Queen of lies, p.13
Queen of Lies, page 13
Everyone looks around, uncertain as to what to do. Vardas stands up and starts clapping.
Then people start to rise, hand on hand in unison, leaving the Envoy and Theodora frozen on their seats. Methodios pulls the Envoy to his feet.
Theodora gets up and swirls off, the Eunuch and Dekapolitessa in close formation. I should be following Her Worthiness but I slip behind Vardas’ table instead. I want to hear what Vardas and Photios are saying to each other.
“This young one has come a long way since I left,” Vardas says. “Why is he still under my sister’s thumb? Or is he?”
Photios says “It is a very politic move, indeed. But I wonder how the Envoy is taking it?”
Vassilis told me later what happened at Envoy’s table. “This is ridiculous,” Grozdan whispers furiously to Methodios. “The Khan is perhaps twice his age. What am I supposed to say to either of them?”
My Vassilis understands what has happened. It is like cajoling a wild steed to do your bidding.
“You should agree,” is Methodios’ response. “The Emperor has just called your bluff.”
Chapter 16. Diptych
Still midsummer 855 AD
Vassilis staggers slightly, and not just from the wine he has taken on an empty stomach. Theophilitzes, all bracelets and oily wiles, has draped his unchaste hands around the arm of my young Peasant. He herds him toward a divan in the gardens. Flushed cheeks cool under the suspicious breezes of the early autumn evening while torchlight cascades over the fountains, the most distant torches highlighting Michael’s shadow, and mine.
Michael and I have slipped away into the gardens together. The celebrations have aroused our desire to the point where reason falls prey to abandon. All those late night embraces by himself have taught Michael to stand to attention at the sight of me. Yes, little Piglet, struck down in the calends of Lampshade and Ovensauce – you have used your muscles well! Father says that I am foolishly brave – but it has always held me in good stead. In the darkness of the late evening, with the celebrations continuing in the background, my legs have crept around his, our limbs entwined in a flagrant mockery of the day’s holy rites.
“So,” I say, “you have a wife now – what am I to you?”
Michael runs the tip of his tongue along my face and sucks at my fingers as I reach for his cheek. “I dream of your smell,” he says. “You are too much for me – and always will be.” He is obviously drunk, but still quite delightful.
“I am yours,” I say. “Nothing else matters.”
While we are locked in embrace, Theophilitzes arranges himself nearby on the bench right next to Vassilis, his eyes everywhere, a ravenous expression on his face. The honeyed tones, the scents of patchouli and tea-tree, the twitching smiles, tactics still unknown to my Peasant, nevertheless awaken strange desires within him.
“Your master’s mission to us is flawed,” Theophilitzes says. “What would we do with barbarians like the Bulgar – unless there are more like you among them?”
“But surely there is something to be gained from peace,” Vassilis says, thinking back to conversations with Methodios.
Theophilitzes places a jeweled hand on Vassilis’ leg. “I am sure many women have known peace in your arms.”
Vassilis is startled at such forthrightness, and hesitates.
But in my arms, Michael is much bolder. “Shall we play?” he asks, moving his lips down to my neck. When I do not respond he pleads, “Let me take you here, right now!”
“Would you be man enough, Worthiness?” I taunt. I spread my legs, pushing his hands down into the soft fabric of my robes. Let the court know who holds the horns of the bull. My skin tingles. The night air is marvelous.
Gryllos‘ arrival breaks the magic. “What have we here! The evening is not yet upon us and the night is almost over?”
I am never sure if Michael is amused or annoyed by the jester.
“Gryllos, why are you torturing me?” Michael moans but does not stop what he is doing. “Piss off! Get to the feast. Keep them busy – we still have a task to perform.”
But this is Gryllos’ function – being a nuisance. “I am here to bless the marriage. But which couple should I bless? I shall leave you in peace – or in pieces. I might even sing the mass later – and perhaps feed them a verse of two of the holy union I see here.”
He vanishes.
Vassilis sees the logic now. “I am yours to command, noble sir,” he says, smiling at the older man.
“Well said, my Bulgar emissary, you will go far,” Theophilitzes flashes a hungry grin. “But this is not the time nor the place. Tell me about your home.” His fingers slide up and down Vassilis’ arm.
“Which home would that be?” Vassilis says. “I have had many. I know no place as home, except the hearth of my father, which I left many years ago. My mother died when I was young. I have lived in the forests, lived with strangers such as the Bulgar, and even journeyed with the Abbasid. The Bulgar … gave me a wife, and a child. Perhaps that is home?”
“It sounds like you should come to visit me someday and see even more of the world. What do you know of the sea? Of the city of Patras? I would have you meet my patron and her son, a close … friend of mine. He could learn much from you. He knows nothing of the hardships of the world. He still needs to learn how to survive, to be a man amid danger.”
“Why, of course,” Vassilis says, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I am sure it will be a meeting well made.” Theophilitzes raises an eyebrow at this – but the Jester bursts in upon them.
“Blessed be him and him in the name of the father, a holy duality,” Gryllos announces as he crosses himself.
Then short arms tuck themselves in at the waist in mock indignation, while he circles Vassilis at a safe distance. “My, what have we here?” Gryllos says. “A broad chest, thick arms, a bold chin, a fine leg. No doubt someone big in all respects.”
A frown on Gryllos’ misshapen brow contrasts with a wicked grin aimed at Theophilitzes.
“Could it be, my lord, that there are many such men among the Bulgar? If that were so, I would travel far abroad and leave this miserable hole, giving my hole … person to them at every opportunity … for my betterment of course!”
Vassilis is tense, as if to spring. Theophilitzes places a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t be offended,” he says. “He’s just a fool feeding at the scraps of our table, there to make us laugh at ourselves, as long as we enjoy him more often than not.”
“Not your table, good lord,” smirks Gryllos, “which I believe you left behind in Patras, though not your behind, from what I see. My table. The Emperor belongs to me. But I see there is a man here who will belong to no one. And the Emperor’s real Empress is behind us as she is under him. Majesty surrounds us!”
He bows to the ground and makes as if to kiss Vassilis’ feet. “Your servant, worthiness. But I wonder if I should bend lower while we are all taken from behind?” Tiny buttocks spring into view as the tiny patriarchal habit lifts. Vassilis jumps at him and locks an arm around his crooked neck.
But Vassilis knows he must appear to be in control. So he lets Gryllos slip away to a safe distance.
Gryllos pulls his habit back down, makes the sign of the cross with parsley which appears from nowhere, and cocks an ear as they become aware of our distant panting and moaning.
He turns to face the men. “I bless you, in the name of the most high – in the name of the Archangel Michael who – even now – is nearing the gates of heaven.”
Then he scampers away before Vassilis can land a fist on him.
† † †
The Throne Room is seldom abused in this way. Michael and the men have stolen here after the wedding banquet. Several of the younger Generals have also been invited to drink late into the night to the Emperor’s health, as well as some older, supposedly more distinguished courtiers, who seldom let on how much observance they give to Bacchus. Photios is not one of them. He writes that he there only out of a sense of duty to Michael.
They sit at the end of the hall, that is, not near the Throne. Michael has draped himself over one of several couches which he ordered dragged in this evening. Vardas and Petronas recline nearby. The Envoy stands nearby, looking nervous, Methodios right behind him. A eunuch enters, pushing a golden trolley of fruit, its wheels scraping.
Michael’s eyes water, presumably from the tartness of an apple he bites into. He seems very pleased with himself, and relaxed. “Your success fascinates us, master Methodios,” he says, his mouth full. “You have turned every misfortune into good luck. And brought us this opportunity to deal with the Bulgar.”
Grozdan’s weary eyes peer out from behind his goblet. “Knowing this man’s modesty in all things to do with himself, I will say this much. The Khan asked for an image of the most terrifying thing that Methodios could paint. The result was a vision that could easily strike fear in the hardest man – that of … what do you call it? … the second coming of your Christ.”
Photios turns to Methodios. “They say that you assisted the Khan in more than just providing Icons for him to gape at?”
Methodios looks embarrassed. “We … that is, the young man who attended us at dinner and me … were putting up the image. It was made of twelve separate panels that had to be laid next to each other to achieve the full effect. Of course this meant we were speaking quite loudly in Greek to one another about the spacing of the panels. Then we heard several of the Khan’s Boyars talking nearby. They must have thought that, as foreigners speaking Greek, we had no hope of understanding them.”
“And does the young man paint as well?” Michael slurs, looking for something more to hold his attention. When no one understands quite who he is referring to, he continues. “The one who accompanies the Envoy. What is his name?”
“On the contrary, Worthiness,” Methodios says, “Young Vassilis is an equerry and a fine rider. As you know, the Bulgar love their horses more than anything else.”
“How is he at the chariot?” says Michael. “Though surely the Bulgar have little use for chariots in their rocky domain.”
Grozdan spots another opportunity to play the diplomat. “No, but they have need of you, Your Worthiness. I mean, this court and your city.”
“In one way or another,” says Vardas, “our ancestors have ruled since the first Roman republic and its founder Lucius Junus Brutus, thirteen hundred years ago. Or perhaps we should date our lineage to Octavian Augustus, the first Roman Emperor who lived five hundred years later, after the Republics fell. My point is that the Bulgar cannot understand us in a day, let alone have us.”
“Uncle, it is good to have you with us again, but you sound too much like Photios, who must fill my ear constantly with facts and figures. I would have our guests enjoy their stay with us while not being bored shitless.”
Michael turns to the Envoy. “We must get this young man in one day. I want us to ride together. I am sure he will find himself at home in a chariot.”
Grozdan struggles to stand upright. Exhaustion perhaps? “Great Emperor, noble Romans,” he says. “My gratitude knows no bounds. I thank you for bringing us to the heart of your City and for your hospitality. I will take back your message of brotherly love to the Khan. But now, I beg your understanding –- it has been a long day and I would prefer to retire before morning.”
Michael swings his legs to the floor. “Call it brotherly love if you will, but remember it includes submitting his tiara to my crown. In return he gets peace, prosperity, and protection, something no Frank or pope can give him, with the Abbasid never ceasing to play at being a neighbor.”
“Understood, Your Worthiness.” He retreats, bowing deeply, his braids lolling forward over his shoulders.
Michael reclines again. He nods off. Everyone waits respectfully for His Worthiness, exchanging amused glances. Should he be taken to bed? But he starts when a log falls over in the fireplace, and stretches. Petronas has joined them.
“It is excellent to see you again, Uncles. But why did you take so long?”
Vardas and Petronas look at each other, and chuckle. “We needed an excuse,” Petronas says. “You forget your mother did not want us around! With the damned Eunuch keeping control of everything, as always, one has to tread with care.”
Michael sighs. “He is owed favors by half the City. This is how he has us all – like an ungelded bull by his intimate parts.”
Everyone roars, perhaps a bit exaggeratedly, at the joke.
“Very good.” Vardas takes the lead at a nod from Petronas. “But I hope you won’t mind if I say that it is obvious that you have let your situation move out of control.”
Michael’s lips twist. His eyes churn. “Uncle, don’t chide – especially not today!”
“My boy, my boy, I do it because I love you, and because I see in you the hope of our Realm. You must not cave in completely to your mother and the gelding. Women, both of them. Now, granted, women are the most powerful force in the cosmos, but the reputation of the Romans abroad …”
He waits for this to sink in. “Reputation … do you understand? A City, no, an empire ruled by a woman and a eunuch. Do you not wonder that the Khan is in two minds about which court to play to? You’ve shown the right strength today. But you need to take control even more!” Vardas slaps the couch suddenly.
“That’s quite enough, Uncle. I find this … discussion quite annoying. This was supposed to be a fond re-acquaintance. I did not expect that you would return to taunt me.”
“Dearest nephew, we have returned to help you.” Vardas is feigning calm but his neck has turned bright red.
“So what do you suggest?” the Emperor says.
“It’s obvious. You exert your presence.”
“And if they resist?”
“Come, come, my boy, think! You fight back. Or you remove the opposition. You simply don’t cave in to it!”
Michael dips a finger in the wine in his goblet and rubs it along the rim. “I have no qualms about getting the two of them out of the way for a bit, although I am not sure quite what that means. But how will I control this nest of scorpions without them?”
Petronas weighs in. “How have our armies and navy performed while we were away, nephew? We know, as does most of the world. Give the Court a victory, with you in control. Show them your mastery of the field. Inspire them with leadership. The poison in their tails will dry up.”
“I really have never understood what passed between you and my … mother, but she is, after all, the womb that bore me. I cannot wish her harm.”
“And neither do we,” Vardas says. “After all, she still may be useful to us. But we have to strike at her most powerful ally. Do you think they have bedded each other?”
“By all that is holy, Uncle, I never knew your penchant for such talk!” Though I catch him suppressing a smile.
“Then just leave him to us. It’s not the first time I have thought about it, and perhaps the solution is simple.”
Vardas stands up. “I am not as young as I used to be. It is time for me to retire too, and wish you many happy years in your rule over the … domain of your new empress. I wish I could slough off all these ugly old years and take her to my chamber.”
Michael stands up and puts his hands on Vardas’ shoulders. “You can have her if you wish, Uncle, this marriage has all been Mother’s doing. I grew tired of resisting her. It seemed as if giving in would silence her, once and for all.”
We wait respectfully for the moment to pass. Vardas extracts himself from the embrace.
“One more thing,” asks Michael. “The young Greek. Vassilis. What did you think of him?”
“The servant?” Vardas replies, a little taken aback. “He is just a rogue, I am sure!” He doesn’t know yet that this is always Michael’s way, like his father, someone who does not see rank as anything of real importance. Perhaps this is how it is when you don’t have to earn that rank.
Michael curls back into the couch. Then jumps back up. “I am off to the stables. Bring me my blanket.”
Off to sleep among his horses again, no doubt. The gathering exchanges looks of resignation – surely there is a better choice for a first night of nuptials!
† † †
Images of the banquet weave through my Peasant’s thoughts as he stumbles through the docks. Is this wantonness and debauchery the City of Christ on earth? This is not what he had learned from Father, and, more recently, Methodios.
He is also confused: why are people taken in so much by his appearance? He thinks back to Theophilitzes, not to mention many of the women and some of the men at the banquet hall who looked as if they were ready to devour him. He remembers Father telling him that it was not what he was, but what he did that counted. Father had always said one’s strength was nothing to be proud of since it was no more than a gift from God. Yet how often do we forget that what we are speaks so loudly that it is sometimes difficult for others to hear or even notice what we say or do? Vassilis longs for peace tonight, the kind of peace he had enjoyed out in the hills of Thrace. And he longs for Maria too.
He has walked far this evening, or so it seems, having been dismissed rather absentmindedly by Methodios after the banquet. His steps have taken him out of the Palace gates to the harbor, past stinking men crooning in pools of filth, past rag-torn children, some of them hobbling on one leg, begging for a coin. A woman squats to relieve herself in a gutter.
At the dock side, strange images ripple across the waters in front of him as boats of all kinds jostle against each other. This is his first view, close up, of our Golden Horn, and the vessels that travel across it and onto the sea. He has never felt the breaths of so many unknown people on his skin, their bodies bumping him out of the way with complete disregard for his aimless milling about. With the instinct of a caged animal that longs for escape, he knows that no peace will be found here, among the strange tongues, the sharp voices, and the rough calling and chattering.
