Byzantium's Crown (34 page)

Daphne brought cup and wine to Marric for approval, then presented them to the physicians. Stephana had taught her that courtesy. Even as the physicians unstopped tiny phials and poured their contents into the dark wine, Marcellinus entered, a troop of soldiers at his back.

"The crowd disperses, my emperor," he reported, saluting. "I detached some of my regiment to free the Varangians."

Nicephorus walked about the audience chamber, pushing aside heavy draperies. Dawn flooded the room, and Irene winced at the bright light. She seemed to age and diminish before Marric's eyes. She had failed with his father, with Marric and his sister, even with her son. She had failed with the empire. Her magic had only served to drain her. Now she was weary of life and magic both: her defenses were only the struggles of a demonic spirit in its final moment before the priest exorcises it.

"Give her the cup," Marric ordered the physicians.

The men brought it to her carefully. They feared that she might dash its contents in their faces. Two of Marcellinus' officers moved in.

"These men will conduct you to your bedchamber," said Marric. "I assume you wish to meet your death with dignity. Lady, take up the cup."

Irene lifted the goblet. It was a plain silver thing. As her hands folded around it, the metal began to tarnish. She raised the cup in an ironic salute.

"I will not drink to your health, Emperor. So you will wear my crown after my death: what of it? With it, take my curse: as long as you wear this crown, you will never know peace."

Several of the soldiers clutched amulets or made the sign against evil.

Irene turned on her heel and walked into the inner room. Her robes swayed with a desolate grace.

"If you only knew," Marric whispered to the doors as they shut behind her, "your curse comes too late."

There had remained little enough of Irene to execute. He adjusted the soiled grandeur of the imperial cloak about his shoulders to protect him against the chill of dawn or of some premonition.

Then the doors of Irene's chamber opened. The physicians emerged. Draped over one man's hands was a purple cloth. On it rested the imperial crown.

At a sign from Marric he laid it on the porphyry throne. Then the physicians left.

"Guard the crown, Caius," Marric ordered. "Let no one touch it until the high priest comes from the temple to purify, it."

Soon the embalmers would come, and Marric had no desire to linger.

He left the audience chamber, ignoring the fact that everyone in the room bowed. More soldiers and innumerable priests thronged the hall. They too bowed—except for the high priest himself. He came to Marric and placed an arm about his shoulders, offering him support he had not realized he needed.

The enormous strain of his performance in the Hippodrome, of Stephana's death, and the long night of straggle, purgation, and execution made him stagger. The priest guided him back down the hall toward the emperor's suite. It had always been his father's place. Now it was his.

But duties still remained before he could collapse into the sleep that mind and body demanded.

"If the Varangian officers are fit for duty, let them be briefed. You should also send an embassy out to Audun. Tell him"—Marric smiled—"tell him I want my bear. He can deliver it himself. I want messengers sent to Ellac and Uldin: perhaps they will attend my coronation. There is a captain at the West Gate . . . an Alexandrian, very reliable. Send him."

In years to come, stories would be made, he supposed, of Marric, the emperor who had been a slave. He might as well give the historians material to work with, or the singers would invent some for him. In his fashion Thutmosis had tried to be kind. And the youth was loyal and capable, worthy of preferment.

When he came to the last obligation he could think of, his voice was only a hoarse whisper. "Daphne," he called.

Marric brought Daphne to kneel before him. She regarded him trustfully. For her, he supposed, he was still a man, not some half-divine representation of order. Empire will be lonely, Marric thought, looking down at Daphne's pretty, weary face. It would be so simple, so simple. The girl already idolized him. But a man who had been loved by Stephana could not mistake worship for love. That had been Irene's fatal error.

"What would you do now, Daphne?' he asked, raising her. "No." He shook his head gently. "The palace is no place for you. Not without her.

"You have several choices, Daphne. When I bring Princess Alexa back, you may serve her. Or, after it is rebuilt, you may enter the Temple of Isis. Do you wish to marry? I will see you have a good dowry, and Nicephorus will help you choose a husband who can take care of you."

"As if she were my own daughter or sister," Nicephorus promised. "You will live with my family, won't you, Daphne? My wife Ariadne will be glad of you."

"That family of yours, Nico," said Marric. "I want to meet them."

"After you have rested," Nicephorus said. He grinned apologetically at the idea of commanding his emperor.

"Daphne?"

"Sire, I wish . . . I wish to live quietly," Daphne said. "I do not want power, not like this. Not as a priestess either. I would always remind you of—" Her eyes filled and she turned away for a minute. "But a house, children. Please, I would like the dowry."

"You shall have it." Marric bent and kissed her forehead. "Take her home with you, Nico. When you have rested, come back. I need you with me."

Nicephorus bowed, then left. The distance between Marric and the rest of the world increased.

I must find Alexa soon, soon. They had shared their childhood; Alexa was as royal as he, would not impose that hurtful distance upon him.

The high priest guided him into his father's room. At his orders servants produced hot water, a silken robe, and food and wine. Marric waved it aside.

"You should eat."

"I should also see the Varangians, quiet the city, and tend to the Huns. And I need rest, as Nicephorus pointed out. But there is not time for me to do all of that now. So I will trust Marcellinus to keep awake just a little longer, and I will go to sleep. Someone get these lights out of here!"

The bed looked very soft, very rich. Heavy curtains—I am going to become mortally weary of Tyrian purple—turned the light of dawn into a comforting dusk. Marric waved the servants away. Still the high priest lingered. Marric wondered why he didn't withdraw. Surely he had duties that called him: a crown to purify, ceremonies of acclamation and coronation to arrange so that people might know that their ruler had returned to guide them out of turmoil and dark sorceries.

"Your father, my prince," said the priest. "He would have been . . . most gratified." He too bowed and left the room.

Marric glanced up at his retreating form, startled. He knew that Alexander had always loved him, that he had even, in a way, taken pride in him. But to satisfy his father, to please him—ah, he had never dreamed he would do that.

He lay down. He had no one to share the bed with. No empress yet occupied Antonia's apartments. I must bring Alexa home. Probably he had already had as much of companionship, of love, as any man deserved in one lifetime. But it would be good to have Alexa near as a sister, a companion, a lover.

Gods, he was tired. And lonely. Still, Alexander was gratified. The priest had said so. Marric sighed.

His memories of Stephana rose up to engulf him. The acerbic voice that had taunted him back to life in Alexandria, the frightened woman of whom he had demanded not only love but the conquest of fear. Now that Marric had a moment to himself, it would be good if he could weep.

His eyes started to burn. He lay on his back, hoping for the relief of tears, but none came. After a time he gave up. He had been right when he said he could either rest or grieve. Sleep hit him like an undertow and dragged him down.

"The emperor sleeps! Save your stories of what the barbarians said, or that ten thousand loaves are waiting to be filled with coins until he rises. Get out!" That was old Valerius Marcellinus' voice. It woke Marric to the awareness that Irene was dead and he was emperor. He felt no exultation. Since he had conquered his emotions in the underground ways, he had felt nothing at all.

Food was brought in, and he ate far more than he thought he could. The imperial servants said little to him about the coming triumph or about anything else. Despite his feeling of isolation, he was thankful for their silence. When they finally bowed themselves out backwards toward the door, Marric went to the window. The gardens were heavy with the odors of jasmine, iris, and roses. He would never again be able to see a rose without recalling how Stephana had loved them. The scent of the roses mingled with the salt of the sea, borne to him on the evening winds, and made him melancholy. His weariness returned, and he went back to bed. He could count on the Marcellini, father and grandson, to manage.

Marric slept. He had a strange and wonderful dream. He was walking in the gardens below his windows when suddenly the gardens of the palace shifted and fused with the tiny, exquisite garden of the safe house. The nightingale sang, and water splashed into the white basin.

Toward him, over a pleasant lawn Stephana walked. Marric's heart almost burst with joy as he rushed toward her, arms outstretched. Then he noticed the strangeness. No wind rustled her garments. Her feet did not quite rest on the ground. And when he flung his arms about her, they closed on nothing.

Stephana floated back what would have been a step or two, and looked at him. Her silvered hair hung loose down her back the way he bad loved to see it. Her eyes seemed larger and more shadowy than he remembered. In her hands she held a red rose, the blossom resting between her breasts.

Slowly Marric's arms fell to his sides. "Have . . . have you really come back to me?" he asked. "Why can I not hold you?"

Stephana moved closer to him. He was aware of her presence only by a faint sensation of mist that brushed his face as she raised her hand to stroke his cheek. And the scent of roses, even in this wraithform it lingered about her. She gazed up at him, and though he could see her face clearly, he could not read her expression.

"What becomes of me now, love?" he asked "Do you come to tell me?"

Stephana laughed very softly. "I am so new here, I can scarcely know what will befall me. The powers say I am to guide people."

"Can you be my guide?" Marric broke in eagerly.

"Oh my dearest, I wish I could! But yours is such a powerful fate that you will need a wiser guide than I, one long used to such a task. I . . . I but returned this one time to thank you." Her face blazed with such love and joy that Marric gasped. This was Stephana as she really was, untrammeled by the bonds of her flesh and the memories of her last life, free to express the joy in her heart fully.

"To thank me?"

"For freeing me! I told you: it was destined that I direct all this final life toward helping one person. If my courage held, I would bring about his triumph and my own release. At first, I feared you. Mor—when you were Mor, you needed so much from me—love, pity, even cruelty, so you would live on. You wanted me, and I could not refuse you." Once again Marric felt mist brush his face. "So we have our victories now, you and I."

She started to drift away.

"Do you still love me?" he called after her

"More than ever."

"But is this all for us? Will you never come to me again?"

Marric asked. His hands went out toward her. Again he touched nothing.

"I should be grieved, beloved, if you did not remember me. But I should be even more grieved if you remembered nothing else. Such as this."

Marric followed her to the fountain. Stephana raised her hands above it. The water splashed down, then clouded into vision of a man and a woman whose hair was golden, almost brighter than the circlets they wore. And standing between them, Alexa.

"There lies your future!" Stephana exclaimed. "When you feel most lonely, think of it. The gods bless you and cherish you, Marric, as I do.

Then she was gone. "Wait!" he cried. That woke him to the light of day.

The peacock mosaic on the floor shone as blindingly as the sunlight on the faint edge of the sea.

At the heavy door the captain of the watch knocked three times. Marric's servants entered to prepare him for his triumph. Caius Marcellinus entered with them. So did Nicephorus. Marcellinus wore the white and gold of the Candidatoi, Nicephorus a blue robe. I will have Nico take the belt of civil service before long. I want him nearby. Marric would tell him later.

"Your family, Nico?"

"They await your pleasure outside." Nicephorus smiled. There has been a short delay. The bearmaster is insisting that he inspect the quarters assigned to your bear before he takes his place in the procession."

Marric drank wine and indicated that the other men join him, despite the shock of the cubiculars in attendance. Then they dressed him in a long, tight-sleeved tunic of white silk that rested easily on his scarred back. The marks of the lash on their ruler also shocked his attendants. Marric listened to details of his triumph. He would descend to the harbor and sail toward the Golden Gate. Through it, as befitted a conqueror, he would enter his city.

"As if I had not already been living here for months," he remarked. Nicephorus laughed. Even Marcellinus managed a faint smile. The servants were shocked. Marric assumed they would grow used to it.

Absurd, this ceremony—or was it? The people needed public affirmation that the land was back in the keeping of its rightful lord, or of law, as old Audun might say. In one sense, Marric could not be emperor until he submitted to the ritual. Call it another form of the initiation he had been denied, one that he was competent to handle now.

He waved away the hovering servants and put on gold-embroidered scarlet shoes himself. Then he stood and allowed them to drape the mantle of Empire over his shoulders. It had been miraculously cleansed of the grime and smoke of his passage through the inner ways. Only a faint trace of blood on the breast showed that it had ever been used to wrap a dead seeress.