‘Ah,’ said Plautus Bonosus again, glancing across the room. ‘The Rhodian. He does get about. Well, if that matter is attended to . . . ’
‘My mule and all my goods,’ said Rustem, ‘were left behind when we were forced to flee. I have just arrived in Sarantium this morning, you see.’
The wife turned to him then, eyeing him thoughtfully. Rustem met her gaze briefly and turned away. The women here appeared to be rather more . . . present . . . than those in other places he’d been. He wondered if it had to do with the Empress, the power she was said to wield. A common dancer once. It was a remarkable story, really.
The Senator turned to his son. ‘Cleander, you will excuse yourself to our hostess and leave now, before the dinner is served. You will ascertain the whereabouts of this man’s animal and goods and have them brought to our home. You will then wait there for me to arrive.’
‘Leave? Leave already?’ said the boy, his voice actually breaking. ‘But I haven’t even . . . ’
‘Cleander, there is a possibility you might be branded or exiled for this. Get the accursed mule,’ said his father.
His wife laid a hand on his arm. ‘Shh,’ she murmured. ‘Look.’
A hush had descended over the large room full of animated, pleasure-seeking Sarantines. Plautus Bonosus looked past Rustem’s shoulder and blinked in surprise.
‘Now how do they come to be here?’ he asked of no one in particular.
Rustem turned. The silence became a murmurous rustling as those assembled—fifty or more—bowed or sank low in acknowledgement of the man and the woman who stood now in the entrance to the room with the hostess behind them.
The man was very tall, smooth-shaven, compellingly handsome. He was bareheaded, which was unusual and showed his thick golden hair to good effect. He wore a knee-length, deep-blue tunic slashed to show gold at the sides, with gold hose and black boots like a soldier and a dark green panelled dress cloak, pinned at one shoulder with a blue gem, large as a man’s thumbnail. He held a white flower in one hand, for the wedding.
The woman beside him had her own yellow hair gathered up loosely under a white mesh cap, with artful ringlets spilling down. Her floor-length garment was crimson and there were jewels at the hem. She wore gold at her ears and a necklace of gold with pearls and a golden cloak. She was nearly as tall as the man. A sallow, lean fellow materialized at the man’s elbow and whispered briefly in his ear as those attending the celebration rose from homage.
‘Leontes,’ said the Senator softly to Rustem. ‘The Strategos.’
It was a courtesy. Rustem could not have known this man, though for years he had heard of him—and feared him, as did everyone in Bassania. There was a glow cast by renown, Rustem thought, something almost tangible. It was Leontes the Golden (and the origin of the name became clearer now) who had comprehensively beaten the last fully mustered northern army east of Asen, almost capturing the Bassanid general, forcing a humiliating peace. The general had been invited to kill himself when he returned to Kabadh, and had done so.
It was Leontes who had also won lands (and productive, taxable citizens) for Valerius in the great spaces stretching all the way west and south to the fabled Majriti deserts, who had brutally quelled incursions from Moskav and Karch, who had been honoured—they’d heard of it even in Kerakek—with the most elaborate Triumph an Emperor had ever granted a returning Strategos since Saranios had founded this city.
And who had been given the tall, ice-elegant woman beside him as a further prize. They knew of the Daleinoi in Bassania, as well—even in Kerakek, which was on the southern trade routes, after all. The family’s wealth had begun with a spice monopoly, and the eastern spices usually came through Bassania, north or south. Ten or fifteen years ago, Flavius Daleinus had been killed in some appalling fashion at a time of Imperial succession. A fire of some kind, Rustem recalled. His elder sons had been killed or crippled in the same attack, and the daughter was . . . here in this room, brilliant and golden as a prize of war.
The Strategos gestured briefly and the dark-haired serving girl hurried over with wine for him, her cheeks flushed with excitement. His wife also accepted a cup, but stayed behind as her husband stepped forward so that he appeared alone now, as if an actor on a stage. Rustem saw Styliane Daleina glancing around slowly, registering, he was certain, presences and alignments utterly invisible to him. Her expression was as unrevealing as that of the Senator’s wife, but the impression given by the two women was in no other way the same. Where the wife of Plautus Bonosus was reserved and detached, the aristocratic spouse of the most powerful soldier in the Empire was cold and brilliant and even a little frightening. Awesome wealth and great power and violent death were in her lineage. Rustem managed to look away from her just as the Strategos began to speak.
‘Lysurgos Matanios once said that it is a finer thing to see a friend well wed than to sip from even the rarest wine,’ Leontes said, lifting his cup. ‘It is a pleasure to enjoy both today,’ he added, pausing to drink. There was laughter: well-bred from the courtiers, more obviously excited from the theatre and army people.
‘He always uses that line,’ murmured Bonosus to Rustem, drily. ‘I wish I knew why he was here, though.’
As if answering, the Strategos went on. ‘It seemed proper to stop and lift a cup in honour of the marriage of the only man in the army who could talk so much and so well and so much and . . . so much, that he extracted the arrears of payment for the soldiers from the Precinct coffers. I do not urge anyone ever to put themselves in the position of being persuaded by the tribune of the Fourth Sauradian to do anything . . . unless they have a great deal of time to spare.’
Laughter again. The man was smooth as a courtier but his manner was direct and unassuming, the teasing rough and easy as a soldier’s. Rustem watched the military men in the room as they gazed at the speaker. There was adoration written in their features. The wife, motionless as a statue now, seemed vaguely bored.
‘And I fear,’ Leontes was saying, ‘that we do not have a great deal of time today, so the Lady Styliane and I are not able to join you in sampling the delights prepared by Strumosus of the Blues in a Green household. I do commend the factions for this rare conjunction and hope it bodes well for a peaceful racing season.’ He paused, an eyebrow raised for emphasis: this was an authority figure, after all. ‘We came that we might salute the groom and his bride in Jad’s most holy name, and to convey a piece of information that may add in some small way to the felicity of the day.’
He paused again, sipped his wine. ‘I addressed the bridegroom as tribune of the Fourth Sauradian just now. I was behind the tidings, as it happens. It seems that some Supreme Strategos or other, anxious to put a certain mellifluous voice far away from his overburdened ears, rashly signed papers this morning affirming the promotion of the tribune Carullus of Trakesia to his new rank and appointment . . . as chiliarch of the Second Calysian, such position to be assumed in thirty days . . . which will allow the new chiliarch time here with his bride, and a chance to lose some of his increased pay at the Hippodrome.’
There was a shout of pleasure and laughter, nearly drowning out the last words. The bridegroom came quickly forward, his face flushed, and knelt before the Strategos.
‘My lord!’ he said, looking up, ‘I am . . . I am speechless!’
Which elicited its own burst of laughter from those who knew the man. ‘However,’ added Carullus, lifting a hand, ‘I do have a question I must ask.’
‘Speechlessly?’ said Styliane Daleina, from behind her husband. Her first comment, softly spoken, but everyone heard it. Some people did not need to raise their voices to be heard.
‘I lack that skill, my lady. I must use my tongue, though with far less skill than my betters. I only wish to ask if I may decline the promotion.’
Silence fell. Leontes blinked.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said. ‘I would have thought . . .’ He let the