Empress & Soldier Chapter 23 part 2
In which Eudekia plays politics.
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The guards swung the double doors open. All eyes turned my way. As I entered, the women dropped to one knee. I stood still for a moment, acknowledging the homage, the pulse of my blood loud in my ears. Then I went to my grandmother, closest to me as we had planned, and held out a hand to help her rise.
“Welcome,” I said, and with the other hand indicated they too should rise. Fifty women stood, some with assistance from daughters or sisters. I surveyed them, noting a range of dress and jewels from simple to ornate. All these women had had husbands and sons at the Assembly yesterday. Either some had no concept of austerity, or our edict was being challenged.
I caught Clelia’s eye. She, I was relieved to see, wore a plain tunic and few jewels. An ally. I gave her a brief smile, then let my grandmother guide me to the women in order of their husbands’ status—a complicated assessment of precedence I had spent much of yesterday learning.
Genucius’s wife, Hermia, was first. She half-knelt again before meeting my eyes with what I thought was sympathy. I liked her immediately. Genucius had not been born into the dignitasi, but had risen through the ranks. While he had married late, she was of a minor and provincial family. She too had had to learn to be someone she hadn’t been brought up to be.
We exchanged a few words about Philitos’ speech before I moved on. The next two women had chosen—or been told to—show their support, their tunics fine but simple. I complimented their choices, smiling in approval.
The next two, mother and daughter, showed no such acquiescence to austerity. That this was a purposeful challenge showed in the set of their necks and shoulders. I smiled at them anyhow. “I had not heard your husband was afflicted by deafness,” I said. “I am so sorry to learn of it. It must be a difficulty for him at Assemblies now.” I moved on before they could reply. Avia and I had spent an hour planning my remarks to those women who ignored the decree; this was one of the milder ones. We’d been reduced to tears of laughter by the end.
After an hour my cheek muscles had stiffened and my throat was dry, but I’d greeted all the women and I hadn’t had to use too many of the cutting comments. The musicians began to play. Servants brought food: bread and olives, cheese, small pastries filled with egg custard, and jugs of sweetened wine. Good wine; at home, our food may have been simple, but the wine had always been excellent.
I sipped the wine gratefully. Stools had been set out around the walls for the oldest women and a few heavily pregnant younger wives. My grandmother had seated herself, allowing others to do the same, and she was now in animated conversation with some of her friends. I went to speak to Clelia; I wanted to know how Ennaia was.
“She is well,” she said, in answer to my query. “Expecting their second child in a few months, and hoping for a son.” Clelia lowered her voice. “Thank you for Kaeso’s preferment, Eu—Empress. Ennaia hopes they will return to Casil in a few years.”
“If he does well in his position, I see no reason why not.” I couldn’t promise.
The hum of speech around us dipped and fell to silence, as sometimes happens in a crowded room. One voice sounded clearly. “The old Emperor was opposed to the match, of course. The son’s obstinacy in this matter does not bode well for his reign.”
More than one breath was hurriedly indrawn. I kept mine steady: one, two, a third. “An Emperor certain in his own mind is to be commended, not censured, surely,” I said. “Your concerns have been noted, domina.”
I hadn’t quite hidden my anger, but perhaps that was a good thing. I kept my eyes on the speaker. She reached for her daughter’s arm, tugging her down. They both knelt.
What was I supposed to do? I stared at them, as much in confusion as anything. Then I nodded once and turned away, signalling for more wine. I needed it, if only to give myself a moment to regain my composure.
The wine, sweet on my tongue, helped. The room was still quiet, except for the music. Purposefully I made my way to where Hermia stood with two others. A hint of smile creased her face. Amusement or approval?
“I do like good theatre,” she said to me. A pause, before she added, “Will you and the Emperor be attending the performances one evening?
“I will suggest it,” I said. “Perhaps with the General and yourself?”
“An honour,” she replied.
I stayed another few minutes. Then I raised a hand for silence. “The musicians will play for some time yet; please stay and listen if you like, with another cup of wine. The Emperor and I have asked for restraint, not for you to give up all the joys of life.” I smiled. “Thank you for attending.”
My grandmother would stay, her presence preventing any overt criticism. She’d be listening to what was murmured, and I thought Clelia, and perhaps the general’s wife, would also note what was said, good or bad. Kyran, who had taken the invitations as the women had arrived, had, at my request, marked them to show who had outwardly complied and who had not. I would review and record that information, in my own private version of the client records I’d kept as patrona.
I washed the cosmetics from my face and changed back into a plain tunic. Then I went to my workroom. Kyran, with his usual efficiency, had made two neat stacks of the invitations, one much thicker than the other. It was the thin pile that interested me.
I listed the names, looking for a pattern. What did these women—or their husbands—have in common? Were they closely related? Two were sisters, a third a cousin—but almost all the dignitasi were cousins in some degree. Their husbands’ names meant little to me, beyond my grandmother identifying them as being of the highest rank. But that meant only a history of service to Oppelius, the way my father’s status was now elevated as Philitos’s advisor.
Or a blood tie. Among the dignitasi of standing were the descendants of brothers and sisters of previous Emperors. Oppelius had been the only surviving child of his parents, as Philitos had been. Before that? I leant back. The charts I had so assiduously drawn up under my father’s tutelage were at his house. But how useful were they? A blood relationship was no guarantee of status, beyond a hereditary right to attend the Assembly. These cousins of Emperors must also have served in some capacity: advisors, generals, governors of important provinces.
Kyran might have some thoughts, but as much as I liked the man’s quiet efficiency, Quintus’s warning—and the possibility he might try to use my secretary as an informant—sounded in my mind. I began to sort through the second pile, those women who had come dressed simply.
I looked up at my grandmother’s entrance. She sat, a little heavily, in her usual chair, the lines around her eyes and mouth speaking of fatigue. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Just tired, child. It has been some time since I have watched and listened and talked in a group that large. I have something for you.” From her closed hand she dropped two pairs of elaborate, jewelled earrings on the table. “To be sold to buy grain.”
I picked one up. Red stones set off by delicate gold filigree. I knew whose ears I’d seen them in. “A change of heart?”
“I would say a shrewd decision. Politic. Her eyes were cold when she handed them to me.”
“Very publicly?”
“Indeed. She made a show of it.” My grandmother’s eyes fell on my notes. “Be sure you lock those away. In your bedroom, not here.”
Good advice. I wrote a few words about the earrings and put down the pen. “I was looking for a connection among the women who defied Philitos’s request. But I couldn’t find one.”
“Nor can I, yet.” She smiled. “But there is one, and I will find it eventually.”
I studied her for a moment. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Very much.” She chuckled. “I did not realize how much I had missed the intrigues of court.”
Confidence surged through me. Between us we would see the gameboard. I would play the game as it must be played, to protect at all costs the king.
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