Empress & Soldier, Chapter 12
In which Eudekia contemplates her future.
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THE NEXT DAY MY FATHER was summoned to the Emperor. I sat with my grandmother, reading to her in the warmth of the atrium; she was perfectly capable of reading, of course, but the task was designed to keep me distracted. I didn’t mind.
My father returned in the late afternoon, his face set. “The Emperor is sending Quintus to Qipërta,” he told us. “To discuss a marriage with the king’s sister.”
“Quintus is the governor’s brother-in-law,” my grandmother said. “A wise choice.”
My chest felt as if it would burst if I didn’t ask. “A marriage to whom?”
“The princess in question is not young,” my father said. “The Emperor deems it unwise to assume she is capable of giving the prince an heir.”
“A diplomatic third marriage, then,” my grandmother said with satisfaction. “As I suggested.”
Then Philitos was still free. Still a piece on the game board, but his role in the play not yet finalized. Should I hope? Deep in my mind, another question rose. I ignored it: my grandmother was speaking.
“And your daughter?” She reached her hand out, to lay it lightly on my wrist.
My father was silent for a long minute. “The Emperor is opposed,” he said finally. “As am I. He will arrange for eligible young women to meet the prince in the spring, in the traditional way. You will not be among them, Eudekia.”
His words echoed in my mind. Opposed. I wasn’t going to be allowed to marry Philitos. I parted my lips to speak, took a breath—and said nothing. My grandmother’s fingers had tightened just a little.
“You will realize it is for the best when you have had time to think,” my father said gently. “But I cannot pretend you are not a woman ready to wed any longer. Matra, will you cast your mind towards what suitable match there is to be made?”
“Of course,” my grandmother said. “It is my role, when the child has no mother. A young officer, perhaps, one who will rise high in the ranks with a talented wife beside him.”
“I would rather an administrator,” my father said. “I can see Eudekia as a governor’s wife some day.” He smiled at me. “Would that suit you?”
“Leave it to us,” my grandmother said. “I found you the right wife, Varos. I will find the right husband for your daughter.”
My father had risen, but he hadn’t moved away. He looked down at his mother, his eyes narrowed. “You have capitulated easily, Matra.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “I did my best to convince Oppelius, but my skills must not be what they once were. I was a diplomatic wife, Varos: I know when to stop negotiating. The Emperor has spoken.”
“I am glad you understand that. I will dine here tonight; please tell the cook.”
~
“My room,” my grandmother murmured, as soon as my father had left the atrium. I followed her. “I do know when negotiations should end,” she said, as soon as the door was closed. “And it is not yet.”
“But how?” I said, sinking down onto a stool. “Are you going to—”
“Pay a private visit to Oppelius again? Perhaps.” She sat on her bed. “But I am more likely to offer my assistance in organizing the parade of possible brides for the prince. I have such a number of connections to courts far and wide after all my years as a diplomat’s wife, after all.”
I laughed, despite my roiling emotions. “Scouting out the enemy, Avia?” Cotta would have approved.
“Exactly. Do not despair, child. If the prince returns from his weeks away still determined to marry you, then half the battle is won. All I will have to do is direct the other half.”
And if he did not? The question I’d pushed aside returned. Would I be upset, or relieved?
MY FATHER, FREE OF HIS DUTIES as tutor while Philitos was travelling, spent more time at home. I still dealt with most of our clients; they had grown used to me, he said, and he wanted the time for his own studies and translations, neglected these past few years. My grandmother came and went from the house, renewing her friendships in the city. But almost every day, usually over tea or wine, she told me stories of her days as a diplomat’s wife, of the problems that had come his way, and her role in solving them. Stories to instruct.
Except for the hours spent with my grandmother, my life changed little. I ran the household, continued with my own studies, played xache with my father. He did not mention Philitos, and neither did I. But often, when I was meant to be reading, my mind returned to him. I wondered where he was, if he was safe. Travelling was dangerous. What were the countries he was in like? Would a taste of imperial duties make him realize he needed a different bride? And if he did, was it for the best?
I wanted him, there was no doubt about that. At night I relived his kisses, letting my hands touch what his had not, desire rising. I imagined his body on mine, in mine, and I muffled the cries of pleasure I gave myself in my pillow, pretending it was his chest. In the day I thought of xache games, and conversations, and the laughter we always seemed to find. Surely this was love?
But the sensible woman I had been brought up to be had other doubts. Philitos was the prince, and one day would be the Emperor. Our life together would not be xache and conversation and laughter, or not often. What would be expected of me as consort, I had no idea.
I asked my grandmother at one midday meal when my father was absent. “In a way,” she said, after a moment’s thought, “a version of what you do now. A consort provides another route to access the throne and the favours it grants. You would see people, listen to their requests, find out what they offer. As you did with your father’s clients, you would learn what is in your power to give and what is not.”
“Not from behind a desk, as I do now, surely?”
“Sometimes, yes. In the past I was sometimes received by the Empress-Consorts with each of us on opposite sides of a desk, and sometimes over wine and food, or evening entertainments. The reception depended on what favour I wanted, and for whom, or if it was information I was bringing, or being asked to obtain. Those are subtleties to be learned, and I as your grandfather’s wife had to learn how to ask, just as Oppelius’s wives had to learn how to respond.”
“But who taught you?” If Philitos’s mother had been alive, or even my own—but they weren’t. The Qipërtani princess, if she married the Emperor, would know less of the intricacies of Casilani politics than I.
“Other diplomatic wives, for the most part. And your grandfather.” She laughed gently at my look of dismay. “You will have me, child. And many years to learn your role before Philitos is Emperor, the gods willing. Less will be expected of the prince’s wife, especially if she is also newly a mother.”
She spoke, as always when we were alone, as if my betrothal to Philitos was confirmed. But it was not, and I wondered how long it would be before my father asked again about potential husbands for me. I thought he would want the arrangements made before Philitos returned from Odïrya, and the weeks were passing. And I truly did not know what I wanted. I loved Philitos. I didn’t want to be the Empress.
QIPËRTA’S PRINCESS ACCEPTED her diplomatic role and agreed to marry Oppelius. Had married him, by proxy, with many agreements made and signed by the governor and the king, and by Quintus as the imperial negotiator. A result that guaranteed Quintus would be the next fiscarius for Casil, my father said.
“When is she arriving?” my grandmother asked.
“Very soon. A ship must be sent, with men chosen from the palace guard to escort her. But those preparations were in hand, as a favourable reply was expected. And—” My father paused. His lips tightened fractionally. “If the messenger reaches him in time, the prince’s journey home will be diverted, so that he accompanies her from Qipërta.”
Philitos was coming home. Apprehension battled with excitement. I tried to keep my face still.
“Did I tell you, Varos, that my friend Seia has an eligible grandson? He is posted to Qipërta for two years, but the family is open to a betrothal.” My grandmother spoke as if this was far more interesting than the prince returning. Or the Emperor’s marriage, for that matter.
“Seia? This is a military family, is it not?”
“It is,” my grandmother said, “but dignitasi for many generations, and well educated.”
“You think this an appropriate match?”
“A distinct possibility. Should I further the discussion?”
“Yes.” He glanced at me. “You have no objection, Eudekia?”
“None,” I said, as a dutiful daughter should. “If Avia thinks this man suitable for me, and I for him, then I will not question her judgement.” Maybe Avia really should write to Seia. If Philitos returned to find me betrothed—would he be angry, or relieved? How would I feel, if the tables were turned? I didn’t know.
Proxy marriage? If this were really ancient Rome, no. Roman marriage (of which, over time, there were many forms) required an act of personal union - the joining of hands, the escort of the bride to her new home, or the signing of the marriage contract.1 But this is historical fantasy of a sort, and proxy marriage among the ruling class did happen at this time in other cultures: if my sources can be trusted, Clovis I, King of the Franks, married the Burgundian princess Clotilde in 496 via a proxy marriage.2
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Edwards, Karthryn Rae (2011). "Kicking the INA out of Bed: Abolishing the Consummation Requirement for Proxy Marriages". Hastings Women's Law Journal. 22: 55, cited in https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proxy_marriage
I can a small contribution to do with marriages by proxy: they were the norm for incoming queens and dauphines of France down to the Revolution. A second wedding followed once they arrived in the country. Marie-Antoinette, for that reason, was already the first lady of the land when she set foot on French soil. She had technically been dauphine from the day of her proxy wedding back in Vienna. She met the dauphin, AKA the future Louis XVI, when she got to Compiègne, and the second ceremony took place when they reached Versailles.
Also, I'm really enjoying this book!