him in the Church of St. Michael and keep him there.”
She cast a glance at the man in question. Theo-dosius was standing twenty feet away, conferring with two of the deacons who served as his ecclesiastical aides. Zeno, the commander of the Knights Hospitaler, was standing next to him, along with two of his own subordinates.
Antonina was pleased to note that Theodosius seemed neither agitated nor apprehensive.
I don’t know about his theology, but the man’s got good nerves. He’ll need them.
She looked back at Hermogenes. “What about Ambrose?”
Hermogenes scowled. “The bastard’s holed up at the army camp in Nicopolis. With all of his troops.”
Ashot and Euphronius arrived just in time to hear the last words.
“Only thing he can do, for the moment,” said Ashot. “He’s a general in the army, subject to the Empire’s stringent rules governing mutiny. Whereas”—the Armenian cataphract sneered—“the Patriarch can give sermons, and claim afterward that he was just preaching to his flock. No fault of his if he was misunderstood when he denounced the Whore of Babylon. He was just cautioning men against sin. He certainly didn’t intend for a huge mob to assault the Empress’ representative. He is shocked and distressed to learn that the unfortunate woman was torn limb from limb.”
By this time, Theodosius and Zeno had joined the little circle around Antonina. “It’s happened before,” commented the Knights Hospitaler. “The prefect Petronius was stoned by the mob, during Augustus’ reign. And one of the Ptolemies was dragged out into the streets and assassinated. Alexander II, I think it was.”
Antonina pursed her lips. “How long do you think Ambrose will sit on the sidelines, Ashot?”
The commander of her Thracian bucellarii shrugged. “Depends on his troops, mostly. Ambrose only has three options.” He held up his thumb. “One—accept his dismissal.”
“Not a chance,” interjected Hermogenes. “I know the man. Sittas
She cast a glance at the man in question. Theo-dosius was standing twenty feet away, conferring with two of the deacons who served as his ecclesiastical aides. Zeno, the commander of the Knights Hospitaler, was standing next to him, along with two of his own subordinates.
Antonina was pleased to note that Theodosius seemed neither agitated nor apprehensive.
I don’t know about his theology, but the man’s got good nerves. He’ll need them.
She looked back at Hermogenes. “What about Ambrose?”
Hermogenes scowled. “The bastard’s holed up at the army camp in Nicopolis. With all of his troops.”
Ashot and Euphronius arrived just in time to hear the last words.
“Only thing he can do, for the moment,” said Ashot. “He’s a general in the army, subject to the Empire’s stringent rules governing mutiny. Whereas”—the Armenian cataphract sneered—“the Patriarch can give sermons, and claim afterward that he was just preaching to his flock. No fault of his if he was misunderstood when he denounced the Whore of Babylon. He was just cautioning men against sin. He certainly didn’t intend for a huge mob to assault the Empress’ representative. He is shocked and distressed to learn that the unfortunate woman was torn limb from limb.”
By this time, Theodosius and Zeno had joined the little circle around Antonina. “It’s happened before,” commented the Knights Hospitaler. “The prefect Petronius was stoned by the mob, during Augustus’ reign. And one of the Ptolemies was dragged out into the streets and assassinated. Alexander II, I think it was.”
Antonina pursed her lips. “How long do you think Ambrose will sit on the sidelines, Ashot?”
The commander of her Thracian bucellarii shrugged. “Depends on his troops, mostly. Ambrose only has three options.” He held up his thumb. “One—accept his dismissal.”
“Not a chance,” interjected Hermogenes. “I know the man. Sittas