David Pilling - The Red Death

It was impossible to walk in company at all times, and as a natural loner I resented the claustrophobic atmosphere of life in guardrooms and barracks. As weeks turned into months, and still my enemies made no move, I started to think that my fears were imaginary. The Empress was co-ruler of a significant portion of the known world, and surely had higher things on her mind than me. As for Antonina, she was the most notorious adulteress in Constantinople. According to popular rumour she took entire legions of lovers to her bed, while her husband allowed himself to be cuckolded. Belisarius’s slave-like devotion to his dreadful wife, and apparent willingness to turn a blind eye to her infidelities, was the one black mark on his shining reputation among the people.

No, I persuaded myself, one man more or less was unlikely to mean anything to Antonina. Hundreds of acres of male flesh must have covered her since Carthage. She would have forgotten all about me.

In short, I let my guard slip.

Late one summer’s afternoon I was walking back alone from the Forum of Theodosius, where I had spent a few hours in the market, tasting food from distant lands and inspecting the slave-market. The sight of those poor wretches, shivering and virtually naked as they stood on the blocks waiting to be sold, reminded me of my first days in Constantinople. I found it difficult to believe that I had stood on the block myself, next to my poor mother, and that we had been sold like a couple of choice sweetmeats by Clothaire. I had not thought of him for years, and had to drink an extra cup of Spanish wine to rinse out the foul taste of his memory.

The forum was situated beside the Mese, and on the way back to the palace I strolled along one of the porticoed streets, gazing idly into shop windows. Street-hawkers and prostitutes attempted to sell me their wares, in vain since I had no money left. It was pleasant just to walk in the pleasant afterglow of a baking summer’s day and listen to the chatter of dozens of languages.

I was still mindful of security, and wore my helmet and chain mail. Caledfwlch, as always, sat snug in my sword-belt. Army life had filled out my spare frame. Few would have dared to try and tackle me, big and broad-shouldered as I was in those days.

Those few were waiting for me in an alley halfway down the street. They waited until I was almost past and then sprang out, five burly figures in dark grey robes, hooded mantles and masks that covered the lower part of their faces. They carried long white truncheons and ignored the panicked shouts of nearby citizens as they set about me.

Taken unawares, I reacted with the sharpness of one who had been waiting for this moment for months. I had no time to draw Caledfwlch before the nearest truncheon was swinging at my face. I ducked, kicked its wielder under the knee and whirled around with the sound of his muffled scream and the crack of bone still ringing in my ears.

The second man was equally fast. His truncheon smashed into my shoulder before I had a chance to react. My chain mail absorbed the worst of it, and I punched him in the throat, not wanting Caledfwlch to get tangled in his robes.

He staggered away as two more men came at me. I dived at the one to my left, ran him against the wall, grabbed his throat with my left hand and drew Caledfwlch, ready to stab into his gut.

That was a mistake. A hand gripped my wrist from behind. A heavy blow rang against my helmet. Dazed, my grip on the man’s throat slackened. Clumsy fingers tore at my chin-strap. More blows rained down on my head and body. Finally the strap loosened, and my helmet was wrenched off.

“Now!” someone hissed.

The edge of a truncheon cracked against my temple, and I was plunged into darkness.

I surfaced to find myself in the blackest depths of Hell. My head throbbed abominably and I could taste dried blood on my lips. All was darkness. I was flat on my back on some hard surface and could scarcely move. My back felt strangely warm, and my wrists and ankles were tightly bound by leather straps that only grew tighter if I struggled.

“He’s awake,” said a male voice. I gasped as the cloth over my eyes was ripped away, and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sudden light.

I was in some dank underground cellar with rough stone walls, lit by a smoking brazier and a torch set in a bracket on the wall to my left. To the right was a narrow flight of steps, leading to a large iron-bound door.

The room was filled with an acrid stench, the source of which only became apparent when I looked down to see what I was lying on.

An involuntary scream ripped from my throat. I was naked and strapped to a rectangular iron griddle. The griddle was set on top of a stone base, about four feet high, with a vent in one side. Under the griddle was a bed of charcoal. The purpose of the gently smoking brazier was obvious, as was the intent of the three men standing either side of my hellish bed.

They wore dark grey robes, the same worn by those who had attacked me in the street, and had pushed their hoods back to reveal tough, scarred faces – the faces of men who would do almost anything for money. My scream was cut off as I looked up at their grim expressions.

“Well met, Coel,” said Theodora.

The Empress sat on a wooden chair at the opposite end of the cellar. Her hair was pinned up, but otherwise she was dressed plainly by her standards in sober black. A fluted wine jug and a bowl full of glazed fruit rested on a little stool beside her chair.

God knows where my clothes and armour had gone, but Caledfwlch lay across her lap inside its leather sheath. I howled again, and strained uselessly against my restraints until my eyes bulged from their sockets.

“It is my understanding,” she said, popping a piece of fruit into her mouth, “that the bread baked for the army was ruined by the time it had reached Methone. John of Cappadocia was in charge of that undertaking.”

She smiled languidly. I noticed she was wearing no cosmetic. “John is a fine minister, but a poor baker. I am rather better. Baking is not a talent you might expect to find in an Empress, is it?”

I swallowed, desperately trying to suppress my panic and find words. This mad bitch that Justinian married in an evil hour intended to bake me alive on her foul griddle. I had to say something, anything, to deter her until help arrived.

Help from where? Who was going to come and rescue me? Theodora’s hirelings would have taken care to bring me here in secret. Doubtless I was not the first of her enemies to be brought here and done to death, while she watched and relished every moment.

“Majesty,” I babbled, “why are you doing this? I am not your enemy.”

She stretched luxuriantly, like a black cat. “No? You might have been my friend. I gave you the opportunity, but you threw it back in my face. That is twice you have insulted me. Recently you insulted my friend Antonina. You are impertinent, Britannicus. It cannot be tolerated.”

“Antonina tried to seduce me,” I protested, “she wanted to use me to cuckold her husband, and I was not the first! She is a whore and an adulteress!”

Theodora rested her chin delicately on her fist. “She was a whore,” she replied, “and a good one. I should know. We worked together sometimes, servicing the great men of this city. And those who were not so great, when times were hard. Women do what they must to survive in this world. Feed the fire.”

One of her bullies picked up a little shovel and dug some charcoal from the brazier. Then he emptied the shovel into the little vent on the side of the stone base. A moment later the bed of charcoal under my griddle flared with heat, and I yelped as a leaping flame scorched my naked back.

“I have done nothing wrong!” I bawled. “How could I agree to spy on Belisarius, whom I had already sworn an oath of loyalty to? Why should I have coupled with you, years ago, just because you demanded it?”