Queen of lies, p.27
Queen of Lies, page 27
Indignation flows, fueled by the liquor. Why is it that days go by when the common folk rely only on vegetables for sustenance, even going without porridge! Surely this is what the administration should be worrying over, not expanding the university? What is that old buffoon Vardas thinking of? They spit out the names of the men of so-called learning that have come to the City: Theodoros the geometrician, Kometas the grammarian, Theodosius the astronomer, and those others from the Levant, who have turned from a Christian path to self-indulgent Abbasid ways.
Discontent has found more of a home in their hearts than we could have dreamed possible. Rumor has it that Vardas not only lavishes the scholars with endowments and attention, but also spends large amounts of time debating with the students and teachers. When does he spend time with simple soldiers like themselves, they wonder – men who are the very backbone of empire?
Then Vassilis decides to enter the fray. “So what do you say, John of Chaldis? Are you man enough to take on the Empire. Do you have the stomach for change?” Shocked into silence at this sudden outburst, the men exchange frowns and share glances at Vassilis’. He has picked on one of the youngest, but also one of the sturdiest.
“For when you speak so harshly of our current state,” Vassilis continues in dead silence, “you criticize the Imperial rule of it as well. With what authority do you do this? Are you sure of what you say, or should our noble and kind host, the Logothete, feel embarrassed that he is entertaining fools that despise their Empire … if not the Emperor who rules over it in God’s name?”
Vassilis fixes Chaldis with a piercing glare and lets the silence grow. The musicians stop playing.
“I think it is time for you to show me what you believe in. I want to see actions rather than listen to drunken slander,” announces Vassilis in apparent seriousness. He seldom smiles or raises his voice so it is always difficult to know when he is joking or serious. A great asset, one that he learned to use wisely, except on those rare occasions when he boiled into a torrent of rage at me, or even you, my precious Leo.
Vassilis crosses the floor and pulls the stunned young commander to his feet. The silence is complete.
“Come on, you ass! Think straight. I challenge you to a wrestle, in Spartan style.” Vassilis grins broadly, and begins to disrobe, taut muscles and sinews rippling. “But because I do not believe you have it in you to best me, I will ask our host to tie one hand behind my back, to give you some small advantage. Will someone attend to me!”
The smiles break out; they roar in approval at the game, and quickly descend on Chaldis, ripping his robes from him, and running rope around Vassilis, pinning his arm behind him.
The two men face each other, roughly the same age and build, but Vassilis’ greater experience is obvious, in spite of his handicap. To the sound of cheering and jeering, Vassilis suddenly leaps at Chaldis, knocking him down and onto his back. A moment later his knees straddle Chaldis’ chest and his free elbow pins the young man’s thick neck to the ground.
But Chaldis is not to be beaten so quickly, in spite of being well into his cups. He manages to whip around from under my Vassilis, toppling him over. Sweat pours from body and brow as he pushes Vassilis’ face down into the grass.
Chaldis grabs Vassilis’ free arm with both of his, presumably to keep Vassilis pinned to the ground. The spectators draw breath as one when Vassilis twists his arm away, and leaps to his feet, before suddenly throwing Chaldis over and onto the ground.
Vassilis is back on Chaldis, pinning his head between his thighs. Now he has Chaldis’ right knee in his free arm and twists it around. The sound of the joint cracking gets a wince from the onlookers who nevertheless cheer them on. The roars drown the young man’s moaning. Vassilis releases him with a broad grin.
Then the noise empties out of the courtyard. All faces turn toward the entrance. Michael has chanced upon them, arms folded, brows twisted. “Seems like you are having some entertainments here, brother? Why was I not invited?”
“Not at all,” says Vassilis, standing up. “We are simply indulging in rather childish pursuits, a sign of how much wine we have taken this evening, nothing more. Why don’t you join us?”
The guests look down, pretending to converse with each other. Someone unties Vassilis’ binds. Vassilis dons his britches and goes up to Michael.
“I had come to talk of plans.” Michael reclines on a couch and gestures for a drink.
By now the guests have regained their couches and Chaldis his clothes. Marianos calls for more wine and does his best to get the conversation to pull itself up by its bootlaces.
“Perhaps this is not the right time,” he says, downing the goblet’s contents and swinging his feet to the floor.
Vassilis stops Michael with a deferent hand on his shoulder. “I am glad you are here,” Vassilis whispers into his ear, their cheeks almost touching. “Indeed, we must talk.”
He beckons Symvatios over. “As the Logothete is my witness, we have learned some news about the Caesar. And his plans for … the future.”
Michael reclines again. General conversation resumes. “We are convinced that there are … problems,” Vassilis says softly. “Rumor has it that the Caesar has gone too far.”
“Really?” Michael smirks. “Lately all I hear is rumor! First from the Caesar himself and now from you. What is one supposed to believe?”
Vassilis knows he must tread warily. “Now that Demestikos Petronas is no longer there to check him, we have heard that the Caesar would like to take future glories for himself alone.”
“I have never come across so much horse shit! In heaven’s name, what is everyone on about these days?”
“The rumors are everywhere among the soldiers, Your Worthiness,” says Symvatios.
“Let’s think it through, shall we?” Michael is impatient. “To what end? All my glories have been his. He would wish me no ill. I have heard nothing. If you mean the plans to move on Crete – that is not news. He doesn’t even want to go.”
“Doubtless,” Symvatios continues, “you know how the soldiers keep to themselves, Worthiness, and would never betray one of their own, except by drunken error. If the Caesar can return Crete to us then our wars in the Aegean are over. He might even be able to restore the grain supply from Egypt again. And win the eternal love of the people. Who knows what else … might be his for the taking?”
“If Christ wills it, of course all this could happen,” Michael retorts, after a moment’s hesitation, “and especially with us at his side. My uncle is brave beyond words, as was Uncle Petronas, and you – still an upstart in this court – can say nothing to the contrary.” He shakes with fury as Symvatios lowers his head.
An awkward silence settles once again across the gathering. Vassilis notices Marianos watching him very carefully, ready to pounce to his assistance if needed. With the slightest toss of his head, Vassilis indicates that Marianos should do nothing.
Michael jumps back on his feet. “Brother, I am dismayed at your part in this.” he addresses Vassilis. “You know how easy it was for me to raise you. I can raise anyone here in the same way if I choose.” He paces the room and halts in front of a bearded and bulky olive-skinned man in his early forties, a Syrian and newcomer to the court. Vassilis is not sure why this one is here but he has not asked many questions of those present.
“Who are you, friend?” Michael inquires.
Vassilianiscus is the response.
“How fascinating,” Michael muses. “Vassilianiscus, Vassilis. The similarity is quite suggestive, is it not? Perhaps either could be Magistros? Or neither?”
Vassilis ignores the throbbing pain in his brow, the fury clamping hold of his chest. He takes Michael aside. “You say he is a brave man,” Vassilis says, “and you are right. But are you content to know that the Caesar has been talking to the old Regent again, and that he is considering making someone close to him Demestikos without consulting you?”
A sour expression flits across Michael’s face. “He can appoint the Demestikos, he can appoint anyone. I have given him that power. It is a bit strange that he and Mother are speaking again, as I cannot imagine what they would have to talk about these days, but I see no issue here. He knows best. And what is best for me too, I am sure.”
Vassilis decides to risk all. As with having to choose the right man all those years ago when breaking in Boris’ wild colt, Vassilis realizes he must follow his instincts. Oh, my divinely inspired savior – for that you is what you are!
“Perhaps more importantly,” Vassilis whispers for only Michael and Symvatios to hear, “we have recently come to hear how this famed bravery of his extended to … guarding Ingerina’s chambers whenever you were not around. Did you know about this?”
Michael frowns. His eyes narrow. He staggers, a specter of paleness, and collapses back onto the couch. “What cruel jest is this? I thought I had dispensed with Gryllos some time back. Surely you don’t mean that the child …”
Leaving Symvatios to attend to a quaking Michael, Vassilis turns to the gathering. It is once again very clear what he must do. He must reach out to them. He is not afraid to speak boldly.
“What is our kingdom to be based on?” says Vassilis, turning to the gathering. “On lies, or a return to greatness? On filthy pursuits? Are we to gather dust in the codices of history, as a forgotten people, like the ancients whose stories live on only thanks to those members of the university many of you question? Or can we leave a mark through strength and righteousness?”
Striding between the couches, Vassilis makes sure that he touches each guest somehow; with a clap on the shoulder or a clasp of warm palms. “Let us make sure that whatever we decide to do, that our lives are in the right hands. And that we build on the glory of the past …” His words are greeted with roars of approval and raised goblets, led by Marianos.
“Then,” he says to the gathering, “are we together on whatever may need to be done?”
† † †
The ignominy of the Amorion! Surely their willfulness is to blame for their downfall. As I write these last words I know no limit to my fury at the abominations we have suffered because of them. I am tempted even to destroy this book, so that their name may be wiped from the pages of history, if only you were not one of them, my handsome Leo.
What happened next is why, dear son of mine, I have never forgiven your father.
To Vassilis’ surprise, he is called to the marble stables the day after the feast. Michael is there, attired in the white cloak usually reserved for ceremony. He embraces Vassilis casually, with that gleam in his eye that suggests something unusual is afoot.
“You disturbed me greatly yesterday,” Michael says very quietly. “I did not expect news of that kind in front of such rabble. And you know that it is not the first time I am surprised in this way. What other news do you keep hidden from me?”
“Worthiness, the servant can offer only himself up to the master, there is nothing more to give,” Vassilis says.
Michael reaches out and touches his face. “We are brothers, are we not, and I have given you so much. Why, then, do you not bare your heart to me?”
“I wanted to be sure before I caused you unnecessary pain.”
Michael turns away with a frown and a sad smile. “You have failed at that. And you must never do so again. You must bear this … temporary discomfort … so that you do never forget this.”
This is clearly a signal. The guards step forward before Vassilis can move. They throw him over a nearby horse, binding his arms together around its neck and stomach. He does not struggle, nor does he cry out.
Michael dismisses them. He frowns, then smiles. “I must mark you, as a sign of honor between brothers,” he whispers. “They teach that sort of thing in the villages, don’t they?”
Vassilis fights the anger. The distant clanking of hammers on anvils brings him to his senses. “You can do what you want with me. Everything I have is yours. But let me stand free.”
Michael produces a short sword and slices through Vassilis’ binds. Vassilis slips down, back on his feet.
Michael touches the tip of the blade to Vassilis’ skin. “You must bear this for me, to remind you that you must tell me everything. Otherwise, who can I trust?” Blood seeps from a cut. But Michael pulls away, tears in his eyes. The hammers ring out.
Vassilis grasps Michael’s hand and pulls both it and the blade to his breast again. “Do what you must,” says Vassilis. A crude Chi-Rho sign is wrought – the mark of Christ! The blood runs down Vassilis’ side and down the blade, onto the floor.
It takes much to move my Vassilis, but when his spirit is fired, especially at injustice, a mountain cannot stop him. Oh, if only I had known that he would be so reckless, I could have warned him of the danger he was opening himself to. But I only learned of this much, much later.
Vassilis staggers away from the stables, his tunic striped with blood. He strides to the servants’ quarters. Beneath the Palace the darkness peels back to reveal stacks of rank, sweat-ridden mats. No doubt these arouse him. Especially in the state he finds himself, the wound on his breast itching and coarse. What are the servants’ lives like? Contemptible sleeping and eating, probably little more. And, I’m sure, copulating mindlessly to while away the few free hours. Even his home with Maria near the market was much better than this. He ignores the wave of whispers that greets his arrival. After all, he is a high-ranking visitor, and is free to move among the chattels.
A eunuch servant who became mine much later told me how he heard a man bellow. How he looked up to see Vassilis standing over a man little older than him, bony and curled up on a mat. His chin is covered in stubble, yet he is, no doubt, as slender and beguiling as he was those many years ago on the Maritsa River.
Vassilis pulls the cringing mass to his feet. “What – can’t you speak properly? Don’t you remember me?”
“I remember you, lord,” says Wasim. The words barely escape a trembling chin. Vassilis gropes cruelly at the sunken cheeks and dark limbs, their girlishness lost and replaced with lean, wasted features, the soft eyes now spun tightly into points of fear.
Vassilis rips Wasim’s rags from him. I’d suspected all along that the naked vulnerability of a man stokes Vassilis’ groin even more than the simple pleasures of a woman. When I heard this I knew it to be true. Vassilis pushes the slave down onto his naked groin, forcing him to gag. The rest take the bobbing, shaved head as their cue to become scarce.
Yet this is just the start. Vassilis throws him onto his back, bites his mouth fiercely while pinning him down, gnawing on his arms, his shoulders, then his nipples. Feathers of blood from Vassilis’ chest smear onto the slave’s body. He thrusts Wasim’s bony haunches into the air, then crushes his knees into his breast.
Vassilis carves him out with deep thrusts, his veined blade lading the young man repeatedly, the pummeling continuing long after all desire has been exhausted. Pain must teach arrogance its lesson – this is Vassilis in a fury beyond fury.
Several moments of stillness follow. Then, to my servant’s surprise, Vassilis leans tenderly over the young man, straightens him out, and sucks hard at his stubbly upper lip. “You are mine now, you know. I will repay handsomely for that service.”
“Of course, lord,” murmurs Wasim, his eyes shut.
“I will send coin and clothing for you. I will take care of you.” How could he choose a piece of Abbasid scum like this rather than me to satisfy his lust? Is it because he knows what it was like to have been in the dirt, trodden on by the indifference of those in power?
But who will ever know for sure?
Chapter 34. For our rewards await us in heaven
Two months later, in the spring of 866 AD
How do I paint an image of your grandmother, my little Leo? Imagine a proud woman, swirling in black silks and disbelief, her parched eyes softened by a thick mourning veil, with only a tiny Theotokos on a chain around her neck to comfort her. For I am sure that Theodora still can’t believe that she is to see Vardas today. They had seen each other only a few times since she left the Palace some ten years ago, but apart from a formal embrace and a few words at Petronas’ memorial service, no real sentiments had since been exchanged, as far as I knew. I wonder if she has some pleasures again these days, since Vardas had her relocated to the relatively nearby Saint Mamas, just along the northeast coast.
My old friend Gemma stayed with her mistress. She tells me that Theodora sleeps little, praying at all hours, mourning the passing of many. Petronas’ death was the greatest blow for her, coming so unexpectedly. Now, Gemma follows Theodora on a slow stroll down the path. She is amazed to see an imperial procession arriving, an hour before it is expected. Vardas’ bulk is obvious from afar, but it is only as they ride up to the entrance that Gemma recognizes Vardas’ son, the broad-shouldered Antigonus – a shining light in the army, according to the rumors buzzing around many quarters.
Vardas climbs off his horse, grabbing painfully at his back. Gemma stands back, slightly unsure if she is still needed, but not really wanting to be dismissed. The animosity between these siblings is legendary. But, instead of bitter words, tears creep down Vardas’ face.
“You are early,” Theodora calls, approaching the gate with slow, proud steps, as always.
“I am here, am I not?” he calls back. “At least I made the effort. Can we not …” He struggles to speak.
Is he drunk, Gemma wonders? Theodora reaches out as if to take his hand, but instead lifts it to touch him on the cheek. He draws it to his lips and kisses it. She is trembling. Surely that dried out old heart, like mountain herbs on a sun-washed stone slab, is not damp with pity? The pleading in his eyes is obvious. Who would have thought such a thing possible?
“How could God have taken him from us?” Vardas weeps.
Even Theodora struggles to hold back the tears as she allows herself to be held. “How, my brother, how indeed?”
