Anna of Byzantium (18 page)

“I don’t know,” I said. “The physician said it was deadly. When my brother becomes emperor I don’t want to have to put up with what he and my grandmother do. I don’t want to be forced to live the life they make for me. If I have a way out—”

“No!” Sophia said. “You can’t do that. If you do, he’ll
win! Don’t you see? That’s what he wants. That’s what
she
wants.” Sophia was right. I sat on the stool and sobbed, my face down on my knees. Sophia knew me well enough not to try to console me, but fetched me a glass of water when I had ceased.

“You must rest now,” she said. “But what of this?” She indicated the flask in her pocket. “May I dispose of it?”

“No,” I said. “I may need it.” Before she could protest, I added, “And don’t leave it in here. My room could be searched at any time. You must take it away.”

“Where?” she asked.

I thought for a moment. “Simon,” I said. “Give it to Simon, and tell him to keep it for me.”

She seemed about to speak, but the habit of obedience was strong now. Still I did not trust her as I watched her move to the door.

“Sophia!” She turned.

“You must swear to deliver it to him, and you must make him swear to keep it for me.”

“I can’t—”

“Swear!” I said. “Swear, or I will have Malik sent away to the border country, and you will never see him again!”

She winced, and with her eyes downcast, she said, “I swear,” and left me.

I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke a tray of food was on the table next to me. Bread, figs, my favorite fried artichokes—but I was not hungry and pushed the tray away. I drank only the wine. When Sophia came in, she asked, “Was the food not to Your Majesty’s liking?”

I shrugged. What did food matter?

This feeling did not change. I could hardly eat, and what I ate I nearly always vomited back up. I did not care, but my mother was concerned. One day she came to the library, where weakness had overtaken me and I had laid my head down on the table in front of me.

“What ails you, daughter?” she asked, smoothing my hair back off my cheek. Her light touch was so soothing that I nearly fell asleep. Instead, I made an effort and sat up, although my head swam.

“Nothing, Mother,” I said. “I just don’t have much appetite. It must be the hot weather.”

“It has been cool for weeks,” she replied. “You are thin, Anna. You look like one of the saints in the mosaic in the church, with your huge eyes and thin body.”

“At least there’s
something
saintly about me,” I said, trying to make her smile. But her expression remained serious.

“Don’t say that, Anna,” she said. “There is much of good in you. You are honest, and honorable. You would never harm a friend, and you have a passion for the truth. I just wish you could be more forgiving.”

I knew she was referring to John and my grandmother. I turned my head away, knowing I could not control the loathing on my face but not wanting her to see it. “And have
you
forgiven, Mother?” I asked softly, knowing the impertinence of the question.

She did not reply for so long that I thought she had not heard me, but finally she said, “Daily I pray for the strength to forgive. I find it difficult, but I am trying.”

I looked down. I did not want to forgive. I wanted to
continue hating. But I could never admit this to my gentle mother.

“And why do you spend all your days in here?” she asked. “Your sister and cousins are so busy all day, with music and talk, and the children. You hardly see Maria anymore. She notices this and is hurt.”

Music and talk did not interest me—and children, I did not have. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’ll try to take the time to see her. I don’t want to hurt Maria, Mother. Truly I don’t. It’s just that what I read here is so much more real to me than what goes on in the palace.”

“Don’t let books take the place of your life,” she said, rising. “What happened in the past is dead, and over. There is no way to change the past. You can change only the present.”

“Can I, Mother? I don’t think so.”

She kissed me. “If you can’t change it, you can find what is good about it. You are betrothed to a decent, honorable man. You will someday have children of your own. Don’t poison them with your hatred. Our Lord says to forgive.” She stood, stroked my face again, and said, “Try to eat something.” And she withdrew from the room.

Simon had moved into the shadows when my mother started talking, but now he came forward.

“What do you think, Simon?” I asked. “Should I forgive?”

As usual, he answered with a story. “Do you remember the tale of King Thyestes? He stole the throne of Mycenae from his brother, Atreus, by a trick, and then committed adultery with Atreus’ wife. Atreus pretended
forgiveness and invited Thyestes to a banquet. After Thyestes had dined richly on a stew, Atreus revealed to him that he had eaten his own children.”

I shuddered, revolted at the idea of such a banquet. But something in me also understood Atreus’ impulse. “But surely Atreus was right not to forgive Thyestes. True, his vengeance was extreme, but Thyestes had stolen his throne and his wife—”

“Thyestes never forgave Atreus for the murder of his children, either,” Simon went on, as though he had not heard me. “He laid a curse on the house of Atreus, and in consequence, Atreus’ son, Agamemnon, sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia, to get a favorable wind to sail to Troy. Agamemnon was in turn murdered by his wife, Clytemnestra, who could not forgive him for the death of her daughter. You see, Little Beetle? Once it starts, it doesn’t stop.”

I pictured the long chain of kings, starting with Atreus and going on and on and on. I wondered whether Atreus was one of my ancestors. That would explain why I was cursed. But if I was a descendant of Atreus, my brother was too, and if there was any way I could make the curse fall on his head, I determined to do it.

y father never returned to his throne. Instead, after appearing to recover for a few weeks, he suddenly relapsed. When they told my mother, her wail could be heard as far away as my apartments. Even now, years later, I can hardly bear to remember my own despair when I learned this news. My father had often been absent, but he had been affectionate to me when I was a little girl. When I was small I had thought of him as the soul of justice. I hoped desperately that he still was, and that if I could just see him, talk to him, I could tell him what had happened, that my grandmother had turned against me when she realized that I would not be her puppet, and that John had fallen under her spell.

If he only knew this, he would surely right this wrong. He had changed his mind before, hadn’t he? When Anna Dalassena had not wanted him to have my mother crowned, he had at first gone along with her, and then defied her, hadn’t he? Surely he would do the same for me, for his firstborn. But if he died, who could right the wrongs done me?

I spent long hours in the library, and one day was gathering up my papers to leave when John and our grandmother entered. John stood in a shaft of light, dust motes swirling around him. He blinked in the harsh light, and looked down the long rows of books. Our grandmother stood behind him, watching me with her narrow eyes. I stood at my desk, hands on my papers.

“So this is where you spend your days,” my brother said. “What is it you’re writing?”

On an impulse, I gathered up the papers and thrust them at him. “See for yourself,” I snapped. He looked at them, and I could tell by his blank expression that he still could not read. Just as I had thought. He passed the papers to our grandmother, who made an annoyed sound with her tongue, and then said impatiently, “What is this?”

“Why don’t you read it for yourself, Grandmother?” I asked, knowing full well that she could not.

“Because I told you to tell me what it is!” she said, stamping her foot impatiently.

“It is a book I am writing,” I answered. “The title is
Alexiad.”

“Alexiad?”
she asked. “What’s that?”

“You have heard, Grandmother, of the
Aeneid,
the story of the life of the Roman hero Aeneas? And the
Iliad,
about the city of Ilias?”

“Yes, child, of course I have. Am I to understand that this is a book about Alexius?”

“It is a history,” I said. “It tells of the emperor’s great deeds: his battles, his war in Jerusalem, his great acts as leader of his people. I want future generations to remember my father.”

“Your
father?” John laughed, a sneering, unpleasant kind of laugh. “What makes you think he is your father?”

What on earth was the little monkey talking about? Bewildered, I made no answer, but John had not waited, in any case. He went on, “You were born after he had been on campaign for many months. I have long suspected that you were not his daughter.”

I came from behind my desk, sputtering. “You dare! You dare!” I shouted. “I resemble him even more than you do—everyone says so! And he was gone only six months before my birth, and he returned before I was born and made no attempt to prevent our mother from bringing me into the world in the purple chamber. And what are you saying about our mother? Don’t you know what you’re calling her when you claim I am not my father’s daughter?”

John had backed away from my fury and was now pressed into our grandmother’s side, clutching her skirts, his hand to his mouth. He looked three years old, instead of the ten that he now was. With a great effort I stopped shouting, and stood trembling, my fists clenched by my
side. John looked up at our grandmother for assistance. She said venomously, “Your mother is a Ducas. Everyone knows what the Ducas women are—pretty, weak fools. I am not saying that what happened was all her fault; your father was often away for long periods and she—”

Before I knew what I was doing, I had flown at the old woman and seized her hair in both hands. I pulled as hard as I could and to my astonishment the black tresses came off in my hands. So all those intricate coils were false, just like her own lying self. She threw her hands to her now bald head and screeched, “You are no princess! And a commoner who strikes a member of the imperial family is put to death—I will spare you this time, but never again, girl!”

She wheeled and fled the room, leaving John defenseless. But he need not have worried; I was not going to touch him. I sat down on a box, my head whirling, trying to grasp what had been said. But John was not finished.

“You may not write your lies about my father,” he said. “You must cease from this moment to write your book. You may not cross the threshold of this library again. You, there!” He was addressing Malik. “Sweep up all this rubbish and burn it!” He tossed my papers to the desktop. He stepped to the door and called out. “Guard!” The man appeared and bowed. “Keep this woman from entering the library again,” he commanded. “If she tries to come in, throw her in the dungeon and report to me immediately.” The guard nodded, and then I left my one refuge—for the last time, as it turned out.

Fleeing to my bedchamber, I paced for hours. What was
John up to now? I could read his mind—or rather my grandmother’s—enough to realize that this was probably the first step toward having me removed from the palace altogether. Or were they planning to have me executed? My blood ran cold.

In the meantime, I was banned from the one place where I found solace. If I couldn’t use the library, if I couldn’t forget the ills done me by the study of the past, how could I bear it? Bitterly I regretted having sent that flask to Simon. I needed it to end my misery. I finally crawled into my bed.

I had not been asleep many hours when a hand seized my shoulder and shook me roughly. I shot up, wide awake, expecting to see a grim-faced soldier who would carry out some further evil scheme of my grandmother’s. Instead, I saw Maria bending over me, tears streaming down her face.

“You must make haste, sister!” she sobbed. “It’s our father—Mother says he’s dying!”

I leaped from my bed and pulled my gown on and, barefoot, flew down the corridor after the disappearing form of my younger sister. We ran out of the palace, across the courtyard, and into my father’s palace, where guards were standing at the door. To my relief, they moved aside to let me pass, and I hastened into my father’s chamber.

My mother was leaning over the bed, where Maria joined her. Anna Dalassena stood at my father’s pillow. Her face was desolate. At last, I thought, she has met something she cannot change. Father Agathos was at the foot of the bed, intoning prayers. My mother implored
my father to take some medicine, but he shook his head back and forth on the pillow, whether in refusal or out of pain, I do not know. Maria was silent, staring at him. My father’s eyes turned in my direction as I knelt at his side, but there was no trace of his usual welcoming smile. Instead, he muttered something that I could not understand.

“What did you say, Father?” I asked, and bent low over him. But he did not repeat his words, merely started his head-shaking over again, and moaned. I wrung out a cloth in the basin next to his bed and laid it on his forehead, but he soon shook it off. He did not look like an emperor, but rather like any old, sick man.