My audience, if such they could be called, were drifting away.
“You are dusty from travel,” Phillip suggested, “why don’t you come with me?”
There was little I wanted more than a bath and a change of clothing, and the gold coins would help me to some simple dress at least.
We walked away, leading Ayesha, who had been very happy near the bazaar. Phillip spoke of the young aristocrat with whom I’d had words. “He is named Bardas, a close friend of Andronicus Comnenus, the cousin of the Emperor, Manuel I.”
A brilliant, erratic man, Andronicus was handsome, witty, and elegant, an athlete and warrior, beloved by the people who knew little of his true nature. He had been called the “Alcibiades of the Byzantine Age” and was adored by women, yet he was a perjurer, a hypocrite, and an intriguer.
He had gathered about him what was considered by many to be the intellectual and artistic elite…actually a group of bored men and libertines who were glib-tongued, talking much of art, literature, and music but without any deep-seated convictions upon any subject aside from their own prejudices. Mainly concerned with their own posturing, they were creatures of fad and whim, seizing upon this writer or that composer and exalting him to the skies until he bored them, then shifting to some other. Occasionally, the artists upon whom they lavished attention were of genuine ability, but more often they possessed some obscurity that gave the dilettantes an illusion of depth and quality. In the majority of cases what was fancied to be profound was simply bad writing, bad painting, or deliberately affected obscurity.
Suspected by Manuel of plotting against him, Andronicus had spent most of his life in exile. Now, at sixty, he had returned to the capital.
“Do not misunderstand,” Phillip warned. “Bardas not only has power but he is vindictive, and he is close to Andronicus, who can be fiendishly cruel.”
“It is unlikely I shall see him again,” I said. “I must find a way to earn money, and I shall rarely be in parts of the city where I am likely to meet him.”
“He prowls the markets,” my friend explained, “and might be anywhere. He dislikes women of his class and seeks out ugly, often dirty women from the slums. Except when with Andronicus, he avoids those who might be considered equals.
“He prefers women he despises and to whom he can be cruel without fear of retaliation. There has been talk of him in all quarters of the city.
“He maintains a group of ruffians who protect him. They are perjurers as well.”
Phillip’s house was a comfortable one, but ancient. The bath was a relic of Roman times, huge and luxurious. While I bathed he went to the market and bought clothes for me with the gold coins given by Bardas.
My problems were such as to discourage any man. My father was enslaved, suffering I knew not what indignities and torture. I was powerless against a castle that had defied the strongest kings, and the Old Man of the Mountain had spies everywhere. Even now they might know of me.
First, I must have a means of income. Behind lay the wreck of all I had done. Had our goods been sold, I should have been a wealthy man, free to move as I chose, even to hiring a group of mercenaries to assist me.
The Hansgraf was dead, all the members of the company I presumed dead, and if Suzanne lived, how could I go to her again with empty hands?
Chapter 44
*
MY TWO PIECES of gold provided me with adequate clothing, and for that I owe thanks to Bardas, whatever else I thought of him or he of me.
After giving myself over to pure enjoyment of the hot, scented water, I began to consider my problem. My Druidic training taught me the basic principles of reasoning: to first define the problem, for a problem clearly defined is already half solved, to gather evidence pro and con, to discard the irrelevant, to formulate a tentative solution, and finally to put the solution to the test.
My problems were several. To recover my strength and health, for I would need them to bring about my father’s escape; to obtain money to pay my way; to rescue my father from the Valley of the Assassins.
First, I must consider my route from Constantinople to the Elburz Mountains and the fortress of Alamut. Also, there was the question of the identity I must assume to conceal my purpose. Furthermore, I must explore all the methods of entering the fortress itself.
The man who was Safia’s source of information must be reached.
A slave brought food and wine, and wrapped in a thick robe, I seated myself on a marble bench and began to eat. Phillip joined me, bringing two books, the Chronographia and the Alexiad. The former I had read, the latter I had not.
The first was by Michael Psellus, a young man whose life was devoted to scholarship and court affairs in the great years of the Byzantine Empire. Born in 1018, he spent his life at the imperial court, often in positions of importance.
The Alexiad was an account of Emperor Alexius I from 1069 to 1118, written by his daughter, Anna Gomnena, one of the most brilliant women of her time.
Phillip broke bread and gestured to the books. “Books are rare in Byzantium now, but it was not always so. Once we had great schools, and books were plentiful, but the schools were abolished for religious reasons.”
“And now?”
“We have schools again, but not such as they used to be.”
He was a tall young man of slender, athletic build, with a narrow head and a long face. It was an austere face, but when he broke into a sudden smile it lighted up with humor.
His was an ancient family, although his father had been a mercenary soldier from Macedon. The house in which he lived had once belonged to Belisarius, Justinian’s great general.
Phillip was an attractive sort but of a type I could not understand, for he did nothing. To one of my energy, this was beyond belief. Moderately wealthy, he had family position and a possibility of office, yet he preferred to while away his time. There were things he thought of doing. Travel to the Nile, to the Phoenician ports, to write…he did none of them.
When I told him of my experiences beyond the Black Sea, he said, “You were fortunate to get into the city. Every effort is being made to keep those away who have no definite purpose for coming or money to pay their way.
“You will be unable to find anything to do, Kerbouchard. Business is closely regulated by guilds and the government.”
Manuel I, the present emperor, ruled well, but the city was past its era of greatness. I found much grandeur in the city, but sections were in ruins, inhabited only by thieves and beggars.
The most elegant shopping district lay away from the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus. The great central avenue with arcades on either side extended for two miles through the forums and past the shops. Clothiers, goldsmiths (who were also moneylenders), silversmiths, jewelers, potters, leatherworkers, all had shops in the arcades. The House of Lights, where the silk market was carried on, was a noted place and lighted all night long. Silk had been an imperial monopoly for many years, but weavers not under imperial control had moved into the field.
Long before the time of Troy, which lay not far away, this had been a trade crossing and market for products of Hind, China, Persia, Central Asia, Russia, and Europe. As early as 556 B.C. ships from China had come to the Persian Gulf to trade with Ur of the Chaldees.
The city of Constantinople, also known as Byzantium, was a rough triangle lying in Europe with its point toward Asia. Protected on the landward side by a wall of eleven gates, the peninsula lay between the Sea of Marmora and the Golden Horn, separated by the Bosphorus from Asia. Like Rome, Constantinople was built upon seven hills. On the sides facing the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn these hills were relatively steep, but they sloped more gently toward the Sea of Marmora.
Strabo, the geographer of ancient times, said the Bay of Byzantium resembled the horn of a stag, and when flooded by the rays of the setting sun, the water shone like a sheet of burnished gold, decorated by the tiny, gemlike ships crossing and recrossing the waters of the Horn.
“If you ha
ve not heard the story,” Phillip said, “of how the Bosphorus was named, it will amuse you. It is said that Io, the mistress of Zeus, was pursued by the wife of Zeus and driven from land to land until finally she came to the shores of the Bosphorus. Transformed into a cow, she plunged into the water and swam safely across, therefore the strait was given the name Bosphorus which means the Crossing of the Cow.”
The Golden Horn I found to be four miles long and about a quarter of a mile wide. Walls ran along the seaward sides of the city, but outside the walls and along the shores of the Golden Horn were the quays and warehouses where merchant vessels tied up or anchored. Beyond were the houses and resorts for seafaring men built upon pilings over the water. Farther back, where the city wall came down to the water, lay the imperial palace.
There were magnificent buildings—the Cathedral of St. Sophia, the new Basilica of Basil I, and the Church of the Holy Apostles. Near the area where Phillip had his home was the Royal Portico and the Royal Library. There were no public libraries in Constantinople.
Nor did I discover that easy intellectual freedom to which I had become accustomed in Córdoba. Life was less casual, restricted by law and custom.
We went one night to a wine shop, done in the extravagant style of the Byzantines, a place near the Royal Portico. A dozen men were seated about, drinking, and talking in subdued voices. We seated ourselves, and Phillip ordered a bottle of wine and listened to the talk. Some spoke of troubles to the north, some of trade, of their mistresses or the amount of wine they had drunk the night before. They spoke of gaming and the circus. Many seemed to be partisans of Andronicus, the cousin of the emperor who they hoped would replace Manuel I.
After the intellectual ferment of Córdoba the conversation seemed stilted and dull, and I soon became restless and ready to escape the city, yet I desperately needed money and tried to think of some way toward an income. As I listened, an idea came to me suddenly. If books were in short supply, why not copy some from memory?
How many did I remember? Their authors were hundreds of years dead and could only be pleased to have their ideas in circulation once more. If I could copy several of these books, I might present them to those in a position to aid my cause.
Monks and lay scribes were copying books, many for export, but these were of a religious nature. Books of other kinds were almost impossible to discover.
The door opened suddenly, and two men entered. Beyond the door I saw others, perhaps a bodyguard. The first was a handsomely built man with a beautifully shaped head and magnificent eyes. He possessed a regal quality that foretold his name. This was Andronicus Comnenus. Bardas was his companion.
They came to our table. Phillip arose hastily, but I, perhaps because Bardas was there, did not rise. It was my way to conform to the customs wherever I might be, but this time I remained seated.
“Rise!” Bardas ordered angrily. “You are in the presence of Andronicus Comnenus!”
“Respect him I do, but in my country it is not the custom for people of my order to rise in the presence of kings. Nor do kings interrupt when we are speaking.”
Phillip paled, and Bardas was shocked. It was to his credit that Andronicus was merely curious. “From what land do you come? This is a custom with which I am unfamiliar.”
“From Armorica, far west of the Frankish lands. Mine was a Druid family; in generations past we were priests and the counselors of kings.”
His eyes sharpened with interest, and he seated himself. “Yes, yes, of course! I should have remembered! I supposed all Druids to be dead long since.”
“Mine is a country where customs linger, but only a few pass on the old ritual and the old knowledge.”
“Learned by rote, is it not? The father reciting to and instructing the son?”
“From uncle to nephew in my case. The Druids were from my mother’s side.”
He was as intrigued as I would have been in a similar case. “You interest me. I should like to talk of this. It has been written the Druids possessed secret knowledge, no longer known, and had great powers of the intellect.”
Never had I attempted to use the knowledge in which I was trained as a child beyond the use of the memory itself. In Córdoba, to translate or copy a book was to make it mine, whether I willed it or no. As for the secret knowledge, I was among the few alive who had been trained in its use. Now might be the time.
Miracles were a matter of everyday acceptance here, and all manner of mysteries were believed in, some with reason, most without. There were in the city and its vicinity temples where ancient rites of Greece were still practiced. This I had learned while with the convoy from Greeks who were merchants.
Andronicus was steeped in intrigue, accustomed to the buying and selling of information. “I have only arrived in your city,” I said, “my wealth was lost when the Petchenegs attacked our caravan. I must find a means to recoup my losses or leave the city.”
“Oh? You were one of the merchants with the Hansgraf von Gilderstern?”
Surprised I was at his knowledge, but he merely smiled. “We are informed of such things. It must be so, for we have many enemies, and the steppes of Russia are the homeland of many. Also, there were those who looked forward to trade with the Hansgraf. Well, I am sorry.”
Phillip chose the moment to fill a glass for him, and one for Bardas.
Bardas also chose the moment. “There is reason to believe this man entered the city without passing the inspectors.”
Andronicus ignored him. “Caesar wrote of the Druids.” He glanced at me. “You have this knowledge?”
“My people were of the ancient blood. Such knowledge is passed generation after generation under a blood oath.”
He glanced at me thoughtfully, a measuring, probing glance. “I would give much for such knowledge.” He turned to Bardas. “Your purse,” he said.
Bardas’ features stiffened, but reluctantly he took out his purse. Andronicus hefted it in his palm an instant, then placed it before me. “Please accept this. We must talk soon.”
He arose. “Come, Bardas.” He lingered. “This ancient lore? I have heard of methods for developing the intellect, even for seeing the future. Is this true?”
“I do not know what you have heard.” I spoke carefully. “We have many secrets.”
They departed then, but the glance Bardas threw my way was pure hatred.
Phillip was silent, then he said, very quietly, “You are a man of many sides, Kerbouchard. I know not what to think of you.”
“Think this of me. I am a man who must survive, and along the roads I have learned a little, as a man will.”
“You lost much in the attack of the Cumans. I do not think you lost all.”
“The goods of this world, Phillip, are soon lost. Fire, storm, thieves, and war are ever with us, but what is stored in the mind is ours forever.
“I have lost even my sword. All that remains is what I have learned and some discretion in how it is to be used.”
“It would be dangerous to deceive Andronicus.”
“I shall not deceive him. Perhaps he will receive a little more than he expects, and a little less.”
We sat silent, and I said, “The man is brilliant, but a dilettante. He would have my knowledge in capsule form to be swallowed with one gulp. He wants the magic, Phillip, but not enough, not enough.”
“You do not know him. Whatever there is, he wants, and when he gets it he hungers for more.”
“When he discovers this knowledge of mine will take ten years to learn if he is an apt pupil, and fifteen if he is less than apt, his interest will wane.
“Such knowledge is born from pain, hunger, and discipline of mind and body. The pain and hunger he might stand, but the discipline? Never!”
“Can you see the future, Kerbouchard?”
“Who would wish to? Our lives hold a veil between anticipation and horror. Anticipation is the carrot suspended before the jackass to keep him moving forward. Horror is what he would see if he took hi
s eyes off the carrot.”
“You are gloomy.”
Of course, but it was not my way. Was it some feeling brought by Andronicus? Or Bardas?
“He is loved by the people. They wish him to be emperor.”
“The mob always wishes to make its hero the emperor, but no sooner is he emperor than they have another hero they wish in his place.
“If ever you become a hero to the mob, Phillip, remember this: Every man who cheers you carries in his belt the knife of an assassin.”
Chapter 45
*
ALONE IN THE room Phillip provided, I sat over a bundle of paper to begin earning my living. The purse Andronicus had given was ample, but I put no trust in gifts.
The favors of great men or women are like blushes on the cheeks of a courtesan—rare, nice to see, but not to be relied upon.
My possession of esoteric knowledge placed me in a position that, if handled with discretion, might move me into a position of importance. Andronicus might someday become emperor, and even now his power was second only to that of Manuel.
At this time I chose to make a copy of The Qabus Nama, a very excellent book by the Prince of Gurgan.
No other book taught so much about the practical business of living, and during the long trek across Europe I had read and reread its pages. Yet when I began, I chose one of the later chapters in which the Prince discusses the service of kings.
Scarcely had I begun when I remembered a thought I immediately wrote down. No doubt my present situation brought it to mind. If at any time your Prince should pretend your position with him is sure, begin from that moment to feel unsure.
There was a further thought that he who argues with a king dies before his destined time. These were thoughts to remember, and while I knew not the character of Manuel, beyond that he was a man who loved war and the chase, I placed no trust in Andronicus, nor Bardas.
Throughout the night I copied from memory the pages of the book so often read, but as I had been trained from infancy in total recall, this presented no obstacle. I had only to write a line or a thought from a book, and its contents returned to mind.
Novel 1984 - The Walking Drum (v5.0) Page 34