“Please,” she said in a voice that sounded like a little girl’s. “We’re quite informal here, as you see. Do stand up.”
“Majesty, I present Ambassador Churillo Igorevich who—”
“I know who he is. Thank you, Sgouritzes, you may withdraw.”
With an expression that looked like relief, the eunuch bowed himself out.
“And what do you think of our factory, ambassador? Back to work, everyone.” She clapped her hands. (They had all stopped momentarily to look at me.) “Spikenard,” she said, taking a bunch of some dried stuff and dropping it into one of the cauldrons, “and aloes and attar of roses and musk and cassia. Do you like it?”
A memory flashed through my mind. The first day that I visited Princess Ingigerd in Novgorod she had opened a tiny bottle and flooded her bedroom with the scent of roses: my first experience of perfume. That little bottle seemed like a priceless treasure—and probably was. But here were vats, oceans of the stuff. It was too much to take in.
“Why?” I stammered. “What is it all for? Do you sell it?”
“Certainly not.” There was amusement in the eyes. “I worship God with sweet-smelling perfumes and unguents. They drive away evil spirits, you know. And I apply them to my person, why shouldn’t I? Suddenly, she was uncomfortably close to me. She took my hand and held it under her chin. Her flesh had an unnaturally buttery feel to it. “Still firm, is it not?” she simpered. “How old do you think I am, Churillo Igorevich?”
Oh, by the One-Eyed Odin, I thought to myself, backing away, this is how I got mixed up with Inge, and look how that turned out! Not again. “Your Majesty, I’m very bad at guessing ages—”
“How old?” she demanded. “And you may call me Zoe.”
“Thirty-five?” I mumbled, hoping to err on the side of youth.
“Sixty next month. And not a wrinkle anywhere on my body. Anywhere on my body, Churillo, thanks to these lotions of mine. And,” she went on, “I do give a lot of it away to my women and my friends. I delight in generosity. Here.” She took a stoppered flask from its rack. “For your sweetheart. You have one, I hope? No? A handsome young barbarian like you? Well, you soon will, I’m sure. I’m fond of barbarians. So different from our men.” She placed the little bottle in my hand and squeezed my fingers around it. If she simpers and squeezes my hand again, I will bolt for the door. But she was too fast for me. “Does the heat bother you?” Taking my arm in hers, she led me out into the garden. A small dog, a bundle of brown fluff, trotted after us, its nails tapping on the marble. Two of her women and a young eunuch followed at a discreet distance. Although a hot sun blazed overhead, the change in temperature from that stifling room sent a chill through me. Zoe seated herself on a marble bench and pulled me down beside her so that our thighs touched. The dog leapt into her lap. Nearby, a peacock dragged its gorgeous tail and, above us, bright-colored birds chattered in the branches. I kept finding it hard not to look at Zoe’s breasts, which, if she was telling the truth about her age, were perfect miracles of firmness.
“A word of advice while you’re here, ambassador. Never say anything within four walls that you don’t want overheard and reported.” This was exactly what Harald had said to me last night.
“Reported to whom, Majesty?” (I was not about to call her ‘Zoe’.)
“John.” The word came as a whisper and her lips twisted as if from a bad taste.
Something told me I shouldn’t pursue this, but my curiosity was piqued. “It’s a common name. Which John do you mean?” She looked hard at me for a moment and I thought she wanted to say more, but she changed her mind. “So,” she smiled, “I’m told that you’re here to arrange a marriage for Grand Prince Yaroslav’s daughter with some young man of our family. You’re very young to be an ambassador. We haven’t had the pleasure of your company here before, have we? Forgive me for not knowing, I’m afraid I don’t participate in court life as much as I used to.”
“You prefer solitude, then?”
“Prefer! It is not what I prefer.” Her voice was suddenly shrill, her eyes flashed with anger, or—even more dangerous—hate. Her little dog, with an animal’s sensitivity, fled under the bench. She looked away and fought to get herself under control. After a few deep breaths, she continued in a more conversational tone. “I have a great fondness for the Rus, Churillo. My aunt Anna, who was sister to the Emperor Basil, was given in marriage to Vladimir, Prince of Kiev. It was she who persuaded him to adopt the True Faith and she herself founded many churches and monasteries. I was only ten when she went away, but she wrote me letters saying how wonderful and beautiful everything was in Gardariki. I was a lonely child; they meant much to me, those letters.”
I doubted that a Greek princess really found Vladimir’s log-hewn hall and his rough, hard-drinking Rus warriors all that charming, but I smiled encouragingly.
“Well,” she concluded, “I am sure Yelisaveta is a lovely girl. You should realize, though, that our Emperor is not in good health and has much on his mind, so you must be patient. But you have me on your side. I like to do favors for my friends. I hope I may consider you one?” She looked at me under her lashes and touched my hand again. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I didn’t move. Whoever this woman’s enemies were, whoever the dreaded John might be, I wanted nothing to do with any of them. After a moment, she drew back her hand and stood up. “Let me show you around my little realm, Churillo.”
One of her women, grey-haired and thin-lipped, approached with a warning look. “Is that wise, Majesty? If the man stays here too long, people—”
Zoe stamped her foot. “Am I not to be my own mistress even here?” The woman bowed and retreated. Zoe led me out of the garden and down a short path to a small, domed building with a pillared forecourt. Its doors swung open on silver hinges; inside was a rainbow of colored marble. At the back of it sat an altar encrusted with rubies and carnelians. “The Chapel of the Holy Virgin of Pharos,” Zoe breathed. She bowed low to the altar and I, of course, did the same. (With every passing day these pretenses were getting easier.)
“Churillo, you cannot imagine the power that dwells here. It is not for the eyes of just anyone. Two pieces of the True Cross, the Crown of Thorns, the cloth with the imprint of Our Savior’s face, as well as his sandals and tunic and a phial of his sacred blood.” She pointed each one out to me—nondescript lumps of wood and who-knows-what-else encased in gold and silver settings. “And the right arm of John the Baptist, and, oh, much more. This is our strength, ambassador, not ships, not engines of war. This is why our empire will endure to the end of time. When you return to your country this is what you must tell them.” She had drawn herself up to her full height, and I understood that I was hearing the voice of an Empress—the wife, the daughter, the grand-daughter of Emperors—speaking with the unquenchable pride of a thousand years of history. Who was I to doubt the magic in these things? “And one thing more I will show you—and I show it to very few.” Upon the altar, wrapped in a piece of purple silk was the small figurine of a man only a little bigger than my hand. Lovingly, she unwrapped it, put it to her lips and kissed it, then held it to her bosom and sighed. I cannot say what the thing was made of; at one moment it looked like gold, and then again like silver. I could almost swear that it changed color while I stared at it. “Christ,” she murmured. “My own Christ. I speak to him and he answers me. He warns me, Churillo, when danger is near. When he turns blood red then I know I must act.”
“And has he done that, Majesty?”
“Oh, yes, Churillo. He has. And he will again.”
She set the figurine back gently on the altar and we went out into the sunlight.
Back in the perfumery she gave me her hand to kiss. “Come again, Churillo Igorevich, whenever you like. Think of me as a friend. And I will see what can be done about your young princess. And here, don’t forget your bottle of scent and take another one too. It’s all I have to give nowadays.”
Sgouritzes walked me to the palac
e gate. My clothes were wet with sweat and the smell of perfume seemed to follow me like a fog. I would need a bath to get it out of my hair.
“You’ve served the Empress a long time?” I asked him.
“Nearly all her life.”
“I sense there is something, some—difficulty in her affairs?”
“That is none of your concern, ambassador. God will protect her from her enemies.”
And that was all he would say.
All the rest of that day I couldn’t get Zoe out of my thoughts. What was she? A lonely, pathetic eccentric? A dangerous lunatic? Who were her enemies? Who was this man John? What might she do if that little statue of her god should turn red? What had she done already that had brought her to this sad state? Was there some smell there that all the perfumes in the world could not forever disguise?
7
Zoe’s Tale †
December, A.D. 988, Aged ten
The din is nearly unbearable—drums and flutes and voices, raucous, thick with wine, belt out songs from the pantomime stage, mingling with the laughter of men and women. Pretty Zoe and her two younger sisters—homely, timid little things she despises—are led in by their nurse and made to stand in a row in front of the banquet table with its wreckage of food and spilled drink. Her father, Constantine VIII, co-Emperor of Rome, just thirty years old but already grossly fat, belches, loosens his sash, and waves his guests to silence. The room is full of charioteers, actresses, and slim young eunuchs, powdered and rouged. They pay little attention to him. They know he is Emperor in name only. At this moment his grim, blood-soaked brother Basil, the real ruler of the empire, is marching across some distant frontier, slaughtering Bulgars, or is it Pechenegs? But here stand the three little girls, commanded to recite some verses of Homer they have memorized for the amusement of their father and his friends. The two younger ones are tongue-tied, almost in tears. Zoe, in a trembling voice, begins, but suddenly her mother, Helena, bursts into the room, weeping, screaming, her hair down, half-hiding her face. But not hiding enough of it. Her husband hates her, hates her hideous face ravaged by smallpox. He has not slept with her in years. What man would want to put his lips on skin like rhinoceros hide? Helena curses. Constantine laughs. The guests look away. Helena stands her ground for a moment, then rushes out again, colliding with the doorjamb, almost knocking herself senseless. Zoe runs after her, down the corridor, into the bedroom—gorgeous, hung with purple silk—climbs up on the bed to comfort her mother. Helena holds the girl’s smooth, tear-wet cheek to her own rough one and Zoe, even Zoe, who loves her, shrinks from the touch of it. Never, Zoe swears to herself, never will she let herself look like this.
January, A.D. 1002 Aged 24
Bari, Apulia. The mansion with its whitewashed walls and red tile roof, formerly the home of a Saracen grandee, commands a view of the harbor. Zoe gazes from the balcony at the ships riding at anchor: the flotilla of transports and warships that have brought her, her retinue of women, eunuchs, guards and priests, and her immense dowry here to the heel of Italy. So eager is her uncle Basil to consummate this union that they have braved the storms of winter in the Aegean and Adriatic and God has granted them a safe voyage. Today is cold, gusty, spitting rain, but nothing can dampen Zoe’s joy. In another day or two she will meet her husband-to-be. Otto the Third, King of Germany, King of Italy, Holy Roman Emperor. He is only nineteen years old and already his fame has spread across Europe. She has seen a portrait of him—a beautiful young man with large eyes and a firm mouth. And, of course, he has seen a portrait of her and fallen in love with her at once, they assure her. When they wed she will be queen of a realm that reaches from the Rhine to the Tiber. But politics doesn’t interest her. Simply to be free! Away from Constantinople, away from the disgusting spectacle of her father’s debauchery and her mother’s sour despair. To be her own woman at last, embarked on this new adventure.
Sgouritzes, the young eunuch who loves her with a canine devotion, is busy laying out her jewelry. Zoe is by far the most important visitor this little city has ever entertained, and a long line of tradesmen waits outside, eager to show her their wares. A dark-skinned Saracen merchant with a curling beard is admitted, a dealer in unguents and perfumes. Zoe has studied her mirror and is not entirely pleased with what she sees; the salt air, the raw winter wind has dried her skin on their long voyage out. At twenty-four she is still young and beautiful, but ever since childhood she has been haunted by the fear of losing her looks. What if her bridegroom is disappointed in what he sees? She is already three years older than he is. The Saracen proffers a jar of unguent. She rubs a little of it into her cheeks. It comes all the way from India, he tells her. She loves the feel of it. She has nothing so fine at home. He has perfumes, too, like nothing she has ever smelled before. She must have more of it. She will make him tell her the ingredients. If he is unwilling, she’ll threaten him with blinding.
Now what is all that racket down below? A clatter of hooves in the courtyard. Half a dozen armed men, mud spattered on sweating horses, one of them carrying Otto’s banner. They’ve come to take her to him. Quick, pour wine, lay out food. Make them welcome. But these men, as they crowd into her chamber, are not smiling. Their captain kneels before her with tears in his eyes. They have ridden from Viterbo, day and night without resting, to bring her the tragic news. Otto is dead. A sudden fever—or poison—no one is sure. That young, strong, vibrant youth, dead within twenty-four hours of falling ill.
Hands reach out to catch Zoe as she falls. Darkness closes around her.
August, A.D. 1030 Aged fifty-two
Zoe, naked, lies on her bed, her arms crossed over her breasts, trembling. The air is cold at this hour of the night, between midnight and cockcrow, when spells have their greatest potency. A sudden draft makes the candles gutter and flare. There is no sound save for the hissing and moaning of the witch who recites the xemetrima, the incantations, in a mumbling singsong. While she sings, the old woman touches Zoe’s arms, her belly, her thighs, between her thighs, placing the smooth pebbles, the bits of chain, the tufts of wool soaked in the milk of a farrow sow, the splinters of holy wood, the pieces of stale Communion bread, all the charms and amulets for conception that she has brought with her tonight.
Zoe’s father, is two years dead. Likewise gone are her mother and her uncle Basil. On his deathbed Constantine had commanded Romanus Argyrus, the City Prefect, a shriveled old man of seventy years with patchy hair and a dripping nose, to divorce his wife and marry Zoe, his spinster daughter. The punishment for refusal was blinding. Naturally, the Prefect agreed and, as Constantine gurgled his last breath, he became Emperor Romanus III. There was no other way to perpetuate the dynasty. Of Zoe’s two sisters, one was dead and the other a nun. There was no male heir. After her sad return from Italy thirty years ago, Constantine had been so careless a father as to never arrange another marriage for his eldest daughter when she was young enough to bear a child. Possibly it was because she looked so young that the passage of years had not quite registered on the foolish man. And now plainly it was too late. The dynasty would end here. Romanus had done his best in the beginning, played his manly part as well as he could, but it had been pointless, and not only pointless but ridiculous. He knew he was laughed at behind his back and it drove him wild with anger. Like any man, he blamed his wife, not himself for their failure to produce a child. And now he treated Zoe like an enemy, couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her, forbade her to draw money from the treasury to lavish on her friends and flatterers.
So now poor Zoe, desperate and abandoned, lies shivering on her bed in the dark while the wise woman labors over her with her spells and charms. “Will it work?” Zoe whispers at last. But the wise woman, who is more honest than she is wise, shakes her grey head and replies: “Empress, nature can only be forced to far.”
Zoe screams, leaps up in a shower of pebbles and bits and pieces, snatches up a jeweled belt from her heap of clothes, and strikes at the woman, cutting her on the
face. The woman flees and Zoe falls back, burying her face—her preternaturally youthful face—in her pillow.
May, A.D. 1033 Aged 55
Zoe is excited. She loves the chariot races: one of the few occasions nowadays that she is permitted by her husband to appear outside the palace, except to go to church. She sits in the Imperial box and looks out over the vast oval track of the hippodrome, its central spine bristling with statues and obelisks, its stands filled with thousands of cheering spectators. It is intermission. Four courses have been run, there will be four more. Meanwhile, acrobats and trick riders perform on the track and the circus factions, each in their color—blue, green, red and white--stand up in their seats, chanting and waving their colored handkerchiefs. Romanus Argyrus, her husband, sits as far away from her as the confines of the box allow. Racing bores him. He is eating a pomegranate, spitting the seeds on the floor, the juice running down his chin while a servant hovers over him with a giant white napkin. Romanus no longer cares if his whiskers are stained, or his coat front. Around them stand the grandees of the court wearing spotless white cloaks, pinned at the shoulder with golden brooches.
And who is approaching now? Oh, Christ in heaven! Zoe thinks. That man. He makes her flesh crawl. John, the Guardian of Orphans, dressed in his black robe and hood. He bows deeply before the Emperor, who favors him with a toothless smile. Romanus likes the man, or finds him useful anyway, as did Constantine before him and Basil before him. Oh, John is a man of many parts—none of them, however, a pair of testicles. (Zoe is surprised at her own witticism; a pity she can’t share it.)
The Varangian Page 5