Tales of Byzantium

by Eileen Stephenson

  The ambassador knelt before her father and spoke to Romanus in Greek with a coarse foreign accent.

  “Basileus, I bear greetings from the archon of my people,” the ambassador began, using Romanus’s formal title. He continued on in the flowery language required of those addressing the Roman emperor before eventually getting to the issue at hand—a point of disagreement with the strategos, the military governor, of the Cherson district on a piece of land both claimed.

  Emperor and ambassador took the measure of each other. Romanus, every bit the soldier the ambassador was, listened to his request, and tilted his head courteously. After a brief consultation with the court secretary at his elbow, Romanus announced his decision.

  “After hearing your request, I find your appeal has some merit. However, our strategos’s position on this matter is also valid. To settle this dispute, if your people still want this land, they may have it on payment of a thousand gold nomisma to the strategos. Will this be acceptable?”

  The ambassador bent low, murmuring his acceptance of the offer, his cold and opaque eyes reminding Helena of a lizard’s.

  Romanus appeared pleased. “Excellent. My secretary will compose letters to our strategos and to your king with our decision.”

  Helena looked at her father, confused. He had called the Pecheneg ruler a “king,” but the ambassador had named him “archon.” She recalled Constantine calling him an archon, too. Glancing at her husband, she saw he was flushed with irritation at this careless misnomer.

  The ceremonies for the day soon concluded, and the imperial family returned to the dressing rooms, where they exchanged their expensive garments for casual attire. Helena, distracted when the heel of her shoe caught in the hem of her dress, bumped into Constantine on her way out.

  “Oh, please excuse my clumsiness, my lord husband,” she stammered, not meeting his eyes. She felt a flush rise on her cheeks. She was still embarrassed at their exchange weeks earlier.

  “It is nothing, Lady Helena.” He looked down at Helena, uncomfortably reminded of his angry treatment of her.

  Impulsively, he asked, “May I speak with you a moment?”

  He guided her into an empty alcove where they could be alone.

  “I wanted to apologize to you for the harshness of my words the last time we spoke. It was unkind of me.”

  Helena stared, mouth agape. He was apologizing to her after she had spent the past few weeks feeling guilty about how he had been treated by both her and her father. She closed her mouth and cleared her throat.

  “I must apologize as well. I should have realized how you felt. It can’t be easy to be pushed aside as though you don’t matter.”

  “No,” he said, a rueful frown on his face. “No, it isn’t.”

  He looked into the hall, deserted now except for Jacobus, who was trying not to be too obvious while studying this lowly emperor and his empress. Constantine turned back to Helena, stretching out an arm to her.

  “May I escort you back to the gynaeceum?”

  In the awkward silence that followed as they walked the brick pathways to the Daphne’s gynaeceum, Helena thought to ask Constantine about the menacing ambassador of the Pechenegs.

  “You thought he looked dangerous?” he said with an eyebrow arched. “Little wonder, he is a Pecheneg after all. Do you know anything of them?”

  “No more than their name. My father and Christopher do not speak of state affairs with us women. Are they so terrible?”

  Constantine raised an eyebrow at her ignorance. “They are far worse than the Rus or any other Turks, even though they are related to the Turks. The Rus and Turks fear the Pechenegs more than anyone else. That land your father let them have today may have been worth ten thousand nomisma or more; but it was worth it to let them have it for only a thousand. A war would cost a great deal more.”

  “How have you learned so much about the Pechenegs?” Helena asked. “I know almost nothing about the empire’s enemies.”

  The side of his mouth quirked up, amused at the question.

  “My father taught me when I was very young to pay attention to what happened at audiences. That’s where I started learning about them.”

  They reached the entrance to the Daphne but lingered in conversation.

  “I’ve made my own notes about the various peoples surrounding the empire—Turks, Pechenegs, Bulgarians, Alans, Armenians, Hungarians, Persians, and the Franks. I have several histories written by others, too.” He paused, uncertain about what she might say. “If you’re interested, you may visit my library and read them.”

  Limpid blue eyes gazed down at her, his forgiveness of her for the sins of her father washing over her. She felt as though things were starting afresh between them.

  “I would like that. Sophia’s time is drawing near, and she stays in her rooms much of the day. I often have hours to fill. Thank you.”

  Helena gave a deep curtsy, turned, and walked up the steps to the Daphne Palace, where the doorkeeper, an old eunuch named Maurice, opened its carved cedar doors for her. She glanced back to see Constantine speaking with Jacobus as they returned to their own small palace building.

  ***

  “The Pechenegs, although a tribe of the Turks, cause the other Turks to tremble with great fear since they have been brought close to destruction by them. Likewise, the Rus fear the Pechenegs above all others since they have often raided their lands, stealing cattle, horses, and sheep, wreaking great ruin. Therefore, the Pechenegs can hold the Turks and the Rus in check when the empire gives them enough generous gifts.”

  Helena read Constantine’s notes with fascination. The books she had available to read in the gynaeceum were limited to the Bible and other religious writings, and to the few romantic stories favored by Sophia. Constantine’s library opened a door to a world she had not realized existed.

  Constantine peered over the edge of his desk at his wife as she perused his writings. Seeing her excitement at learning from them pleased him more than he had expected. His eye lingered on hair the color of golden flames.

  “From what you’ve written, it sounds as though the Pechenegs are the most vicious enemies the empire has.”

  He nodded. “Yes. The rest of the Turks and the Bulgarians are closer to us and bad enough, but the Pechenegs are the worst, I think. They’re never reluctant to resort to the most brutal torture or killing. So I was not surprised when you said you thought their ambassador was dangerous. They all are.”

  Helena looked at Constantine thoughtfully. “Do you think they would attack the empire?”

  Constantine put his quill down to consider his answer. “Not now. Your father, and mine before him, kept the peace with them by sending generous gifts each year—gold, silver, silks, wine. But we can never forget they are waiting only until the empire is too weak to defend itself. When that moment occurs, God help us because no one else will. They are the worst of the worst.”

  Jacobus entered the room then with wine and small cakes for them to share. The two ate and drank quietly as they spoke of the Roman Empire’s many complicated affairs. As they finished eating, Helena rose to leave.

  “I must return to the gynaeceum; Sophia will want me in attendance.”

  “Of course,” said Constantine. He rose to escort her out, brushing crumbs from his tunic.

  Constantine escorted Helena outside into the crisp fall air, where her attendant waited. In the sunlight, he noticed a few faint freckles spread across her cheeks, and he almost reached out to stroke them.

  “If you would like, I have notes on the Bulgarians and the Alans and others you can read.” Constantine ran a diffident hand through his dark hair, pushing back a strand that had fallen forward.

  Helena beamed up at him. “I would like to,” she said. “It will depend on when Sophia has no need of my company, but I should be able to return in the next day or two.”

  ***

  Over the next few weeks, Jacobus busied himself finding delicacies to serve during Helena�
�s many visits to his emperor—late apples, small loaves of bread spread with a lemon-and-honey conserve, olives in honey vinegar, almonds toasted with cinnamon.

  Constantine, a man with a hearty appetite, did not notice the change to richer fare. Helena’s interest in his writings when no one else besides Jacobus had even cared what he was doing soothed his neglected soul. Her genuine admiration for his paintings and drawings eased the feeling that his existence had become meaningless.

  Helena realized that no one since her mother had died years earlier had treated her as a person with intelligence, until now. Her father and Christopher loved her but never spoke to her of important matters. Constantine had opened a new world for her.

  In mid-November, Helena and Constantine sat near a brazier in Constantine’s study, sipping warm spiced wine Jacobus had served.

  “Tomorrow is the start of Advent. There will be a ceremony at the Hagia Sophia for it,” said Helena. “Do you have a description of that one yet? Now that you have me thinking about the ceremonies, I want to be sure I do it properly.”

  Her husband gave her a quizzical look. “After nine years, you don’t recall how it is done?” he asked with a teasing tone, nudging her foot with his.

  She nudged his foot back, smiling sheepishly. “I’ve just done what I was told to. I never thought to be attentive. I think I’ve been dressed in red gowns for them.”

  “Yes, we do wear red, all of us, as well as the priests and patriarch. We’ll process from the palace to the Hagia Sophia. The most important thing to remember is the order we are in—starting with the least important to the most important.”

  Constantine looked down at his cup, swirling the heated wine within. “After the court officials and senators, the women enter, and as empress, you will be the last among the women since Sophia won’t be there. Your father and the patriarch will be last, surrounded by priests with many candles and much incense.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Why all the worry about going in a certain order? I can understand some of it, but whether one senator goes ahead of or behind another seems silly.”

  Constantine reached up and rubbed his forehead before leaning forward, elbows on knees, to explain.

  “The empire and all its people have a certain order to it, a certain standard. If the processions are out of order, then the people witnessing it will see the disorder and think the emperor is weak, that the empire is weak. One senator placed behind a more senior one may appear to be a small thing, but those small mistakes can lead to greater ones and to the downfall of the emperor, or even the empire.”

  Helena gazed at his earnest face, bemused at his intensity. The air was chilly, but she felt warm in his company.

  “I’d never thought of it that way before.”

  “I’m sure you will do well tomorrow,” he said and reached a hand out to squeeze hers. His hand lingered while he looked into her eyes, giving her a cautious smile. Helena turned her hand over so their palms touched and fingers entwined, returning that affection. The thought of how well their hands fit together hung in her mind.

  “Helena, in September, I know I spoke harshly to you when I thought you were . . .” He coughed to clear his throat. He looked unsure of how to approach this delicate topic.

  She nodded at him, too shy now to speak of her own desire.

  He leaned in closer to her, their faces less than a handsbreadth apart, speaking so only she could hear his words. “But after nine years, like a poorly managed court ceremony, I think matters are out of order between us. It is time we were bedded.”

  He placed a finger under her chin and leaned in to kiss her. Helena inclined her body toward his as Constantine’s arm reached around her, a yearning for him welling up from deep within her. His kiss pleaded for her acceptance, and her body gave its assent.

  Constantine pulled back to look at her. She wondered if her eyes had the same eager look his did; she thought they must. Helena reached up to cup his face and said, “Yes. But when?”

  He smiled and kissed her again. Helena was giddy with delight at the feel of his lips on hers, still longing for them when he leaned back into his chair.

  “Tomorrow night, after the Advent ceremony. Everyone will be tired from it. I have a plan. I’ll come late to your room. Just be sure you’re alone.”

  ***

  The next night, two hooded figures wrapped in eunuch’s robes walked the paths of the palace grounds through milky moonlight. A monastery semantron sounded in the distance, marking the fourth hour since sunset. One of the two carried a pitcher of wine, spilling a spotted trail as they walked. The other held a lantern to light their way.

  “I’ll go first with the wine and tell the old doorkeeper Maurice I thought he’d like to share a few cups on this cold night. I’ll get him into his chamber and keep his back to the door so he can’t see you pass through the vestibule.” Jacobus rubbed his beardless cheek and arched an eyebrow in amusement at Constantine. “The robes help in the dark, but no one seeing your beard would mistake you for one of us.”

  Constantine snorted.

  “You remember where I told you her room is? You are fortunate she is near the top of the stairs and Sophia and Christopher at the other end of the floor.”

  “I remember. How long before you think I can pass?” Constantine eyed the pink granite walls and arched marble façade of the Daphne Palace, imposing in its grandeur. He thought he saw a soft light in the window Jacobus had said was Helena’s.

  “Not long. Maurice enjoys his wine, and he’ll be happy I stopped by.”

  Constantine shivered in the shadow of the small Church of St. Stephen that lay in the center of the Daphne’s courtyard as Jacobus knocked and was let into the building. He waited until he felt confident the two men were enjoying the wine.

  He gently opened the heavy door a few inches, listening for any sign of Maurice’s attention to it. Hearing only the eunuchs’ raucous laughter, he opened it wider and entered. He passed by the doorkeeper’s room, slipping past without the old man noticing. His soft leather shoes made little sound on the worn marble stairs.

  Constantine wondered if he had lost his mind, sneaking into the Daphne that night. The palace was his anyway by birthright, Helena had been his wife for nine years—though he had never spent a single night with her, and she was the daughter of the man who had usurped his throne; none of this made any sense. Except when he thought of her soft lips, her hair the color of sunset, the way her body had felt when she leaned against him, and even more, how he had felt when she leaned against him. Then it made the most miraculous sense.

  In a shadowy corridor he had not visited since childhood, he saw the door Jacobus said was hers and knocked lightly. In an instant, he entered his wife’s room.

  They stood close, listening for anyone who might have awakened at Constantine’s entrance, but heard only the sounds of the imbibing eunuchs. A brazier in a corner radiated warmth, and a single beeswax candle lit the room. He looked down at Helena, exhilarated at his own audacity.

  She appeared like an exquisite angel in a church mosaic, dressed in a linen shift with her hair falling around her shoulders. He flung off the heavy eunuch’s cloak he wore and, putting his hands around her slim waist, pulled her to him. He pressed his lips to hers in a long, slow kiss that felt like he was experiencing heaven.

  He finally pulled back. “I thought tonight would never come.” He was not sure whether he meant he never thought he would have wanted this night with her, or if it was the anticipation over the past day that had made the time go slowly. Now, with her warm in his arms, it did not matter.

  She reached up to stroke his cheek, speaking in a whisper. “I thought of you all day. I feared you would not come.”

  He gave her a half smile. “Did I not say I would?”

  “You did. But you were not willing a few months ago; you might have changed your mind.”

  “Does this feel like I’ve changed my mind?” he said, kissing her again, hungrily. The scent of
her rose perfume filled his head while his hands pressed her hips close. He could feel her body soften in his arms, and all the pent-up desire, all the yearning for a lover surged through him like a great wind howling through the streets of Byzantium.

  Without thinking, he found himself struggling to take off his clothes while somehow continuing to kiss Helena. She pulled back and stopped him with a finger to his lips.

  “Husband, you’ve explained so many imperial ceremonies to me. Is there one for when an emperor first beds his empress?”

  Constantine shook his head, not in disagreement so much as to slow the drumbeat in his head. What had she said? He bent his head so their foreheads touched and his hands gripped her shoulders, trying to slow his breath.

  “Ceremony. Is there a ceremony?” He tried to catch his thoughts. “I’m not sure. There hasn’t been a marriage newly consummated between an emperor and his empress since my father’s time. Let me think about this.”

  Constantine gazed into Helena’s eyes as his mind raced over what such a ceremony might be like.

  “Imperial ceremonies take place in a certain room and have particular people participating in them,” he murmured.

  “Hmm, I think we are the only two people who need to be in this one,” Helena laughed, her hand on his cheek. “And I don’t know where else we could go.”