Queen of lies, p.12
Queen of Lies, page 12
Michael must be aware that the experience of his opponent outweighs his. “I see you and your companions have an excellent knowledge of history and geography, Envoy, but you will find no greater image of God’s power than here,” Michael responds. “For our strength lies not only in our dominions, but also in the very embodiment of all this, our City, the greatest in the entire world.”
“Where does that greatness come from, your Worthiness?” Vassilis says, proud that he is using the correct form of address.
Michael smiles at Vassilis’ accented Greek. “Our defenses have never given way,” Michael says, “thanks to the protection of the Theotokos, who bathes her people daily in her glory even as they worship her and her Son.”
No doubt Theodora allows herself a brief moment of motherly pride. I would have felt this way. But she is also critical of him. He should soften up the Envoy even more.
But I know Michael. He always tired quickly of just talking. He was always driven, constantly, to do something, to provoke someone, to be involved in some new adventure.
“We feel the time has come,” Michael says, “for you to see the real City. You and your aides are welcome in our Daphne Palace, where we shall discuss this at our leisure, after my wedding.”
He shouts for his mount, and steps briskly from the hall, his retreating footfalls leaving behind silence, then confusion.
† † †
There was Michael, after the wedding and the processions, pacing impatiently along the Balcony, with no clue as to how much I wanted to be up there with him, looking down on the scatter of chariots and horses that would start the races in celebration of his wedding. While I sit hidden in the back rooms, waiting for the Regent to summon me, chafing at the bit, bored to the point of idiocy, Michael frets, watching the mob elbow each other in the ribs while jostling for stone seats.
I understand him well. He wants to be running down the track of the Hippodrome toward his teams, swapping jibes and mock praise with his drivers, slipping a hand over a sweaty horse’s back, breathing the acrid smell of horse droppings drying on the hot sand. Instead, he must gaze across at bronze steeds glinting greenly in the high sun, far above the chariots trundling into the stalls. The games must follow the wedding, and then there will be the banquet. Protocol dictates that the people must see the holy couple on the day of the wedding.
The Balcony itself is still cool and relatively empty – he stole here right after the ceremony to be rid of the pitiful cow. He swears that they will keep separate beds. The late summer heat, mixed in with her perfumed sweat, the airs from a flatulent Ignatios, and the overwhelming frankincense, made him gag.
Surely there is time for some wine! Michael beckons a servant –- but the courtiers have already begun filing in, in the middle of which are his new Empress-to-be, as well as the Eunuch and the Regent.
The Eunuch comes up to him, placing a purple cloak on Michael’s indifferent shoulders and a tiara in his hands. The new wife sidles up obediently, her tiara already at attention, her pitiful eagerness to please Michael adding further to his scorn.
An array of horns sounds a long note. The noise subsides. “The Viceroy of the Most Holy does greet his people,” the acclamations begin.
The salute swells up from the crowd, “Worthy, worthy, worthy!”
Michael knows the appropriate formula. God knows he has studied protocol all his life. “Citizens of our New Rome, we greet you in all humility, that you may know that my wife and I serve the most High, the King of Kings.”
I am sure that what is foremost on the Eunuch’s mind is how genuine the cries and clamor of approval sound, thanks, as always, to the coinage which rubbed its way, in little skin bags, out of the Treasury.
Horns sound again. The chariot stall gates snap open and horse flesh ripples into action. The Greens’ laps, counted by twelve granite dolphins on the top of a scoring tower on one side of the stadium, fall away more quickly than those of the Blues, denoted by twelve granite eggs on the opposite tower.
The crowd draws a collective breath as a chariot wheel belonging to one of the Blues falls away. The rider topples overboard, narrowly escaping being trampled by the other steeds, but the crowd prepares to cheer as the final dolphin is removed.
Michael springs from his seat and claps with his hands high above his head, yelling “All praise to the Greens!”
The outpouring from the crowd buoys the Green charioteers across to the steps in front of the Balcony. Michael is all grins to his mates as they bow deeply. But it is only the start of today’s races. The Balcony settles down to watch the rest and expects the crowd to do so too.
Cries of indignation and amazement erupt into the settling silence. Two hooded figures climb down, out of the stadium, and onto the sand. Theoktistos screams at the guards. Could this be what the cryptic messages his men intercepted were about? Is this a nightmare turned to reality?
The men walk to a spot below the Balcony and lower their hoods. Two grizzled and dusty faces peer up at the Balcony and salute, even as spear points surround them. Their voices rise over cries of amazement from many in the crowd who recognize them.
“Great Emperor of all that is in Christ’s dominion, humble greetings,” the men shout in unison.
“Vardas! What trickery is this!” the Regent is up and in a rage, hands twitching. The Balcony chatters in confusion.
Michael leaps to his feet. “Uncle Vardas, Uncle Petronas! You made it! Make way for my uncles, clear the Balcony, everyone out. Now!”
Courtiers stand frozen. The Eunuch screams above the rising noise for the chariot stall attendants to start the next race.
“Come on you pricks, out, out!” Michael bellows at everyone around him. Confusion as people scramble for the exit. Michael must be enjoying the taste of commanding. These last few days he has had more than ever before.
Chapter 15. Celebrations
Still midsummer 855 AD
Hunters poise, ready to spear a grazing deer nibbling delicately at a bush. Lions and wolves stalk in myriad poses. Water pours endlessly from a half-tipped jar, held by a peasant in a tunic billowing tastefully in the wind. Poseidon roars soundlessly as he rises from the waves, his trident raised to push back the attack of a murky, black cloud.
I can’t imagine what it must be like for a village lad whose eyes are accustomed to fields of grass or, at best, rough stone beneath his feet, to see the floor of the Hall of the Nineteen. Vassilis stands, waiting for orders. He cannot stop swaying as the mosaic sparkles and ripples around him. A bright braid of green, blue, and gold tiles winds its way around the edge and corners of this long hall of windowed apses.
His gaze returns to the gilded oval tables set up over the mosaic, encircling the largest raised table at the far end. Each table is surrounded by a half circle of couches, their armrests angled toward the table. My Peasant is not sure where to look first. Oil lamps shimmer and reflect in a film of gold covering the walls. But Michael, already reclining on the first couch, fascinates my Vassilis far more than the glitter. Vassilis follows Grozdan and Methodios to their table, facing Michael’s.
Does Vassilis yearn for that lean face, which I, too, have not found unattractive? Does he admire Michael’s high cheek bones and girlishly slim frame, the pale skin, the deep black curls descending into the matted grayness of a shallow beard.
Vassilis cannot escape the waves of envy that flood over him, that this is what he should have been by now, what he should have had, if only he had been born in the right place, to the right parents. But regret has never been something my Peasant has dwelt on for very long. And he sees that Michael’s attention seems to go no further than his goblet.
Courtiers and family members shuffle in, knowing exactly where to position themselves. Vassilis takes in, with a sharp eye that sets him apart from his brothers and cousins, that rank dictates one’s distance from Michael’s table. I agree with Photios at least on this: Vassilis’ relatives, or at least the few I have met, are as simple as old cloth that has never been dyed.
Vassilis wonders at Michael’s disregard for his surroundings, indifference displaced only when the charioteers stumble in. Methodios and Cyril must have told Vassilis of the famous Greens and the powerful Blues. Charioteers of the Green faction have indeed been wildly successful today, but their dignity has already succumbed to the wine. A table nearby receives their sodden frames. To Vassilis it is a mystery that such finely dressed men can get so drunk. Oh, my Vassilis still had so much to learn about the court – to the rest of those assembled these were just charioteers, hardly respectable men at all! But to Michael they were everything, until my Peasant came along.
The short swords and garments of the entrance guards also fascinate Vassilis, but their colorful Abbasid dress brings back memories of the caravan, and images of Wasim come back to taunt him, and perhaps arouse him as well.
From where I stand in my usual spot behind the curtains – ready to respond to Her Worthiness’ command – it sounds more like a bazaar than a stately gathering. The buzz is deafening. I am not used to such events, which lie in stark contrast to the sobriety of the daily processions, the long prostrations before the Icons, the ritual chants and acclamations, the endless waiting, only to be prodded into action by Dickbreath or one of his minions.
The hammered dulcimer and lute barely rise above the hubbub of the charioteers. They are loud enough to make some elderly courtiers scowl in disapproval. Prissy oldsters are never far away!
A loud pounding heralds the arrival of the Imperial women: the sun with the moon in tow. Theodora looks magnificent in a full-body gown, silk sleeves billowing out, her hands ablaze with glowing rings and bracelets, beads radiating from her tiara. I should know. I helped her dress for this.
As if to add insult to injury she insisted that I should be the chief woman in attendance. If one didn’t know better, it would appear that the Regent was the new bride today. Forgive your mother this moment of chagrin, little Leo, but behind Theodora comes Michael’s new wench, a simple, pale white gown and small tiara, silver rather than gold. I’m sure her lithe boyishness appeals to my Vassilis, though he has never admitted it openly to me.
To Vassilis, the first impression of the legendary General Vardas is that of a pompous soldier. But his instincts are already pricked – he wonders if Vardas is foe or buffoon. Could this be the famous general that Methodios told him stories about?
When I peer out again from behind the curtain, Petronas is heading for his place, close on Vardas’ heels, thin and purposeful, a man who is everything Vassilis and I imagine a soldier to be. A tough man to those who do not know him, I heard he was a pussycat in private. I confess I have longed for his embrace. But no one knew who warmed his pallet at night. Many say he occupies his free hours with prayer and meditation, and little more.
The swaggering prelate arriving next is our beloved Thunderguts, Patriarch Ignatios, who leaves his acolytes trailing behind him, no doubt thrilled to be officiating at the first wedding of an Emperor in living memory.
And this is where Photios comes into my story – this is where Vassilis first saw him. He is slightly late, as usual, and fumbles to arrange himself on his couch.
“Worthy, Worthy,” resounds from the gathering as the wedding party arrange themselves around the main table after Michael and Dekapolitessa: Vardas, Petronas and Photios, on their right. Ignatios squeezes his perspiring frame into the space beside Theodora, who takes the other end of the table. Vassilis does not realize it, but it is indeed rare to see men and women dining together in the Palace. It is only the special nature of the Emperor’s betrothal that permits this. The Eunuch is not present, which is also strange.
The buzz resumes as the platters arrive, laden with battalions of roast flesh and carcasses of fowl. Armies of fish lie in formation alongside skewered suckers of octopus, halos of squid and naked shellfish. Leafy dark greens trumpet sauces of tantalizing shades, while the fragrances from baskets of hot loaves and bowls of herbs make his mouth water. Of course he cannot partake yet, as he is required to stand in attendance.
Peering out from the curtained pillars I spy the confusion at the second table as Grozdan fingers the cutlery. Vardas is showing off, a mean grin glistening over his beard as he chews. I inch closer, in order to pick up what is being said.
“You hold onto the thin part,” Vardas demonstrates, “and lift the food with the bowl-like part to your mouth, like this.”
The Envoy blushes, clearly flustered. He balances some meat on the flat end of a pronged spoon, then drops it. Vardas continues, apparently oblivious to his embarrassment.
“You might prefer to use the sharp end for that.” He spears a braised chunk and drops it neatly into his mouth. “It is a delight to be back, dear sister,” he announces, raising his goblet to the Regent.
I can see that, under her makeup, Theodora is annoyed to the point of exhaustion. Not only has all protocol been abandoned to the winds, but she has to deal with unwelcome barbarian visitors and, worst of all, her brothers! But her self-control is superb: dark-ringed eyes and pursed lips are the only clues to her anxiety.
`Your servant speaks Greek,” says Theodora to the Envoy. “He must be one of ours. How did he come to the Bulgar? Did you capture him?”
“It is not …,” Grozdan begins, “… a tale that would be to everyone’s taste.”
Vardas is in the mood to taunt whenever possible. “Oh, I am interested as well,” he says.
“He was once from Chariopolis”, says Grozdan, “… near Adrianopolis,” he adds when he sees no recognition of this village name. “He had been left to die. But we took him away and gave him a life when he thought he had none.”
Everyone seems to be waiting for him to go on, except for Michael, who evinces complete boredom.
“The Khan is a generous man,” says Methodios, trying to return to business. “He is interested in his people and how he can lift them from their misery. They are kind to all, if that kindness is returned.” Grozdan nods gratefully at Methodios.
The others listen but I gaze at Vassilis. He hasn’t said a word. I wish that he would be given leave to speak.
“My young friend here is very modest,” says Grozdan. “The Macedonian cast a special magic over our horses and, once our Khan’s eye fell upon him, the court wanted him for much more.”
I can sense the neighboring tables are restless. The young ladies and men mutter and smile behind long sleeves, their eyes on Vassilis. Then slow, rhythmic music rings out. It is the cue for the women. Lifting bracelet-laden arms high above their heads they rise and weave between the tables.
Michael takes in a sideways, pleading glance from Dekapolitessa, to which he responds with an absent smile, raising himself wearily to head for the charioteers’ table. There it is exaggerated toasts all around, arms draped around shoulders, sinewy frames bouncing off each other in cruel mirth. I am pleased that Dekapolitessa’s eyes are lowered, tears creeping from them at the slight. She has been given a hard path. But there is much for her to take comfort from. After all, she now has the Emperor in her bed. Who wouldn’t want that!
Amid all the stateliness, the ugliness that suddenly affronts us is a shock to all but the charioteers, who roar with delight.
A miniature, misshapen patriarch launches himself onto the table, feet landing neatly between the piles of food. It is the dwarf Gryllos, renowned for his cruel antics.
The creature grabs a bunch of parsley and a flagon of wine from one of the platters, pulls out his member, and makes as if to piss on the parsley, but some wine does it instead. He shakes it over the charioteers in mock blessing which gets guffaws, clapping, and shaking of fists in approval.
The parody is obvious. The real Ignatios blanches and eases himself out of his seat. Grisly beards in nearby tables grimly shake their heads and rise to follow him out of the hall … all to groans of mock disapproval from the charioteers.
The music changes to one of my favorite tunes. Ignoring my responsibilities to wait on Her Worthiness, I swirl with the younger women into the space around Michael’s table. I have chosen a pale blue gown today, and my braids are raised into thick rolls on either side of my head, the copper bracelets on my arms showing above my sleeves which I have pulled back as far as possible. When I look up, I find Michael’s hungry gaze feeding on every inch of me.
Encouraged by the bawdy cries around him, Michael takes another goblet and emulates my movements. Someone shoves him toward me. He staggers, spills, and then straightens, to loud guffaws. Everyone else cringes. The dulcimer rises above the silence.
Theodora is completely silent, listlessly spearing a piece of bread in a bowl of sauce. Vassilis is amazed. The bride is present but no one seems willing to address the affront to her! How do the Romans govern, if they cannot govern themselves, he wonders?
Michael jumps up onto the charioteers’ table, slightly less nimbly than Gryllos a few minutes ago.
“Quiet, everyone. That’s enough!” Michael says.
The music dies down, as does the buzz.
“Enough … festivities,” he slurs, then slips off the table and walks over to face Grozdan. “We have decided to accept the mission of this Envoy, whose message appears to be one of peace. He has brought gifts, and so it is fitting that we return a gift to him. We would have him take back one of his ladies sister who, we imagine, will be most welcome to the Khan.” He beckons toward the curtains, and she emerges, the Eunuch behind her.
Theodora looks furious. It is exactly what we had all guessed: the Bulgar woman who had been idling time away in the Regent’s quarters was highborn, or whatever passes for that in barbarian terms. I learned later that this was the Khan’s sister, and that these negotiations took place right before the wedding, between Michael and the Envoy. Michael was finally showing some mettle.
He continues. “I have also decided, as the Thirteenth Apostle, to accept Khan Boris into Holy Mother Church. I am prepared to adopt him as a son, indeed to baptize him myself. Take this as our real gift to your Khan, Envoy.”
