In the Heart of Darkness

Aide did not object, nor interrupt. There were many things about humanity which Aide did not understand. Of no human, perhaps, was that more true than of Belisarius. Belisarius, the one human of the ancient past whom the crystals had selected as the key to preserving their future. The choice had been theirs, but they had been guided by the Great Ones.

Find the general who is not a warrior.

Belisarius, the great general.

That strange thing Aide was coming to know, slowly, haltingly, gropingly.

Belisarius, the man. That stranger thing Aide already knew.

So Aide waited patiently. Waited during that moment of sorrow for another man's anguish. Waited, patiently, not because it understood grief but because it understood the future. And knew that its own future was safeguarded not by the weapons it was showing the general, but by the nature of the man himself.

The moment passed. The man receded.

"Show me," commanded the general.

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Framed

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Chapter 4

CONSTANTINOPLE

Spring 530 AD

"You're positive?" demanded Theodora. "There's no mistake?"

The Empress of Rome leaned forward in her luxurious chair. No expression showed on her face beyond a certain tense alertness. But the knuckles of her hands, gripping the armrests, were white as snow, and the tendons stood out like cables.

Irene met the dark-eyed gaze squarely.

"I am certain, Your Majesty. I've only met Narses face-to-face on three occasions, but I know him quite well. I've studied the man for years, as one professional—and possible competitor—will study another. I could not possibly mistake his appearance, undisguised. Nor he mine, for that matter—that's why I took such elaborate precautions with our disguises."

Theodora transferred her piercing gaze to Hermogenes. The young general winced, shrugged.

"I can't vouch for it myself, Your Majesty, one way or the other. I've never met Narses." He took a deep breath. "But I do know Irene, and if she says it was Narses—"

The Empress stilled him with a curt gesture. The black eyes moved on to Maurice.

"It was Narses," growled Maurice. "I've met the man many times, Empress, in the service of my lord Belisarius. We've never been personally introduced, and I doubt if he'd recognize me. But he's a distinctive-looking man. I'd know him anywhere, as long as he was undisguised and the light was good." The grey-haired veteran took his own deep breath. "The man was undisguised. His face—his whole figure—was clearly visible the moment he stepped out of Balban's villa to wait for his palanquin. And the light was good enough. A half-moon in a clear sky."

The Empress looked away. Still, there was no expression on her face.

Irene spoke hesitantly: "It's possible he's playing a double game. Simply trying to draw out treason before he—"

The Empress shook her head. The gesture was short, sharp, final. "No. You do not understand, Irene. Narses and I have been close—very close—for many years. If he suspected treason, and wanted to draw it out, he would have told me. There is only one explanation for his presence at that meeting."

She turned, raised her head imperiously, looked at Maurice and Hermogenes.

"Thank you, gentlemen," she said. Her voice was cold, perhaps a bit choked. A bit, no more. The Empress turned her head slightly, staring at the wall.

"Now—please leave. I wish to be alone with Antonina and Irene."

The two men in the room immediately left. After they closed the door behind them, they looked at each other and puffed their cheeks with relief.

"Let the women handle it now, lad," muttered Maurice. He stumped down the corridor, Hermogenes in tow, making no attempt to soften his footfalls.

In the room, the Empress continued to stare blindly at the wall, maintaining her rigid posture, until the sound of the receding soldiers faded completely away. Then she broke, not like a stick, but like a stone might crumble. Before the first tears had even appeared, Antonina was out of her own chair and cradling Theodora's head against her stomach. The Empress clutched her, sobbing, her face buried completely in Antonina's skirts. The tiara on her head was pushed back onto her hair, making a mess of the elaborate coiffure.

Irene remained in her seat. Her face showed her own distress. But, when she made a motion to rise and come to Antonina's assistance, Belisarius' wife stopped her with a look and a small shake of the head.

Irene sat back, understanding. The understanding, then, brought a different distress.

Fear. A fear much like that of an experienced seaman sensing hidden reefs and treacherous currents.

Irene Macrembolitissa was one of the best professional spymasters in the Roman Empire. One of the very best intriguers—in an era where intrigue was so prevalent, and so skilled, that it would bequeath the very name Byzantine to the lexicon of future languages.