Women are strange creatures, General, made frail by God, and subject to the lures of sin more than men. I did not realize that your wife was so much in the throes of ambition that she attributed desires to you that were her own, although I ought to have suspected something of that nature when you were at such pains to conduct yourself with propriety.

None of this can excuse my actions, or my willingness to cooperate with those who were eager to pay me to administer small doses of poison to the august lady Antonina with the intention of bringing about her death. I have accomplished that, but I can take no pride in it. I am shamed and appalled at what I have done, and I pray that you will not hold me accountable for her death, but will recognize that I was merely the tool of others who are more your foes than I will ever be. The money promised me has been paid and I have turned it over to the uncle of my wife with instructions that he is to administer it for her benefit and the benefit of my children.

I have decided to make one last display of my ability with poisons: I have made a preparation that is both quick and not too painful. When I have finished this letter, I intend to bring about my own death. I pray that God will not regard this as the act of one lacking in faith, but will understand that I am not anxious to see what little I have taken by the courts so that my family would be left with no means of support. It is not that I wish to spare myself suffering—I will encounter enough of that in the next world so my pope assures me. At least if I end my own life in this manner, my wife and children will not be destitute. The punishments meted out by God to those guilty of the death of another will be more than anything the Censor might order, or any death the Emperor could require. Even your own sword, General, cannot equal what God will demand of me when I face Him, as soon I must.

Your wife died very bravely. She was a woman of fortitude and determination, and under other circumstances I would have the most profound respect for her and her abilities. It distressed me to have a part in her death. I beseech you to believe this, and to believe that I would rather have blasphemed in church than been party to her demise, but the temptation at first was so great that I surrendered to it. Later, my fear accomplished what my yearnings could not do. I dreaded discovery and denouncements, and I am convinced now that the one who is within your household and has been party to this will not stop his working until you are felled by the same fate that touched your beloved wife.

If you can bring yourself to pray for me, do so, for I will need the prayers of all good Christians. I am as contaminated as a house with plague and I will die knowing that there is no succor for me in this world nor the next. Pity me if there is any room in your heart for anything other than grief. I was compelled and I was weak; I did not and could not resist. You are made of sterner fibers and you have stood fast where others could not.

I have sent a confession to the secretary of the Court Censor and I have said that someone in this household is responsible for your wife's death. It is little enough, but it may aid you in attaining some justice for the great injury you have endured.

If I have a last wish, it is that the one who has brought you and me to this sorry place should be discovered and made to assume the entire burden of his villainy. If God listens to the prayers of sinners, this will come to pass. If the Emperor is just, he will exact vengeance on behalf of you, your wife, and me. Truth, we are promised, will be known, and when it is there is nothing that can spare me, but it will also bring down the one who has ordered this done, either in the Emperor's tribunal or in God's, and in either case, I am content.

Until we meet again at Judgment Day before the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, I beg you will be more merciful than I had the strength to be.

Mnenodatos

physician

7

Earlier that day Belisarius had sent over some of the bounty of his garden; now a profusion of roses stood in vases and urns throughout Olivia's house. In the vestibule the air was heady with the scent of the flowers; only the kitchen and the latrine did not succumb to the fragrance.

"Smells like a church at Easter," Drosos complained when Niklos admitted him to the house that night. He had been drinking; his customary neatness had deserted him and there were three days' whiskers above the line of scraggly beard. His pallium was wrapped beltlike around his waist and knotted once without artistry. The lines in his face looked as if they had been cut with a hatchet.

"The roses are from Belisarius," said Niklos in an emotionless way.

Drosos flushed. "Oh." He stood in the vestibule, looking around as if uncertain where he was. "Will she talk to me, do you think?"

"Of course," said Niklos.

"I've been lax in visiting her. I ought not to have. I knew I ought to see her, but there are times when…" He made a complicated gesture.

"She has been waiting for you," Niklos said, indicating the hall that led to Olivia's quarters.

"Don't know why," he grumbled. "Not worth her while, not now." He stumbled as if to make a point, but he followed Niklos down the dim hallway, muttering to himself as he went.

"Drosos is here," Niklos announced when he had knocked on Olivia's door. His voice held a warning to her, a note he knew she would not miss. "Captain." He stood aside so that Drosos could enter.

Olivia had been combing her hair, using an antique treasure the Guard had missed. She looked up, expectation in her face and worry in her eyes. "Drosos," she said, rising and coming toward him.

He accepted her embrace unsteadily and when he had his arms around her, he used them as much for support as for affection. "Sorry to come like this."

"Why? You are welcome at any time, in any way." She had seen at once what his trouble was, and she set to work dealing with it. "Niklos, I know it is late, but will you see that my bath is filled? Hot water, mind, and bring me a tea of rose hips and pepper."

"At once," said Niklos, leaving her alone with Drosos.

"I won't stay, but I had to see you," Drosos said as Olivia began to work his pallium loose. "I'm not fit to be here."

"It doesn't matter, Drosos," she said as she finally dropped the pallium to the floor. His dalmatica was stained, and stank. "What have you been doing, love?" she asked him without accusations.

"Been with my men, mostly. Soldiers' taverns." He hawked and spat, then looked at her apologetically. "I shouldn't have done that here, should I?"

"Don't worry," she said, starting to pull the dalmatica over his head. "You'll have to bend over, Drosos, if I'm to get this off you without tearing it."

He obeyed, but had to grab her waist to keep on his feet. "I slept in my clothes last night. Night before, too."

"I can tell that," she said gently. The dalmatica came off at last and she dropped it in an odorous, untidy heap near the door. "I think that I ought to send for a razor and shave you before we do anything else," she suggested, knowing it would take time for the bath to be readied.

He rubbed his cheeks. "Is it too bad?"

"No, not too bad. I have seen much worse," she said honestly, her mind cast back to other times and places.

"Still," he went on, "I ought to have shaved before I saw you. The General wouldn't like knowing that I had come here in this way. Very particular, Belisarius. He wants his men to take proper care." For the first time he realized he was naked. "God of the Prophets, I smell like a sewer."

"That's one of the reasons the bath is being readied." She was patient with him, not hurrying him.

He ambled over toward her dressing table, frowned at it, then said, as much to himself as to her. "That's right; you don't have mirrors, do you?"

"No," she said.

"Vanity, that's what mirrors are for. The pope said so."

"Which pope?" asked Olivia, glad to have found something to distract him.

"The one at the tavern, last night I think it was. He said that mirrors were evil, and showed visions of Hell." He puzzled over this. "He was drunk when he said it."

"Very likely," Olivia said, taking him by the hand and leading him toward her bath. "I will shave you. How would you like that." There was a determination about her that indicated she would do this whether he approved or not.

"I need a shave," he said uncertainly as he went with her. "And a wash, even if it is vanity." He stopped, watching the two spouts that led from the hypocaust to the bath where the first streams of hot water were starting to pour. "Roman, isn't that?"

"Yes, but then, so am I." She guided him to a bench in the alcove and there she opened a small chest where a number of razors, oil jars and scrapers were stored. She selected one and found the honing block. She worked quickly and expertly to put the proper edge on the razor.

"We could have used you in the army," Drosos said as he watched her. "Most slaves aren't good at that. The swords lose their edges at once. You know how to do it. That'll stay sharp." He reached up to test it with his thumb and gave himself a small cut for his trouble. As he sucked the blood away, he looked at her speculatively.