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Roscius was the first to find his voice. My own was trapped in my dry mouth and tight throat. “You have no experience on the battlefield.”
“Nor did Catilius, but he did what was needed. As will I.”
“It is unwise.” Quintus spoke with authority. “To leave the city in a time of unrest? Your citizens will see it as abandonment, Emperor, and you would leave your wife and child vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable to what?”
“An attack on the palace. An assassination attempt, perhaps. Two Boranoi posing as Sylanani have already been apprehended, but others may have slipped through among all the people coming to Casil in search of food and work.”
“There are Boranoi in the city, and I was not informed?” Philitos demanded.
“The guard identified them, and they were dealt with.”
“Questioned?” Roscius said sharply.
“Of course. But we learned nothing. They claimed they acted on their own initiative, and would not change their story. Even when encouraged.”
“You overstep your authority, Fiscarius,” my husband said. “I must be told of such things.”
“I thought to save you the worry, while you were rejoicing in your son,” Quintus said. His tone was apologetic, conciliatory, but I didn’t believe it for a moment.
“The Empress could go to her island villa,” my father said, “with the prince and with part of the guard.”
“Do not forget the horse archers,” I said. “Is that not their job, to protect me when I am outside the city? But I am going nowhere.”
“I worry,” Philitos said softly, “for you and our son, Eudekia. Perhaps it would be best.”
And not without precedent. Would we be safer? It would be cooler, too, better for Alekos. My father wore his patient face, the one I remembered from my school days when he was waiting for me to draw a conclusion from the facts presented. Quintus was nodding. Roscius looked bored.
Then a thought struck me, one I would not speak aloud now. “Philitos, may we discuss this later?” I asked.
“Of course.” He turned to his council. “We will not decide today. A private conversation with the Empress is needed. But we will send the letter north regarding grain. Write it, Quintus, and I will sign and seal it. Roscius, you will alert my personal guard to prepare themselves to travel.”
I excused myself, leaving the men to their discussions of supplies and logistics. I didn’t go to the nursery, but to the library. The librarian—a Tisirasi man who knew where every book and scroll was—found me what I wanted in minutes, and I settled down to read.
It was late when Philitos joined me in our rooms. He came in grim faced, controlled. But behind the mask I saw his excitement. He wanted to go to war, to be the warrior-Emperor like Ulpius, bringing lands and glory to his Empire.
I wanted to rail at him, to pound my fists against his chest, to beg him not to go. To remind him I needed him, and so did his son. I did none of those, although it took every iota of cold self-control not to. Instead, I said, “If the Emperor is on campaign, who governs?”
“The council. You know that.” He was equally unemotional.
“Your advisors, yes. But the General will be gone, and most of the Assembly have scuttled off to their villas. Who will you appoint as the third?”
“I hadn’t thought about it yet,” he said. He crossed to the sideboard, poured wine, held the flask up. I shook my head.
“I think it should be me.” Surprise flitted across his face, followed by a frown. I kept talking. “Who else will put the security of Casil and the heir first while you are gone, beyond all other considerations? Other Empress-Consorts have taken this role in the past, in the names of minor sons. Why cannot I do the same?”
He rubbed his chin, a clear sign he was thinking. “Who else will know so closely the Emperor’s wishes for his heir?” I persisted.
He gave a brief nod. “This is true. But if I appoint you the third of the triumvirate, my Eudekia, there will be repercussions. Are you prepared for those?”
“Repercussions for me, or for you?” He was taking this seriously.
“Both.” He pulled a stool close to where I was sitting. “It will be said that I give my wife too much power, and because of that I am weak. It will also be said with both you and your father on the council, you are grasping for that power.”
His concerns were real. But could I bear not being part of the council, not making the decisions that affected both Casil and the war? Because if I was not, how would I subsume my fear in work? Renatus did not need me at the villa, although I could take over his oversight of the repairs and replanting, those that were still unfinished. I doubted it would be enough. “Who else could you appoint?”
“Ideally another general, but those who are capable are serving, and those who do not serve are not capable.” He stood to pace the room. “I thought of the commander of the guard, but there is a history there I would choose not to repeat.” Generations before, the guard had displaced an Emperor, raising their own candidate to the title. A shameful time of turmoil and many deaths. “Perhaps Avidus?”
“A possibility,” I said, “but they have left the city. He can be recalled, of course, but the last time I spoke to Clelia she was worried about his health. He had been having pain in his chest, and some difficulty breathing, she said.”
“Did you send Gnaius to him?”
“I did.”
“Will you ask the physician if he thinks Avidus is well enough?” He exhaled, looking up at the ceiling. “I will ask the others for names.”
“Beware those Quintus suggests,” I said. Philitos frowned. “He should have told you about the Boranoi in the city. And he implied you were infatuated with Alekos to the point of not caring about anything else. I do not trust him, Philitos. His explanations and apologies seem genuine, but what ever changes?”
“I dislike this animosity between my wife and my friend, Eudekia. Perhaps working together in the triumvirate council would alleviate that.” Was that anger in his voice?
“It would give us a chance to understand each other better,” I said carefully. And give me the ability to oversee what Quintus did more easily. But I would not tell Philitos that. He had more important things to worry about, I rationalised. Let him think I was willing to get to know the fiscarius better. But I knew I was deceiving my husband.
In more ways than one. Philitos had been taught strategy, tactics, the outcomes of many conflicts, but he’d never had to make those decisions in the heat of battle. He was skilled with weapons on horseback and on foot—on the practice field. But wars were not fought on paper or on a training yard.
Had I hoped my request would make Philitos see sense, remind him his son was just a baby? That Alekos needed his father—and I needed my husband?
Emperor of Casil. Father of the Casilani. The words from his investiture echoed in my mind. How did a man choose between his family and his people?
A man would waver, making that choice. An Emperor would not. I had married an Emperor. I was an Empress, and I would not tell my husband I didn’t want him to go to war, although every hair on my body screamed ‘no’.
“Eudekia?” My husband put his arms around me. “It would ease my mind if you and he can be friends.”
“I will try.” Tears welled, suddenly. It was so little for him to ask of me. “I’m frightened,” I admitted.
“I must do this,” he said. I nodded, my head against his chest. He kissed the top of my head. I raised my face to his. I wanted to imprint his touch on my skin, his scent in my nostrils, his taste on my lips. I wanted—
“How long before you leave?” I asked.
“Two days. Maybe three,” he said.
I drank my benedis in the mornings. Even if I left it untouched tomorrow and the day after, I was unlikely to conceive. No life to grow inside me, to anchor him even more firmly to us. But I could hope. I stepped back a little, loosened my robe.
After the lovemaking, he slept. I didn’t, not for a long time.
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