Empress & Soldier Chapter 23 part 1
In which Eudekia stands up for herself.
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“EMPRESS?” Kyran, my new secretary, bowed slightly, holding out two neatly-written invitations. “Have you a preference of style?”
“This one,” I said, indicating the one with fewer embellishments. “It is in keeping with the idea of these gatherings.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment and returned to his desk. At the table, my grandmother looked up from the lists she was compiling.
“These names, I think, for the second entertainment. Do you agree?”
I would, almost certainly. My grandmother had a far better sense than I of which women should be invited to the first of the entertainments, and who could wait. The subtle and fluid hierarchies of dignitasi society—different from the blood relationships—had not been a study of mine. I read the names. One stood out.
“Can we not invite Clelia to the first afternoon?”
“If you like. She will be comfortable among these women?”
More so than I would be, I guessed. A familiar face would reassure me. “She mothered me, in a way,” I said. “I would honour that, and her.”
“Then we will.” My grandmother rose to cross to Kyran, writing the invitations. Through the open windows, faint horns sounded: the games beginning. Tomorrow I would attend again with Philitos. I wanted these preparations done today.
A rap at the door made me look up. The palace steward was expected, to discuss the refreshments to be served. Simple things, but of good quality and beautiful presentation. If he baulked, I would bring my father’s cook to the palace to demonstrate, I had decided. That challenge to the palace kitchen’s expertise should bring results.
“Empress. Venustia.” Quintus bowed deeply.
“Fiscarius. I was not expecting you.” I did my best to be welcoming.
“A word, if I may?” He glanced at Kyran. “Privately?”
I murmured the secretary’s name, but he was already gathering his tools. I indicated a seat to Quintus, My grandmother put down her pen.
“What is it?” I asked.
His eyes went to the closed door to the small office. “Who is this man I have been asked to pay? I gave you names of appropriate secretaries, Empress, ones that would not have been an additional strain on the palace’s purse.”
“We felt none were appropriate, Fiscarius.”
“May I ask why not? They are all experienced men.”
“Experienced in matters of the palace and Casil’s finances, I am sure,” I said, smiling. “But I needed a man who had a thorough understanding of dignitasi society, Quintus. Can you claim that for any of your candidates? And,” I dropped my voice, “none were eunuchs, and surely for propriety the Empress’s secretary should be?”
He could not refute that, although his sharp inhalation told me he would like to. “A new man to be paid at a time of austerity—is that wise, Empress?”
“Surely you would have replaced any man seconded to me? I see no issue here.” Not to mention the hairdressers and maids I had refused. Matea was sufficient for my needs.
“As you wish.” He rose. “Are you sure of this man’s loyalties? To have the Empress’s concerns and plans reported to the dignitasi households could be—dangerous. Something to consider.”
“Your concern is noted, Fiscarius,” I said. “If the steward is in the anteroom, please ask him to wait a few minutes.”
“He gives himself away,” my grandmother said softly, after the door closed. “He cannot believe others do not act as he does.”
“Would he try to suborn Kyran?”
“Possibly. Speak to your secretary, in confidence and without names. A little guidance in the subtleties of palace politics, nothing more.”
“Philitos likes him,” I said, my lips twisting.
“Marital politics are even more nuanced and layered, child.” My grandmother spoke briskly. “Tolerate Quintus, even welcome him as a guest. But do not trust him.”
“Is he married?” I knew nothing about the fiscarius, I realized.
“Yes. A provincial family, but of good Casilani background on the father’s side.” She hadn’t hesitated before answering; was there nothing my grandmother didn’t know?
“Should his wife be invited to an early entertainment?”
“She lives outside of Casil, permanently. There are no children. He rarely visits her.”
“Perhaps she is glad of that,” I murmured, invoking a bark of laughter from my grandmother.
“I cannot imagine him in bed,” she said.
“I’d rather bed a toad.” I closed my eyes against the thought. “Is the steward here yet?”
###
“PHILITOS SPOKE WELL,” my father told me, standing by my desk. He’d refused a seat, saying he was expected at the banquet.
“He practiced his speech with me last night,” I said. The words had been well-crafted—I’d recognized my father’s hand in that—and my husband’s oration, his skill with emphasis and pacing and tone—was equally polished. “Was it well received? Is that not more important?” Women were not allowed in the Assembly hall, except for those few Empresses who had ruled as regents for underage sons, so I had not witnessed my husband’s first speech there as Emperor. Nor would I see him until late tonight; the rest of his day taken up with the dignitasi. As many of his days would be now.
“I believe so.” Philitos’s call to the families to live more simply had been designed to stir almost every man: he had first addressed the issue as a military campaign, the need to keep peace and order in the city; then as a philosophical argument. The great philosopher Korous, he had said, equated moral goodness with pleasure. The moral imperative lay in feeding the people of Casil, therefore, it would be a pleasure to give up luxuries for a while. Finally, he had called upon their status in the city, and how they bore a responsibility to their ancestors and their descendants to maintain the honour of their names, a duty to his own family that guided his every action as Emperor.
“Genucius was the first to pay homage, indicating the Emperor has the support of the army,” my father said. Then himself, I knew, as I had been part of this planning, for the respect not just of his wife’s father, but of a historian and philosopher, the message subtle but clear. Quintus had followed, before the heads of other dignitasi households acknowledged their Emperor. “There are those who will argue and mutter, but the majority will adopt his direction, at least to a limited extent.”
“And now I must do my part.”
He smiled at my wry tone. “You must, yes. I am proud of you, Eudekia. You have taken on so many responsibilities without flinching.”
“I have had your example,” I said. “But I am very glad Avia is here to guide me. I doubt I could do this without her.”
“I think perhaps I underestimated her,” he admitted.
“Or thought her a bad influence?” He had the grace to nod. I laughed. He should marry again, I thought; he would be lonely, with me gone. But he still had Nishan to play xache with, or discuss whatever he was reading. “She has not been, I assure you.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he said drily. “I must go, Eudekia. To partake of the banquet that will be less sumptuous than expected, and speak my support for our Emperor’s policies into many men’s ears. Do not expect your husband before midnight at the earliest.”
~
Midnight had come and gone before Philitos returned to our rooms. I had been sleeping lightly, a lamp burning. Even in its low light I could see he was flushed with wine and success. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over to kiss me, a kiss that left no doubt of his intentions.
“My Eudekia,” he said. “I spoke today of families, and what we owe our descendants. Shall we make one?”
“We can practice,” I said, pushing off the blanket to make space for him.
His lips moved to my neck before he sat up to shed his tunic. “I’d like a son.”
We’d been married less than two weeks. “Soon,” I murmured. Drink your benedis for at least three months after the wedding, my grandmother had said. There must be no doubt of when your first child was conceived. I disliked the bitter tea that prevented pregnancy, but I saw her point.
“Good,” he answered, his voice thick. “We should name him Alekos, as I am Philitos.”
The father and son of antiquity: great leaders both. “Yes,” I said, almost lost in sensation and desire. “Yes.”
###
I WAS TO ENTER THE RECEPTION only after all the women had arrived, my grandmother told me. She’d been one of those anticipating the arrival of an empress or a client queen many times over her life, even sometimes the wives of provincial governors who gave themselves airs. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, no longer; a fine line between privilege and rudeness.
I chose ten minutes. Any longer and my nervousness would overwhelm me. I wore a tunic of white edged with purple, but very simple, with gold earrings and a plain golden clasp holding back my hair. Matea had clicked her tongue worriedly when I was dressed, and shot a pointed look at my grandmother. “Yes, I see,” she’d murmured. “You are beautiful, child, but you look sixteen. Sit down.”
With practiced skill, my grandmother had darkened my brows and lashes, drawn a thin black line on my eyelids, reddened cheeks and lips. “Better,” she said, handing me the bronze mirror. My reflection showed me someone I didn’t know. But I could pretend to be her, for a few hours.
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I'm relieved that Eudekia didn't accept any of Kyran's men. Her instincts are right.