"You will do one, but not the other?" Belisarius asked harshly.
"I can see no way to do both," Athanatadies said.
"What you mean is that you will not act in both cases. You refuse to risk your position, and because I am in disfavor you are free to abuse your trust." He studied Athanatadies. "You enjoy this. You are reveling in your authority. It pleases you to be despotic."
"Those words could be fatal, General." Athanatadies sat straighter, one hand clutching the crucifix that hung around his neck.
"But there is no witness to them," Belisarius said gently. "Is there, Captain Vlamos?"
"I heard nothing disrespectful, General," said the Captain of the Guard.
"You will answer for this insolence, Captain," Athanatadies warned.
"Then I will have to reveal the offer you have made. I don't think it would be appreciated." His face was blank and he spoke in a monotone, but all three men understood.
"Since you insist," Belisarius said evenly, "we will strike your noxious bargain. But I warn you, Athanatadies, that your victory will be Pyrrhic; this is only the first skirmish—you have yet to enter battle."
Part of a series of clandestine orders from Kimon Athanatadies to the Guard Captain in charge of detained suspects.
In regard to the apostate pope called Tomus, the Censor in the name of the Emperor requires you to strip him bare in the narthex of Hagia Sophia and batter him with workmen's mallets until no bone within him is left unbroken. He is then to be hung from ropes in the narthex where those Christians of catechumen status may see the consequences of the loss of faith.
In regard to the musician Narsissos, his tongue is to be cut out and he is to be branded on the arm and the chest so that all will know he fouled his mouth with libelous and unholy songs. Also, the fingers of his right hand are to be broken so that he may no longer pluck a lyre.
In regard to the traduced slave Simones, he is to be taken to the public courtyard of the Censor's house where he is to be flayed in strips, so that his skin will hang in tatters from him. Let care be taken that he not die too soon, for when he is flayed, he is to be left for the curs to devour.
In regard to Pope Sylvestros, who is demented: let him be immured in one of the cells in the new extension of city walls where his prayers may strengthen the fortifications and where he will be no harm to anyone. Further, let him be visited often to hear what he is saying. If it is treasonous, then his cell must be walled up entirely.
In regard to the Roman sorceress Olivia Clemens, she is to be held for twenty-one days, until the next full moon, at which time she is to be sewn in a sack and taken into the Sea of Marmara. The boat is to leave the east end of the Bucolean Harbor at the end of the first quarter of the night. Because this is a dangerous sorceress, the sailors are to be told in advance that she is not to be listened to or believed.
In regard to the desecrater of tombs, the heretic Pthos, he is to be sewn into the skin of a fresh-killed goat and taken to the highest Guard tower on the city walls at dawn, and left there exposed to the sun for three entire days, at which time his corpse is to be thrown to the swine to eat, said swine then to be used to feed other heretic suspects.
In regard to Szoni, the smuggler of condemned books, he is to be taken to the main portal of the Emperor's Forum where he is to be flogged with parchment lashes until he dies.
10
At sunset Captain Vlamos came to Olivia's cell for the last time. He stood in the door, not quite certain what to say. "I have to tell them you will be ready," he said unhappily.
"I am not ready at all," Olivia said in a tranquil way. "I do not want to be… executed." She wondered what the Censor would think if he knew what a long and agonizing death he had ordered for her. She sighed and glanced toward the small, high window where a little fading light glowed. "Was it a fine day?"
"Very clear," said Captain Vlamos. "The night should be the same."
"Full moon," she sighed. "Will they let me keep my garments and my shoes?"
"If you request it, yes, if they are very simple. You may wear a dalmatica but not a paenula." He shifted to his other foot, disliking his task more with every passing moment.
"Then I do request it. I am not wanton." She went to the low pallet which had served as her bed. "Will Belisarius be notified?"
"He has been already," Captain Vlamos confessed. "I sent him word myself. He requested it—"
"You needn't apologize," Olivia told him with a faint smile. "I'm grateful to you." There was a very slim chance, she thought, that Belisarius would inform Niklos, and if Niklos learned of her fate, he would do everything he could think of to aid her.
"It's not enough for gratitude," Captain Vlamos said, not able to look at her. "If it had been up to me, I would not have issued the orders. It was the Censor's doing. He had to prove to Belisarius—"
"I know," Olivia said, cutting him short. "And he certainly has. At least Simones didn't escape; that's something."
"The Emperor would not—" Captain Vlamos began, then broke off. "Belisarius has filed three petitions on your behalf. He has said that all the charges against you are lies and that it is only the self-serving interests of those close to Justinian that have made it possible for this to happen." He looked at Olivia with remorse. "They would not permit me to testify."
Olivia did her best to look unconcerned. "It was good of you to make the offer. There are many others who would not, who did not."
"Do you blame them?" Captain Vlamos asked.
"Not really," Olivia said. There was an unreality to her situation. After so many, many years, she could not make herself comprehend that it was ending. This time it would be the true death, not that other. The five centuries she had survived were over. She shook her head at the idea; it was not possible.
"Great lady?" said Captain Vlamos.
"It's nothing," Olivia responded. "I… was remembering. There won't be much more time for memories, will there?"
"If it had been my decision, you would have left this place the day we brought you here." He paused. "I knew Captain Drosos before he went to Alexandria. He told about you, a little, and I thought he was a very lucky man."
Olivia lowered her head. "Thank you, Captain. And when Drosos returned, what then?"
"He was not himself," Captain Vlamos said with difficulty.
"Yes." She turned away, but said, "If you know where he is, tell him what happened, will you? If Belisarius does, it will be too painful for him. You need not say more than a few words. You might mention that I would never forget him." Then she shook her head. "No; don't say that. It would only trouble him."
"Great lady, I will be back… shortly." He was finding it impossible to speak.
"I will be here, Captain Vlamos." Her hopes were fading, but she was determined not to let him know it. She stared at the locked door when he left, as if the power of her eyes alone could open it. Then she lay back on the pallet and let her thoughts drift.
When had it been, that time when she was convinced she would die? Three hundred years ago? Commodus or Servius called himself Caesar then; Olivia was living in Ravenna, and there had been a riot. The reason for the riot escaped her, and she could not bring it to mind. She had been trying to return from the emporia where she was expecting goods to be delivered. She was by herself in an open chariot, and when the crowd began to throw rocks, she had been more worried for her horses than herself. And then she saw two men dragged from their chariots and trampled, reduced to a terrible flattened smear on the cobbles, and she knew that unless she was very careful and unusually lucky, she would suffer the same fate. She had pulled the chariot to the side of the road and cut the harness. She had ridden her lead horse through the streets at a gallop, her legs holding tight and her hands holding both reins and mane in a tangle. She had been cut and bruised, but she had escaped. If Niklos had not taught her how to handle horses so well, she would have been lost.
There would be no chariot, no horse for her now. She was facing water, the one irresistible force. At least, she thought in ironic consolation, it would be night, and they would let her keep her shoes, so that she would be able to swim, at least for a little while. Eventually she would lose strength, and when the sun rose, it would sap her vitality, and she would sink, to lie in the depths, paralyzed by the water.
As she forced her mind to other thoughts, she became aware of a distant voice singing one of the chants of Saint Ambrose. She listened to the droning melody with half her attention, and then sat up, for the first time realizing what the text of the chant was: "Lord God lend Your protection to those who venture on the deep waters." A single spurt of laughter escaped her before she was able to control that impulse, and she chided herself for clinging to forlorn dreams. The chant was repeated, and this time Olivia took heart from it.
"I am… not dead." The sound of her words in the little room startled her; she sounded resolute, determined. "All right," she said, "until the crabs nibble my toes, I—"
