Behind him abruptly a ram’s horn blasted, and he jumped, his nerves wound tight. Nicephoros grunted. “Well, not now, anyway,” he said, and swiftly he turned to his position in the ranks of officials waiting for the Caliph’s ambassador. Ishmael pushed back into the thick of the crowd. He was not supposed to be here and had no place assigned and he was wearing ordinary clothes; he stooped a little to conceal himself behind the people around him.
Swiftly the others were reaching their appointed spots on the pavement. They straightened up like statues, a dense-packed crescent of glittering coats facing the Chalke gate. The horns blasted again, their round soft notes rising like curlicues of sound that echoed off the high walls of the gate before and the chapel behind the crowd. Drums began to throb an even beat. Unconsciously Ishmael stiffened to attention, his arms at his sides, his head high, conforming to the posture of those around him.
The gate flew open, and with an ascending flourish of the horns, a thunder of the drums, rank on rank of foreigners marched through.
There seemed to be hundreds of them. In rows of eight, they marched through the gate, snapping their knees high with each step, and divided into fours and swung to either side, making room for the next row. Their robes were bright green; the hilts of their curved swords sparkled with jewels and gold. On their heads they wore soft folded cloth hats topped by ostrich plumes. Steadily they filled up the pavement, and when at last they were so packed in that only a narrow path was left, they stopped, turned their heads toward the gate, and in one great voice shouted something in their uncouth language.
Borne on the shoulders of six huge, naked slaves, the Caliph’s ambassador entered, sitting cross-legged on a pile of carpets. The slaves carried him forward to the foot of the draped scaffold and stopped. The Caliph’s man stood up. He wore jewels and silks worth a small kingdom; his hat carried an emerald the size of Ishmael’s fist.
The drums paused. The horns rang silent. Everybody waited, breathless, while the music faded from the air.
There was an instant of perfect silence, and then the drums beat out again, the horns blasted. Fluttering like wings, the silk curtains swept to either side, and all across the packed terrace, gasping, the people fell to their knees.
On top of the scaffold the Basileus stood, a blaze of gold in the afternoon sun. Supported by her women on either side, great wings of gold extended ten feet from her, and behind her, fans of gold rose up above her head, catching and reflecting the sunlight, until she was so bright the eye hurt to see her. Ishmael, with all the others, fell on his face on the paving stones.
“Augustus, Chosen of God, Equal to the Apostles!”
She blessed them. Ishmael received it thankfully, knowing it would transform his life. His heart grew great with delight and gratitude that she was his Basileus, overwhelming these simple barbarians. Turning his head, he saw the Caliph’s emissary gaping at her, and now even he sank down on his knees as if dazed, and like a great tower falling before a conqueror, he went down on his face at her feet.
Then from the scaffolding beneath her came a thunder of voices, giving forth praise of God and the Basileus, and glorifying Heaven with a hundred tongues. Ishmael’s spine tingled. He thought that God Himself must sit upon the clouds to view this spectacle.
Through the Chalke now came the gifts the Caliph had sent to her, the Basileus. Crowding back to make room, the onlookers saw carpets spread out on the pavement, tasseled in silk, colored as wonderfully as jewels and flowers, and on these heaps of soft carpets, caskets overturned to spill streams of gold coins upon the ground, piles of emeralds and rubies, sparkling like the eyes of angels. And now, roaring, two great cats on gold leashes paced in through the gate, one patterned all over with clusters of dark spots on a golden ground, and the other streaked with black stripes on a field of dusky white, and these also were stationed on either side of the growing, glittering pile of tribute, and now through the gate, enormous, the ground shaking, came an elephant with tusks of ivory banded around and around with gold, and on its back great baskets woven of gold, each filled with flowers formed of gold and ivory and gems, and these too the Caliph’s man offered up before the Basileus, as an homage to the Chosen One of God.
Ishmael buried his face in his hands. He trembled with pride. His City was the center of the world, his Basileus was ruler of the world: see, even the barbarians knew it! When those around him raised their voices in praise of her and God Who ruled through her, he joined them, his throat thick with gratitude and pride.
Afterward, when the formal reception was over, and the crowd had dissipated somewhat through the gardens and pavilions of the Palace, and the servants to the Empress were shoveling the gifts into boxes to be taken off to some treasure-house, Nicephoros came to him with a purse.
“You’ll race?” the Treasurer said, looking sour.
Ishmael’s hand sank, weighted down by the money in its leather pocket. “Of course I’ll race,” he said, irritated at the insinuation. “I would race for nothing. I would race for a handful of mud. But I must feed my babies.” He stuffed the purse inside his coat, safe from pickpockets. With a glance at the scaffolding, now bare and bleak, stripped of its purple, he turned back to the Treasurer. “Don’t tell her I ever said differently, either.”
Nicephoros snorted at him. “If you race just for the money, Ishmael, you will never win.”
“I don’t do it for the money, I told you that.” Ishmael went away through the Chalke; inside it, between the gate into the Palace and the gate onto the Mesê, a crowd of barbarians was gawking at the mosaics on the walls, depicting some long-dead general’s triumph over other barbarians, far away. Ishmael did not linger. He went out on to the Mesê, his hand protectively over the bulge in his coat, and hurried off to pay his landlord.
14
Hagen sat on his heels beneath the myrtle tree, eating a handful of dates he had bought from a vendor on the Mesê. He had come early to his meeting with Karros because he had half intended to find a church along the way and pray a little and straighten his mind out. Many things bothered him. He could find no ground of confidence to stand on. Karros’s story about Theophano made sense in some ways—the wound in Rogerius’s throat had certainly come from behind him—and nonsense in others; but if she had killed Rogerius, Hagen would have to kill her, and that knotted up his guts, just thinking of it.
He had never killed a woman. He supposed a woman’s flesh would give way as easily to the blade of a knife, her veins would open as wide and gush as red. It wasn’t that. It was the memory that rose irresistibly of her lying in his arms that turned his belly to a rock.
This place was Hell. He had died and gone to Hell, and its name was Constantinople, where no one was what he seemed, where lies and truth were intermixed, and where people he did not understand were using him for purposes he could not fathom.
What had she said—“I know all, and you know only your small part.” Yet Irene’s own handmaiden betrayed her; Irene seemed to him a foolish old woman, in spite of her large ideas and the fierce energy of her looks.
There was some great design here, of which he saw only little pieces, and what pieces he was given were placed before him—as what, baits? Traps?
Theophano. The only evidence he had that she was betraying Irene to this John Cerulis was Karros’s word. When she had lain in his arms, he would have sworn his life away that she was honest—that he saw her as she was. If she had killed his brother, he would have known it, somehow, seen it in her eyes, tasted it in her kiss—
And if Karros really had killed Rogerius, then this would be a trap, luring him here, and Theophano would now be back at the Palace, doing what she would be doing, if she were honest.
He could not pray. God did not approve of vengeance in any case and would not help him, and now here came Karros. Hagen stood up.
The other man was rosy with smiles; he put out his hand in greeting, which
Hagen ignored. “I’m glad to see you. Very glad to see you. My master has been told of your coming.”
Hagen watched him covertly, pretending to look all around him; Karros was leading him in through the gate, crossing the little kitchen court, smelling of basil and mint. A pile of broken terra-cotta pots covered a wooden table under the overhang of the myrtle tree. “I hope I’m to get dinner out of this, at least?” If Karros had lured him here to kill him, the Greek would have to act soon, while they were alone. He could already hear the voices of many people, in the building they were approaching.
“Dinner? Yes, yes, of course. I have every hope of being able to offer you a permanent place here with us. My master is most generous, and very powerful—he may be emperor one day, who knows?” Karros clapped him companionably on the back. Hagen moved sideways away from him, hating this false friendship, expecting to see a knife at any moment in Karros’s hand.
They went into a large, well-lit hall. Rows of sofas crossed and recrossed it; Hagen had seen how sometimes the Greeks were made to eat lying down, although he marked that, everywhere, the great people sat up properly to a table in chairs. It was no different here. At the far end of this room was a long table, set with tubs of flowers and plates and ewers of silver and candlesticks of gold, already blazing, although no one sat yet in the chairs lined up on the far side of it.
Karros gripped his arm, and Hagen tensed all over, ready to jump. “You’ll have a cup,” the fat Greek said, and a little boy in a red coat appeared with a silver tray, on which stood several cups of glass and a big brass ewer in the form of a rooster, the feathers of the wings and tail deeply outlined in the metal. Karros beamed across this offering.
“Go on, taste it. It’s marvelous wine. My master has the best of everything, we dine like kings here.”
Hagen poured a thin stream into a cup and took it from the tray. The boy bowed and backed away, and turned to offer the wine to others in the hall. Could it be poisoned? Hagen did not see how. He looked down into the cup, uncertain.
“Go on,” Karros said. “Drink.” He put out his hand for the cup, and when Hagen gave it to him, he drank half of it. Giving it back, he waved it toward Hagen’s lips. “Go on. Feel safe.”
The wine was so dark it looked black. He drank a swallow and then another, thirsty.
“It’s very good.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Karros said. “My master is very rich, you know. Of far greater birth than that upstart Irene—you know she’s only provincial nobility? Isn’t it a scandal? My master lavishes his wealth on those who serve him. I have chests of gold he has given me as rewards for my efforts in his behalf. I’ll show them to you, if you like.”
Hagen finished the wine; it was a very fine drink, and he looked around for more of it. “How does he pay for you, Karros—by weight?” He stopped the boy as he passed and took the ewer from the tray.
Karros laughed, a cracked note in the tone; yet he would not be insulted. He said, “If you join us—”
“I am joining no one,” Hagen said, with emphasis. “I am King Charles’s sworn man, my fealty is not mine to give away again.”
“Hah hah hah.” Karros’s belly bounced. “Ah, well, if you are so in love with this barbarian king of yours. Come on, I’ll show you my master’s palace.”
“You said Theophano would be here.”
“She is here. Probably my master is enjoying her at this very moment.”
At that Hagen’s guts churned; a heat of rage rose through every vessel into his brain, and he nearly knocked the other man down. Slow behind his temper came his reason, dismayed; he thought, What is she to me that such a mention of her makes me reckless? If she lies with someone else, what does it matter to me?
It did matter. He knew two things at once: that he was going to kill both her and John Cerulis, and that he was getting an erection. He pulled the front of his shirt down and followed Karros on through the palace.
“Irene is as wily as an old cat,” Theophano said; she had learned not to refer to the Basileus by her titles to this man who wanted so much to be emperor. She watched him through the corner of her eye. He made her skin cold just being near him; sex with him was like the embrace of death. “You will never be able to secure her person, except under the most extreme circumstances, an armed assault, perhaps. A riot of the general.”
“I have no desire to secure her person,” said John Cerulis.
He raised his glass and studied the color of the wine, swirling it to release the fragrance, and sniffed the developing aroma. One of his eyebrows quirked.
“The wine displeases you,” Theophano said.
“I had hoped for better.” He dispelled a sigh vibrant with regret; his perpetual smile carved deep lines and folds into his face, a mask of good nature.
Theophano looked away from him, her spirit sinking. Their table faced the hall, now busy with his hangers-on, gathered to have their dinner. None of them would eat until their master had finished. They sat on the rows of couches talking, laughing, exchanging kisses and ceremonial touches of the hand. She lowered her gaze to the table.
On the plate before her a steamed fish lay in a bed of olives, caviar, boiled egg, and clotted cream; she could not bring herself to eat it. She leaned her elbow on the arm of her chair and stared off across the room.
“I understand there has been a schedule of races posted on the gates of the Hippodrome,” said John Cerulis. “Perhaps this year she shall see at last the overthrow of the superb Michael.”
She said, “Michael has a few years left to him of the ultimate mastery. And Ishmael must buy his own horses.”
She was repeating phrases she had overheard from others more expert. The races were not a passion of hers.
“Surely men besides Ishmael can challenge on the track? I understand the Greens are bringing in a team from Caesarea that’s very well thought of.”
“I—”
Her voice broke off. There, across the room, two men were coming in through a side door, and her heart leapt. That white head could belong to no one but her Frank.
“What is he doing here?” she said.
John Cerulis looked in the direction of her interest. “Oh, yes—Karros has told me about this barbarian. I understand he is numbered among the legions who have bivouacked in your bed.”
She slid an oblique half-pitying glance at him. She understood why he would have preferred she had no basis for comparing his prowess. “One must sample a great many wines, Patrician, to develop a discerning palate.”
Her gaze returned to the Frank. He should not be here; surely he was overstepping his instructions from the Empress, coming into John Cerulis’s presence. She hoped he would not make trouble and jeopardize her mission a second time.
Yet as she watched him cross the room, she remembered lying with him, the tenderness of his kiss, the ardent energy of his hands and body. Seeing him again was like waking up, like coming alive. She found herself beginning to smile and schooled her expression to decorum, but she did not take her eyes from him.
In her ear, John Cerulis said, “He has been told that you murdered his brother.”
She started all over. Hagen was coming straight toward the dais, Karros a step ahead of him. Now suddenly his approach caused her real alarm. He was an innocent, a baby, in the hands of John Cerulis, and he had the list. If John could manipulate him—subvert him—
They stood before the dais now, and Karros, with many obsequious bows, was making Hagen known to his master. Hagen did not speak. He looked at Theophano once, just once, his eyes like cold iron. She saw hate in his eyes, and looked away, her face blazing. How could he believe that she had killed anyone, much less Rogerius, who had saved her life?
“Frankland,” John was saying, through his eternal fixed smile, “and where, if a man may ask, could that be?” His hand came groping toward Theophano and took pos
session of her fingers. “To this Roman, the world ends at the land walls.”
Karros said, “It’s off in the north somewhere, Patrician. Somewhere north of Italy, I think.”
“I’m sure this fellow is capable of speech,” John said. “You, barbarian, favor us with a few words. Your purpose in Constantinople?” He lifted Theophano’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the tips of her fingers.
Hagen’s features had no more expression than a rock. He would not look at her. He said, “I have been on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, I am going home now, Patrician.”
Theophano pulled on her hand; it distressed her to have the big Frank see John Cerulis paying caresses to her. John held her fast. He said, “And you are seeking employment here?”
“I am going home,” Hagen said. “Nothing more, Patrician.”
Now his gaze did flick toward her; their eyes met for an instant. His look was like a blow. He hated her now. John Cerulis was nibbling on her fingers. She could do nothing, say nothing, to tell Hagen that this was all a piece of theater. And he was going. He was leaving, and taking with him the image of her in another man’s arms.
Watching him go, she calmed a little, enough to wonder at the depth of her feelings for him. Amazed, she thought, Am I in love with him? She had enjoyed so many men, but she had always been able to walk away, before.
John Cerulis let her hand go. She sank back into her chair, her head tipped forward, struggling with her thoughts. He hated her, because of John Cerulis. Because of this serpent beside her. Her hatred for John Cerulis blazed up like a blast of Greek fire; he was evil, in the most evil of ways, in that what he said and did bore no rational relation to the truth. For him there was no truth, only convenience.
She raised her head, looking out across the hall, her mind falling quiet, the confusions and doubts sinking one by one away, only the cold decision left. She had never killed anyone, but she intended to kill John Cerulis. She would rid the Empire of him, once and for all.
The Belt of Gold Page 17