by Judith Tarr
18.
This must be how one felt after love: this glorious release, this utter lassitude. Alf’s power, sated, returned docilely to its cage; he turned from it to the outer world, sighing a little, suddenly aware of his body’s weariness.
Rough hands seized him. Voices roared in his ears, shaping slowly into words. “Liar! Impostor! Latin spy!”
The hall was in an uproar. Even the Emperor was on his feet, howling like a beast. “Kill him! Kill him!”
The hands began to drag him away. They belonged to Varanrgians, he realized. Even yet he was too numb and spent to be afraid. The last thing he saw before a scarlet darkness enfolded him was the Emperor’s mad rage, and beyond it the Moor’s wide white smile.
As the tumult receded, Alf struggled free of the Guardsman’s cloak that had wrapped him about. They half dragged, half carried him down a long glittering corridor, marble-cold and deserted.
Alf fought to walk; after a step or two they let him, keeping still a firm grip on his arms. “Where are you taking me?” he asked them.
Neither replied. Nor did their faces tell him anything. The eyes of both were blue and hard.
The palace was a labyrinth, their passage through it tortuous and interminable. Once they passed from building to building under the sodden sky. Alf’s feet ached; he might have laughed at himself, the tireless pilgrim, grown too soft from his months in the City to walk any proper distance.
Abruptly the Guards halted. A door opened; they thrust him through it and slammed it behind him.
He had fallen to one knee. He straightened slowly, shaking back his hair. This was no prison cell. A reception room, he thought, furnished with a chair or two, a wine table, a divan beside a glowing brazier. The walls shimmered with mosaics, beasts and birds in a garden, a golden fish leaping high out of a fountain spray.
His eyes returned from the wall to the divan. On it reclined a languid smiling figure. “Greetings,” said Michael Doukas.
There was a chair nearby; Alf took it.
“No doubt of it,” observed his host, “you have style. Courage, too, or should I call it folly? To prophesy so calmly, in such exquisite detail, and to his own face, the downfall of an emperor.”
“He asked for it,” Alf said.
“He asked for a web of soothing lies. It’s well for you, sir prophet, that he never asked your true name or nation, and that his sorcerer knows you only as the healer of Saint Basil’s.”
Alf’s entrails knotted. Michael Doukas smiled, arching a delicate brow. “So, Alfred of Saint Ruan’s, is your courage not absolute? Or do you fear for your friends in House Akestas?”
Alf clamped his jaw, but the other read the question in his eyes.
“I have my spies. The Doge admires you, I understand, though you’ve never performed for him as you have for us. We’re enormously flattered, if somewhat disconcerted. Has anyone ever called you Cassandra?”
“Yes.”
“Indeed?” Michael Doukas was interested. “Someday you’ll have to tell me the tale. I plan to survive this, you see. The others will tell themselves that you lied, that all your dooms were simply empty words. I shall build upon them.”
“Can you be sure that I tell the truth?”
“How not? I’ve read a book, and I’ve heard a tale or two. I know what you are, Master Alfred. Alf—Theo—who named you so wisely and so well?”
“A monk in Anglia and the Master of Saint Basil’s.” Alf raised his chin. “You aren’t alone in your wisdom, sir. The Moor too knows what I am.”
“What. Not precisely who. Or,” added Michael Doukas, “where.”
“So,” Alf said. “What will you do with me?”
The dark eyes glinted upon him. “I have you in my power, don’t I? It’s not often I have to deal with one quite so good to look on. More than good, if truth be told. What is it like to look in the mirror and see what you see?”
He expected an answer. Alf gave it, shortly. “Maddening.”
Michael Doukas laughed. “Indeed! You’re behind it and can’t enjoy it. There’s a tragedy for old Euripides.”
“Aristophanes,” Alf muttered.
Again that sweet, sexless laughter. “Such wit! You have an alarming array of talents, master seer. And very little patience to spare for me. I play with you, you think, like a cat amusing itself before the kill. No doubt you expect me to keep you here until I tire of you, then hand you over to His Majesty’s torturers.”
“You don’t serve the Angeloi,” Alf said. “You only seem to. Are you going to make me prophesy for your black-browed cousin?”
“No,” answered Michael Doukas, “of course not. My handsome kinsman has no use for a seer. I serve myself, Master Alfred, and perhaps the City. If what you foretell comes to pass, there will be great need of a man with wit and intelligence and a thorough knowledge of the empire’s workings. Rulers may change with dismaying regularity, but a competent administrator is worth more than a hundred kings.”
“And I, who know all of this, am in your hands. In all senses. The Emperor has decreed my death. You know all there is to know of me; most particularly that while I have no dread of my own death, I feel quite otherwise about the deaths of my friends. Again I ask you. What will you do with me?”
“I like you, Master Alfred. Yes,” Michael Doukas said, “I like you very much indeed. Brave as only a Latin can be, clever—almost—as a Greek, and completely unafraid to tell the truth. Would you enter my service?”
“What would I be? Your prophet? Your bedmate? Your fool?”
“Fools are a Frankish affectation. A prophet you’ve already been. The other …you are heartbreakingly beautiful. But you are also quite obviously, and quite tiresomely, the sort of young man who cares only for women.”
Alf’s face was stony. Michael Doukas smiled. “No, I want you for other things. To look at, perhaps. To tell me the truth.”
“Then you should find yourself a slave. Or an intelligent lapdog.”
“And not a Latin wanderer who tries to pass as a Greek? Rather successfully, I might add. Your accent could merely be provincial.”
“I’ve refused to serve the Franks, who after all are my own people. Should I turn traitor?”
”Some might say you already have. You’re here, are you not?”
“Not of my own accord.”
“No one forced you to come to the City.”
“I came as a pilgrim. I remain as a healer. To which occupation I would like very much to return.”
“Well then, you shall be my physician.”
Alf regarded him with a clear pale stare. “You are in excellent health and likely to live to a great age if your intrigues do not bring you to a sudden end. You have no need of my services, Michael Doukas.”
“How proud you are! Lucifer before his fall.” Michael Doukas rose and smoothed his robes. “You are adamant?”
“Yes.”
“So.” The eunuch raised his voice. “Guards!”
They came at once, filling the room with their presence, no longer the Emperor’s Varangians but those who had accompanied the chamberlain to Saint Basil’s. He indicated Alf with a languid hand. “If the Emperor should ask, this man is dead. He died in most exquisite agony, as befits a spy and a traitor. Upon his death, in the way of sorcerers, his body shriveled and fell to dust.”
“And if the Moor asks?” Alf inquired.
“If the Moor asks, we cut you up and fed you to the menagerie.” Michael Doukas paused, half smiling. “You had better not appear at Saint Basil’s for a time.”
“Until His Majesty is well distracted?”
“You know your own prophecy.” He beckoned. “Take him away.”
Alf stood in their hands, eyes upon the eunuch. “Why?” he asked.
Michael Doukas shrugged. “I like you. And,” he said, “you might be of use to me later. Remember what I know, and what I have not done.”
“Could I forget?” Alf smiled suddenly, startling that polished courtier
into a brief, wide-eyed stare. “You are an utter villain. But for all that, a strangely likable man. Look for me at Armageddon.”
19.
The City was like a beast crouched to spring.
Across the Horn the Latins held to their camp, although the bitter wind clove through their tents and the sleet hissed in their watch-fires and their bellies knotted with hunger. Within the walls, the Greeks nursed their hatred.
Alf could taste it, a vileness upon his tongue; could sense it as a throbbing in his skull. House Akestas offered no refuge, his shields no defense; even barricaded with all the power he could muster, his head ached with dull persistence.
“I said,” Bardas’ voice was slightly raised, “Master Dionysios has been inquiring after you.”
With an effort Alf focused on his surroundings. They were all staring at him: Anna and Irene with a book between them, Nikki playing on the floor with a kitten, Sophia in the midst of a letter; and Bardas on a couch, sitting upright in defiance of all his nurses but leaning more heavily on the cushions than he wished anyone to see.
His eyes on Alf were sharp in a face thinned and greyed with sickness. He raised a brow. “Well, sir? The Master wants to know, will you be coming back from the dead before winter ends?”
“Yes,” Alf said. He willed his voice to be steady, even light. “Soon, in fact. A month in the tomb is quite long enough for any man.”
“Is it safe?” Irene asked barely audibly. “After all, Master Dionysios knows the truth about you, but no one else does. Except us. And the Emperor—”
“His Majesty is mad beyond recall.” Alf closed his eyes. It did nothing for the ache, but it kept him from seeing the others’ concern. “I did that, you know. I told him what would be; and it thrust him over the edge. He’s convinced now that he’s God’s deputy on earth; that when the sun comes round into the Lion he will slough off his skin like a snake in spring and emerge with his eyes and his youth restored, and proceed to rule the world.”
“Could he do that?” Anna asked seriously.
“Of course not.” Her father snorted and stifled a cough. “The young fool isn’t thriving either, from what I’ve heard. He’s tried to get back into favor by turning on the Latins, but it’s too late for that. People are beginning to look round for a new emperor.”
“Beginning?” Sophia shook her head. “It’s gone past that. Isn’t the Senate meeting in Hagia Sophia?”
“It is,” Bardas answered. “Without a word from the palace.”
“And not a man in all that assembly will accept the crown.”
Alf rose slowly. “Your pardon, but I think…I need to lie down.”
They all would have sprung to his aid, but he waved them away. “Please, no. I’ll be well enough. It’s only a headache.”
In the end he had to submit to Corinna’s brusque and competent ministrations. She saw him undressed and laid in bed with a pungent herbal brew mixed with wine inside him and a cold compress on his brow. When she left him alone in the darkened room, he sighed with relief.
A small hand slipped into his; another touched his cheek. He opened his eyes to meet Nikki’s wide worried stare. Through the shields that guarded his power, he loosed a dart of reassurance.
It had little effect. Sick, Nikki responded. Father’s sick. You’re sick. The air feels bad. I’m afraid.
Alf sat up, casting aside the compress, wincing as the movement set his temples throbbing.
Nikki’s face twisted. You hurt! He held his own head in his hands. You shut it in. That makes it worse. It hurts me.
Carefully Alf knelt and smoothed Nikki’s hair. His hands healed where they touched. Better? he asked.
After a moment Nikki nodded.
Alf smiled. I have to go out. I’ll came back as soon as I can. Will you wait for me?
Nikki’s brows knit. But he stepped back and watched Alf dress. Before the other was well done, he had fled.
Alf paused. He had seen no tears on Nikki’s face, nor sensed aught but anxiety and a mind—picture of consolation in the form of a kitten. He shrugged slightly and reached for his cloak.
o0o
The Emperor Alexios prowled his privy chamber, gnawing his nails. His chamberlains watched him in white-faced silence.
He was not an imposing man, this youngest of the Angeloi. Tall enough, handsome enough, with his father’s strong features, but both his face and his movements lacked something. Resolution perhaps, or strength of will.
Suddenly he spun and smote his hands together. “Where is the man?” he cried.
The servants glanced at one another. After a moment one ventured forward, bowing to the ground. “Most sacred lord, His Excellency the Protovestiarios has gone as you requested to—”
“I know where I sent him!” Alexios resumed his pacing. “I sent him across the Horn. The Marquis must help me. The cursed mob will elect an emperor and kill me after, I know it. Marquis Boniface was my friend. He will stop them. He’ll do anything if he’s paid well enough, and I’ve offered him the richest bribe I can think of. For his priests, our Church—what’s a word or two in the Mass if I survive this?—and for him the palace we’re standing in. It’s no loss. We can move to the Sacred Palace next to Hagia Sophia. It was good enough for Justinian and Basil and half a dozen Constantines. It’s good enough for the Angeloi. Oh, sweet saints in heaven, let my lord win safe to the Marquis and bring him back with his knights!”
In the rear rank of chamberlains, eye met eye. One of the eunuchs, young and darkly elegant, nodded infinitesimally and slipped away.
o0o
Alf drank deep of the open air. He had not left House Akestas since he came back from the palace; his body, long inured to confinement as any monk’s must be, nonetheless rejoiced in freedom. No matter that the sun was shrouded, the clouds heavy with rain. Even his pain had lessened, as if the walls of the house had gathered it all into too small a space.
While his feet bore him through a dim alleyway, his mind opened slowly, lowering each shield with care. The mood of the City washed over him, hate and fear and slowly hardening determination.
And something else. A very small thing, a pricking on the edge of consciousness. He probed, met nothing. A random thought, then, nothing to fear. He dismissed it and bound mind again to body, making his way through the narrow crowded streets.
o0o
“Sire! By all that’s holy, man, let me through to His Majesty!”
Alexios whipped about. The grating voice sawed through the sudden tumult at the door, harsh always, harsher now with emotion. Close upon it came its owner, a thickset man in rich garb now rumpled and soiled, with black eyes glittering under a single heavy bar of brow. He stopped short just within the door, breathing hard as if with exertion yet ghastly pale. As his eyes found the young Emperor, he plunged forward to fall at Alexios’ feet. “Disaster, Your Majesty,” he gasped. “Utter disaster!”
The Emperor stood with his mouth open, speechless.
The black-browed lord raised himself with visible effort. “Sire, it’s worse than we ever dreamed. My embassy is discovered; the people are up in arms, howling for your blood. That an heir of Constantine should sell his Church and his empire to barbarians with his palace for surety—”
At last Alexios found his voice, an octave higher than its wont, almost a shriek. “Blood? My blood? The Marquis—”
“He consented. But there’s no time for him to move. Even now the mob converges on the palace. Sire, by your leave, all your guards and soldiers have fled. Only the Varangians remain loyal to you. Let me set them to defend the walls and to delay the attack.”
Alexios clutched at his minister, half blind with terror. “It’s all lost, I know it, I know it. They’ll catch me, rend me. I’ll die!”
The Protovestiarios seemed to have regained much of his composure if none of his color. “No, sacred lord. Not yet, if your loyal men have any power left. The mob will come—it must. But you need not be here. I know a place, a safe place wher
e you may rest and restore yourself and work to regain all you have lost.”
The young Emperor was close to collapse. But some remnant of strength stiffened his back and sharpened his voice. “There is no safe place for me, my lord Mourtzouphlos. I shall be recognized and cut down.”
Something glittered in the other’s eyes, anger perhaps, or contempt. “My lord knows how well I have always served him. Will he not trust me now? I have the Marquis’ promise of sanctuary, and loyal men waiting to bring us both to him. Come, Sire, I beg you. Come.”
Alexios wavered. Mourtzouphlos knelt. “Sire, I beseech you, before it’s too late.”
The Emperor stared at him. “Too late?” he repeated. All at once he crumpled. “Oh, anything, anything! Only get me out of here!”
Mourtzouphlos gestured sharply. Men came forward with a heavy cloth. “My lord will pardon this indignity. Only for his life’s sake do we subject him to it.”
He was limp in their hands, all strength gone out of him with his brief resistance. They wrapped him in the rug and lifted him as if he had been no more than that, bearing him away.
Mourtzouphlos followed. On his face was the beginning of a smile.
o0o
The palace loomed in the dusk like a rock out of a tide-race. Beyond its walls a triple line of Guardsmen held off a mob alit with torches. The axes of the Guard glittered, raised to defend but not yet to strike.
Alf paused for breath on the edge of the tumult. All the wide space between himself and the palace gate was a tossing sea of humanity, and over it the flicker of fire.
He had all but forgotten the small prickle in his mind until it came again, slightly stronger. This time his swift probe caught something and gripped, drawing it to him.
A figure stumbled out of the throng to fall against him. He stared down at it in astonishment and growing horror. “Nikephoros!”
Nikki drew himself erect, hand to head. You hurt me, he accused.
Alf’s fear for him turned to wrath, swiftly throttled. Nikki felt it and paled, though he did not flinch.
You hurt me, he repeated.