Anna of Byzantium (13 page)

I stayed in my bow so long that I thought my father had forgotten me. But at last, “You may rise,” he said. I did so but did not raise my eyes, wishing
myself anywhere but there. I stood, swaying a little with fatigue and tension. I wished he would speak, and he finally did.

“I have carefully considered what I have learned,” he went on. “I have consulted with my advisors, especially your grandmother. I have also spoken with your brother, although he was reluctant to speak ill of his older sister.” I heard a stifled groan from the raised throne area.

Now I did lift my eyes, and saw my mother, looking pale, seated in her throne. Surely she was the one who had reacted with the same disbelief that I felt at hearing of John’s “reluctance” to betray me. Her blue eyes, rimmed now with red, looked bleakly at me. There was nothing she could do for me, I knew. My grandmother had been very clever in convincing my father that my mother was just a pretty little thing, good for raising heirs, but without a head for politics. It was too late to change his mind now.

Anna Dalassena was standing in her usual spot at my father’s side. Between the thrones stood John, robed in—could it be?—yes, it was a purple robe, made of a design similar to the one that had caused me trouble on my father’s return. The sight of him and his little monkey face made me ill, so I looked away from him and up at my father.

He must have slept as little as I had. His face was haggard, and he looked older. His eyes were sad as they gazed at me. Why could I not run to him as I had when he had punished me for misbehaving when I was a little girl? Why could I not sit on his lap and have his strong arms surround me, comforting me, making me know that no matter
what I did, I was his daughter, his firstborn, his favorite? But I knew the answer. I was no longer a little girl. And no matter how much he loved me, the empire had to be protected, and if he had been convinced that I was a threat, he would destroy me.

“I have carefully weighed their opinions,” he went on. “And I have taken into account that you have devoted yourself to the study of history. You have read in the old chronicles how rulers achieved and kept power by murder, often of their own relatives. We do not do things that way anymore, Anna!” He glared at me. I had no answer to make.

He went on, “I find that as always I agree with your grandmother. She says that you have proven yourself unworthy of the crown.” I tried to speak, but he held his hand up to silence me. “I have found that your grandmother is always right about people’s characters. She has informed me how you twisted her words in our conversation yesterday, leading me to believe that she would advocate breaking treaties and in other ways deal dishonorably with other nations. Your grandmother would not behave like this, child. I don’t know why you wanted me to believe evil of her, and I am disappointed in you.” I bowed my head. I could never convince him otherwise; she had covered her tracks too well, and her enemies were silenced by either threats or gold. No one would back me up if I tried to defend myself. I was utterly alone.

My father’s next words fell like lead on my ears. “I was wrong to designate you as my heir. You are as of this moment removed from that position.”

The room reeled around me, and for an instant I was that little girl again, wanting to cry out at the Venetian ambassadors that it was not true, that
I
was going to inherit, that one day the throne would be mine. A gasp escaped me before I could stop it. But once again I controlled myself, although with even more difficulty than I had at that time. Don’t let them see what you’re thinking, I said to myself fiercely. A princess does not show on her face what she feels in her heart.

My father’s voice reached me as through a fog. “Maria is a dear child, and we all love her, but she is not the sort who can rule. Fortunately …” He paused. “Fortunately, your grandmother has shown me how able John has become in my absence.”

My head cleared at these last words. So this was the explanation. Maria was too much a Ducas. My grandmother would never allow someone who so resembled my mother to sit on the high throne. And despite what she said about Ducas weakness and lack of spirit, she knew that Maria had a mind of her own. But little John—ah, he was a different matter. He had managed to hide his domineering nature from her, as he had from my father.

There were other ways in which my grandmother thought she could control John. He could not read, so both would depend on the same scribes to read to them. She would never have to fear that he knew something she did not. He was young and she must think he would be easily formed into the kind of person she thought should rule—ruthless, selfish, with no care for justice. And most of all, he had shown her that he could be led by her will.
That he would be her willing puppet. My mistake, I thought to myself, was that I had let her know that when I was on the throne, I would make up my own mind instead of letting her rule through me, the way she did, I now reluctantly admitted to myself, through my father. Why, I thought, why hadn’t I hidden that part of myself? Simon had been right; I shouldn’t have flown so near the sun.

“You can’t!” Suddenly my mother’s voice rang out, making me jump, and she leaped from her throne. “It’s all your mother’s doing! She has never liked my family and is determined to keep a Ducas off the throne, even a distant cousin like Constantine. I have kept silent at her misdeeds until now, out of respect for my emperor, but this injustice is too much. Anna is your firstborn; she is even named for your mother. She has been expecting the throne all her life. She is more intelligent than that boy will ever be—he can’t even read, despite Simon’s many attempts to teach him. And Anna is not deceitful and malicious, the way he is!”

“Silence!” I listened as my father spoke in an angrier tone than I ever remembered hearing from him. “Are you mad? That is your own son you belittle. And in any case, you have no say in the matter. The throne is mine to pass on as I think best.”

“And what of Constantine?” she demanded, as though she had not heard him. “You agreed long ago that he would sit at Anna’s side in the throne room.”

This time, my father hesitated before replying. “I will admit that Constantine Ducas is an able man, and he will
do well in whatever sphere destiny holds for him,” he said. “But the throne is not to be his destiny. He will understand. He is my comrade-at-arms, and knows that I must make decisions for the good of the empire, despite personal feelings.”

“You gave your word!” said my mother. “If he weren’t a Ducas, your mother would agree that Constantine is the best man to continue your work. John is still a child; he was raised by servants after I became ill when he was a baby, and learned bad habits from them. Anna was raised to be empress. Even your mother has to acknowledge that Anna is better prepared to rule than—”

“Enough! You have had your say, and I will have mine. John will be the next Emperor of Byzantium! It is my decree. The decree of this emperor.”

“Emperor!” she sneered. “Who rules here—you or that woman?” She flung her hand in Anna Dalassena’s direction. My grandmother stood motionless, not even looking toward the commotion.

My father rose from his throne, and despite his short stature, in his rage he appeared to tower over my mother. “What treason are you speaking?” he thundered. “Are you saying that I am controlled by my mother?”

“What else would you call it?” my mother cried, her lovely face turning red and shiny. “You don’t do anything without her approval, you allow her absolute power when you are not present, and you allow her to change your mind about something you promised years and years ago.
This
is what I was afraid of,
this
is what I was trying to tell you. She is deceitful and cruel! The only good that has
come out of this is that she will lose interest in Anna and stop poisoning her soul any more than she already has!”

My father stood as though stunned. My mother lowered her hands, her hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears. Finally, there was silence, which stretched and stretched until the councillors shifted their weight uneasily. Then my father spoke, in a cold tone I had never heard from him before.

“You are mistaken, madam,” he said. “My mother is but one of my advisors. The most trusted, I agree, but the wisest as well. Whom should a man trust, if not his mother? But you do not understand this; you are an unnatural mother who does not love her son.” My mother started to speak, but stopped as my father lifted his hand to silence her. He went on, “If it had not been for Anna Dalassena’s counsel, I would not be seated on this throne, and you would not be seated here next to me. You would be just one of the pretty Ducas princesses and would never know what it was like to have all this.” His hand swept around the room as if to show the treasures, the glass, the mosaics.

“Our daughter has spoken treason and murder,” he continued, turning his head to look at me with his black eyes blazing. I could not stand their gaze, and lowered my eyes to the floor. “She is still my daughter, and I still love her, and have no wish to banish her or humiliate her in any way, much less have her tortured and executed, as many would expect.” He paused and the room once again reeled around me. He spoke again. “She is not evil, merely young
and ambitious. I myself was once young and ambitious, and can understand her. But by her actions she has proven herself unworthy of the throne.”

He took a step in my direction. “Princess Anna,” he said. “You are still an imperial princess, the daughter of the emperor, and the sister of the heir. You will remain in the palace, and continue in your life the way you always have. But do not entertain any hopes of ever inheriting this throne.

“Hear me!” he said in a loud voice. All the councillors bowed low. He looked around the room full of silent and motionless men. “Hear me!” he said again. “I, Alexius Comnenus, Emperor of Byzantium, conqueror of the infidel, protector of Christendom, declare that from this day, the princess Anna Porphyrogenita Comnena is reduced to the same status as her sister, and that my heir will be John Porphyrogenitus Comnenus!”

John moved forward and bowed to the assembly. As he straightened, so did they, and with one voice they cheered the heir, the prince, the one who would next rule them.

And I had to stand there and listen, knowing that my grandmother had orchestrated this scene, that I was powerless, that I would never have what I wanted, and what was rightfully mine.

remember little of what happened next. I was led back to my room and ordered to pray for forgiveness. I stayed on my knees for hours, praying not for forgiveness but for revenge, for a bloody death to John, and for my own death. I fell into bed exhausted and slept until my mother called me to her chamber the next day. She was pale and shaky, and told me gently what I had already guessed, that I was not to marry Constantine, since it was no longer required that I ally myself with the Ducas family. A suitable match would be made for me with someone whose allegiance was needed by the emperor. I merely nodded, eyes on the floor. What did I care? My life was over.

Later I heard that Constantine, far from being angered when he heard the news of our broken betrothal, fell to his knees and swore eternal allegiance to his new emperor. He had shown his loyalty to my father by this action, and joined him when he left for yet another war.

I joined the rest of the imperial family in the church before my father departed, and we all prayed formally for his safe return. When we gathered in the courtyard to make our farewells, he blessed me as he did Maria and John and my cousins, but his lips felt cold, and his hand barely touched my bowed head.

What solace I found came from my studies. As we imperial children were needing less of his tutoring, Simon took over the duties of the librarian. Even when we both worked in silence, his presence was soothing. Under his guidance, I studied for hours every day, bending over the books, all with different styles of writing, until my eyes glazed and my head swam. But every time I stopped, images of myself on the throne, the golden Constantine next to me, would fill my head. I would force myself to read more until I was so weary that when I finally tumbled into bed, Sophia had to undress my motionless form, and every night I slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

When I was too tired even to read, I would lie on the carpet in the classroom and ask Simon for stories. His voice calmed me, and his tales distracted me. As I reached my thirteenth year, he discouraged this practice as unseemly for a nearly full-grown woman, but sometimes he would still indulge me. Occasionally he would tell me about the old gods, but now that I knew they were dead,
as Father Agathos had said, I was less interested in them than in the tales of earlier rulers of our empire.

“Empress Zoë,” I would say to him.

“This is not a story for young ears,” he would say.

“Empress Zoë,” I would repeat.

“Empress Zoë,” he would say with a sigh. “She would be about the age of your grandmother, I suppose, if she were still alive. Are you sure you want to hear this yet again, Little Beetle?”