Your son is suffering from too much bile. He needs more sun and the comfort of your arms. Do you feed him yourself?"
The priest gently moved Rufio's fingers away, letting Martina take a breath. She glared at both men with undisguised fury. "No. There is a wet-nurse. It is painful for me to nurse him."
Hipponax nodded, then placed Rufio's hand back over the Empress' mouth. The guard captain seemed amused by this, then his face darkened with anger as the little priest cupped each of the Empress' breasts, his head cocked to one side as if listening. Martina surged violently in Rufio's arms, but he lifted her up and her legs kicked violently in the air. Hipponax removed his hands, bowed and stepped back. "Your pardon, my lady. I am sure my head will be easily loosed from my shoulders, if that is your wish. Listen. You should not nurse yourself, and you should find another wet-nurse for your son. There is a subtle balance in the humors of a nursing mother's body. Yours, I fear, is unsuitable for your son. I venture his current wet-nurse is also unsuitable."
Rufio set Martina down. He took his hands from her body, then stepped quickly back. The Empress spun, her face white with rage, lips smeared with blood. "You. You…"
Her head snapped around and a finger jabbed out at Hipponax. "I do not want to see you ever again, little man. If I do, I will have you torn to pieces by wild dogs or hacked into sections with cleavers."
Both priests bowed deeply and then, with Rufio behind them, slipped out the door. Martina stood in the middle of the room, shaking with anger. Then her face slowly cleared and she steadied herself with a hand on the table. She took a breath, then another, then shuddered. Her face wrinkled, then her tongue darted over her lips, tasting something like iron and salt.
"Oh, how foul! Arsinoe! Where did that wretched girl get to?"
She spat blood on the floor, then wiped her mouth clean.