Anna of Byzantium (9 page)

We stood, happy to be released from our cramped postures, and stretched out our arms for the sleeves of our gowns. Maria’s pale blue silk went on first, making her blue eyes sparkle and her hair appear even brighter than it already was. As Dora knelt to fasten Maria’s white slippers, Sophia lifted a new robe over my head. It too was
blue, but of a darker hue than my sister’s, and around the border was an elaborate design in deep purple.

Startled, I held Sophia off for a moment. “Where did this come from?” I asked. “I am not allowed to wear purple, Sophia; even a Turk must know that. Only the emperor and empress may wear purple.”

“Your grandmother brought it in after she heard that your father had arrived. It is by her order that you wear it,” answered Sophia, ignoring my restraining hand and pulling the robe over my arms and then my head. She spun me around and started fastening the ribbons that held the robe together in the back, while Dora, finished with Maria, slipped deep blue slippers onto my feet. These were new too, and the tiny buttons up the side were also purple.

The robe fit perfectly, and was of a heavier silk than I was accustomed to wearing. I liked the feel of it as I took a tentative step, then turned to face Maria. Her pretty eyes were wide, and her mouth hung open. “Oh, sister,” she breathed. “You look … you look …” She couldn’t finish, but Dora did.

“You look just like your father,” she said. Maria nodded in wordless agreement. I wished that I had a mirror larger than the small silver one I held in my hand, but before I could think of how to see my entire form at once, the hanging swung open and our grandmother appeared.

“Let me see the imperial princesses in their finery,” she said. She looked Maria up and down, not smiling. “A pretty little thing, you are,” she said in a tone of dismissal. “Like your mother. Like a Ducas.” Again that tone of
contempt as she said the name. Maria didn’t answer, but I could see that she was fighting back tears. Grandmother turned from her, as though my sister was not worthy of further comment, and looked at me. This time satisfaction spread over her angular features.

“A Comnenus,” she said. She made a twirling motion with her finger to tell me to turn around, which I did, slowly, holding my head as high as I could to increase my height. “But one thing is missing. You are a woman now,” she said, drawing a folded cloth from her pocket and approaching me.

I saw that what she held was a veil. “Turn around,” she commanded, and I did so, then felt the silk flutter over my face, covering me from the nose to the chin, as she looped the slender cords over my ears and tied them at the back of my head. “Face me again,” she said. I did so. The fine cloth felt cool on my face, and moved in and out slightly as I breathed. I realized what an advantage the veil would be in disguising my emotions.

“A true Comnenus,” Grandmother said again. “He will be pleased.” No need to ask who “he” was, for at that moment we heard the trumpeters from the far end of the palace announce my father’s arrival in his throne room. “Come,” my grandmother said, extending her thin hand to me. Clutching my fingers in hers, she hastened from the room, leaving Maria to follow, small and forgotten, in our wake.

In a few moments we arrived at the door, the purple hanging with its gold tassels pulled back and secured against the side, the guards in their smart imperial livery
standing straight at attention. Quickly Grandmother adjusted my clothes, and as I hung back, trying to delay the inevitable entry, she gave me an impatient push. “Go in,” she snapped. “And don’t forget your manners!”

I took a deep breath, then started toward the throne, watching my blue and purple slippers flash, flash, flash, against the stones. The familiar patterns of the floor repeated themselves until I knew that I was in front of my father. I stretched out flat, burying my face in my hands, waiting for him to tell me to rise. How would he appear? I wondered. It had been almost a year since I had seen him. I knew I had changed, but I hoped that he had not.

I did not have long to wait. Rather than hearing his voice telling me to rise, it was his hands I felt on my upper arms—his hard, callused palms scraping and catching on the fine material, lifting me to my feet, the smell of his leather boots filling my nostrils—and finally I dared to look up, and there he was, Alexius Comnenus, emperor of the Byzantines, conqueror of the Turks, his beard a little more gray, perhaps, his face a little more lined, but still my father, home from the war.

murmured a dazed welcome as he pressed his hand on top of my head, blessing me. “Daughter Anna,” he said, and my heart sank, sure that I was about to be interrogated about my grandmother and what I was learning from her. Fortunately, it was not to be yet, but I did not have the chance to relax, for another interrogation was in store for me. My father placed his hand lightly under my chin and tilted my head up. He frowned a little. “A veil?” he said. He turned to my mother. “Surely she is not old enough. She is but—how old are you, child?”

“She is almost twelve,” my mother answered. “And I agree with you, she is too young to be wearing a veil. I don’t even know where she got it from.”

“She got it from me,” said my grandmother, so smoothly that it seemed as though she had been waiting for the question. “At her age I had already been veiled for two years. She is not a Ducas, but a Comnenus, and she must behave accordingly.”

I dared not look at my mother, and she did not reply. My father sighed and passed his hand over his face. He suddenly looked weary, and I realized how fatigued he must be from the journey. After all, he must have been riding hard to come home again and see us all. But he seemed to pull himself more erect, and once more turned his smile in my direction.

“You have grown, child,” he said, “and look ready to step into my throne. Surely that is not purple you are wearing on your gown?” He looked amused rather than angry, although I knew how strictly he observed rules governing who should wear what color and what style.

“I did not know it had purple on it until I was ready to put it on,” I said, my voice scarcely rising above a whisper.

“Ah, so it is a new robe?” he asked. I nodded. He turned to my mother. “And which of our weaving-women decided to add purple to the border?” he asked. Before she could answer, my grandmother did so.

“It was a gift from me, Alexius,” she said. “I told the slave to make it deep blue with red embroidery around the edges. Evidently she thought that purple would be a better color. She is not of our race, my son, and does not know the significance we place on imperial purple. I have already had the woman flogged for her mistake.”

My father made a face. I knew how much he disliked
unnecessary punishment. “Surely,” he said, “if the slave did not know of her misdeed beforehand, a reprimand would have sufficed.”

My grandmother’s expression did not change, although I thought I noted a touch of coldness in her voice when she replied. “That is not the way of the Comneni, Your Majesty. A slave who willfully disobeys must be punished so that others do not think we are soft. I had told her to use red, and she used purple. Next time, she will think twice before taking it upon herself to disobey my order.”

As always, my father did not contradict his mother, although I knew that he disapproved of beating slaves for such small reasons. Instead, he sighed and turned to Maria, who had not been long to follow me in. He blessed her in her turn, exclaimed over how she had grown, and how much she resembled our mother. She looked terrified as she tried to answer him, and suddenly my heart went out to my little sister, who was so obviously trying to be brave. She looked relieved when her blessing was accomplished and she moved next to me as we lined up next to my mother. We dared not hold hands in so public an assembly, but I sidled close to her, and under the cover of our long robes I pressed the toe of my slipper reassuringly on her foot. She glanced up a little at me, and a tiny smile moved across her lips.

Finally it was John’s turn. I leaned forward a little, as I had not seen him close up in months, although I had heard stories of his legendary tantrums, his refusals to wear appropriate clothes, and of course his continued absence from the schoolroom. He was taller, I saw, although
still short for a six-year-old. But for once, it appeared, the nurse had had no difficulty in getting him to wear proper dress, or even to behave correctly. He stood in front of our father, his head bowed with respect, hands clasped in front of him. What a little gentleman, I thought, and glanced sidelong at Maria. She was staring at the boy in frank astonishment.

“My son,” said our father. John approached. Our father must surely be nearly a stranger to him now, and I was curious to see how the boy would respond. John approached in a most seemly manner, head held low, humility oozing from every pore. I had never seen him so proper. Nor had anyone else, and I saw amazement on everyone’s features. John knelt at my father’s feet, and as my father pressed his hand on the boy’s head in blessing, John looked up at him and threw himself in the emperor’s arms, crying out, “I missed you so!”

Taken aback by this display of emotion, my father patted John awkwardly on the back, looking around desperately for someone to help him. John’s nurse came to the rescue, pulling the little boy, sobbing now, off my father. “My apologies, sire,” she said, bowing low. “We have been inclined to spoil him during your absence, and have neglected to school him sufficiently in his behavior toward his elders.”

“No matter,” said my father. “I am more pleased than otherwise.” He looked John up and down. “So, my son, how has it been faring with you? Are you making progress in your studies?”

“Oh, yes, Father,” said John. “Master Simon is most
pleased with my progress.” I felt my jaw drop open, and saw that Maria was gaping too. Did he not care that we all knew he was lying, or was he counting on our unwillingness to displease our father by exposing the lie to keep us silent? I clenched my teeth to keep from blurting out the truth.

“And do you help your mother while I am away? You are my son, and must be the man when I am not here.”

“Yes, Father,” he said, and again I had to struggle to hide my disgust at his barefaced lies. Far from being a help, John made everyone work even harder trying to keep him satisfied and not causing trouble with his temper. But my father seemed to believe him, and even our grandmother nodded approval.

“Good, good,” my father said, smiling again. “You may go now and join the others.” John approached us, lifting his face in my direction to find his proper spot. I noticed that despite his apparent sobbing a moment before, John’s face was completely dry of tears, and no redness marred his eyes. Little hypocrite, I thought with contempt. He is no more moved at our father’s homecoming than he would be at a servant’s return. As he took his place next to Maria, I could feel her shift her weight slightly in my direction, as though to avoid contact with our brother. Good, I thought. So she doesn’t like him either. The thought cheered me, I know not why. I think the realization made me feel less alone.

My father seemed determined to make everyone happy, and he started by showing us the treasures he had brought back from his travels. Surrounded by his advisors, both
those he had taken with him and those who had remained behind to help my grandmother govern, he ordered box after box brought forward and opened. Fabrics, both silk and of other glowing materials, in many glittering colors, were presented to our dazzled eyes. Painted pictures, some enclosed in precious golden frames, ivory figurines, silver buckles, gold earrings, jeweled necklaces—after a while I felt drunk with the sight. Slaves, some of regal bearing and proud faces, others with beaten-down expressions and wilting postures, were paraded in front of us. Small boxes of precious spices were thrown open until the very air seemed heavy with the scents.

To my mother he presented a gold and crystal box, containing a tiny piece of something yellow. “Can you guess what it is, wife?” he asked.

“I hardly d-d-dare hope …” she stammered.

“Yes,” he replied. “It is a piece of the finger bone of St. Irene, your patroness.” Mother dropped to her knees and pressed her lips to the front of the reliquary. The small church of St. Irene was dear to her heart, being dedicated not only to the saint for whom she was named, but also to peace. I knew how she longed for the wars with the Turks to end so that my father would stay home.

Her trembling hands threatened to drop the precious fragment, so my father signaled to Father Agathos to bear it away. He did so with great reverence.

To Maria my father gave a chessboard of inlaid precious woods and stones, with intricately carved ivory pieces. John’s gift was a tiny white pony with a splendid saddle, which my father said he had captured from a Turkish
chieftain who kept it in his tent, like a pet. And to me he gave a gorgeous parrot, green, gold, and red. I was frightened of its beak and odd, wrinkled claws, but also intrigued by its bright colors, its exotic face, and the words it uttered in a crackly voice. I couldn’t understand its speech, but my father said it was Turkish, and that the bird was asking me for a treat. One of the servants handed me a grape, and I offered it in the parrot’s direction. He took it with a surprisingly gentle claw, ate it, and then spoke again.