The Golden Horn (14 page)

Her own passion froze; her head came up, her chin set. “No,”
she said, “do not offend me again.”

Once more he bowed. This time she did not try to prevent his
leaving.

This was going to be a bad day, Sophia thought. The children
had been quarreling since they woke; the cook was in bed with a fever and
breakfast had been all but inedible; and Bardas had risen from a sleepless
night, dressed, and announced that he was going out and be damned to them all.
Even the sky wept, a grey cold rain that would turn to sleet by nightfall.

She paused in the passage between the kitchen and her workroom
and rubbed her aching eyes. “God,” she prayed under her breath, “give
me patience, or at least a decent night’s sleep.”

Swift light footsteps brought her erect. Alf descended the stair
from his room, fastening his cloak as he moved. He slowed when he saw her; his
eyes warmed.

The world seemed a little lighter for his presence. Sophia
put on a smile for him and said, “Good morning. I didn’t see you at
breakfast.”

“I ate in the nursery with Nikki.” He drew up
his hood and settled a hat over it. All his face receded into shadow save for
the uncanny ember-flare of his eyes. Yet even that comforted her, in its own
fashion.

He touched her cheek, the merest brush of a fingertip. “Bardas
won’t harm himself,” he said gently.

“In this weather?”

Alf smiled, a white flash in the depths of his hood. “He’ll
be well. I’ve seen to that. And he’s better off as he is, working
and making himself useful, than fretting in his bed.”

Her answering smile was faint but genuine. It faded as she sensed
a change in him like a sudden, freezing wind. Thea stood at the end of the
passage, stiff and still. Alf inclined his head to her politely, as to a
stranger; bowed to Sophia, murmuring a word or two of farewell; and took his
leave.

“A grey morning,” Thea said. Now that Alf was
gone, she seemed her usual self.

That cold moment had brought back Sophia’s headache in
full force. She could find no smile for Thea and barely a pleasant word. “Grey?
Black, rather. Have you ever had days when the whole world seems out of sorts?”

“Too many.” Thea’s arm settled about
Sophia’s shoulders. She had not Alf’s gift of heart’s ease;
she was fire and quicksilver, bracing rather than comforting.

Sophia sighed and let herself lean briefly against the other.
“You two,” she said. “What would I do without you?”

Although Thea’s voice was light, Sophia felt the
tension in her body. “Don’t go thinking of us as angels of mercy!
We’re like cats; we look after our own comfort. If it adds to anybody else’s,
why then, how pleasant for him.”

“You’re too modest.”

They walked toward Sophia’s workroom. It was warm
there, a warmth that crept up through their feet from the hypocaust below.

Thea went to the window and stood gazing out at the rain that
lashed the barren garden. Her face in profile was unwontedly still.

“Is something wrong?” Sophia asked her.

She did not turn. “No,” she answered, “Of
course not. What makes you think that?”

“You and Alf. You’ve been avoiding one another
for days now. Has something happened? Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Thea said again. “It’s all
right. It’s nothing.”

Sophia approached her and laid a hand on her arm. “If
I’m prying, I beg your pardon. But it’s not nothing when the whole family
can feel a difference. All’s not well between you. Is it?”

“You are prying,” Thea said in a thin cold
voice. She clasped herself tightly, tensely, dislodging Sophia’s hand.
But she did not move to go.

The other waited, silent.

Suddenly she spun about. “Stop thinking sympathy at
me!”

“I can’t help it.”

“You aren’t trying.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t.” Thea drew a shuddering
breath, controlling her face and voice, mastering her temper. “I…sometimes
we forget; humans have eyes, too. Has it been so obvious?”

“Rather. It’s Alf, isn’t it?”

“How can you tell?”

“I have eyes,” Sophia said without irony. “For
all his sweetness, he has a temper. A terrible one, with staying power. You’re
much quicker to anger, and to forgive.”

“Sometimes,” Thea muttered. “Sometimes
not. God, what fools men are!”

She prowled the small room, restless as a cat. After a
circuit or two she stopped. “He asked me to marry him.”

“And you refused?”

“Of course I did! He doesn’t want a wife any
more than I want a husband.”

“Then why did he ask?”

“Temporary insanity. Why else? But now he’s got
his pride to think of, and a wound in it that he won’t let heal. Does he think
I don’t have any of my own? Marriage is bad enough for any woman without
her having to contend with a husband who’s still more than half a monk.”

“You could cure him of that, if you would.”

“Not by marrying him,” Thea said. “He was
a monk for longer than you’d ever believe, with no more thought for his body’s
needs than a marble saint. The first time he realized he was made of flesh, and
warm flesh at that, he hardly knew what was happening. When he found out, he
was terrified. Terrified and disgusted, as if God hadn’t made that part
of him, too.”

“Can you honestly blame him?”

“For being afraid, no. Not even for being ashamed; that’s
only his upbringing. But I won’t marry him. He has to come to me without
shame, with no more fear than anyone might expect of a man who’s never taken
a woman; as a lover, or not at all.”

“You’re proud, too,” Sophia said. “As
proud as he is. One of you is going to have to yield.”

“He won’t. And I refuse to crawl at his feet.”

Sophia shook her head. “Stubbornness never solved anything.
God forgive me for encouraging a sin; but if I were you, I’d go to him
tonight and stay there until I’d broken this deadlock.”

“No,” said Thea, immovable. “I’m
done with begging. He’ll come to me or he won’t come at all.”

Sophia sighed. Quarrels, she thought. What had they ever brought
but grief? And this one shadowed the whole household.

She bit back angry words, tried to speak gently. “Whatever
else God gave you beyond what He’s given the rest of us, He didn’t
take away your capacity for foolishness.”

“Probably not,” Thea agreed willingly. “I
have business in the City. Is there anything I can do for you there?”

You know well
, Sophia
thought, but she held her tongue.

Thea left pleasantly enough, even with a smile, leaving Sophia
to her accounts and to her troubled thoughts.

o0o

Alf was late in coming to Saint Basil’s. Even as he
shed his sopping cloak, a throng of students, doctors, and walking wounded
converged upon him. He had promised to teach a class in anatomy; Stephanos was
much better but still in pain; he was not permitted to tend the women, but this
one surely, he must advise, such symptoms, no one here had ever seen…

“Master Theo!” a voice called over the din. It
was one of the students, her high voice pitched even higher with urgency. “Master
Theo! You must come at once. Master Dionysios—”

The name freed Alf from the pressing crowd and sent him striding
swiftly toward the Master’s study.

Just within the door, he stopped. Dionysios sat in his accustomed
chair, a book in front of him, fallen open to a brilliantly painted page. But
he was not alone. On either side of the door stood a guard in splendid livery,
and across from the Master sat the most elegant creature Alf had ever seen.

“This is the man called Theo?” The voice was
soft, cultured, and contralto, yet not a woman’s. Nor, though the face
was beardless and beautiful, was it a woman’s face. It registered some little
surprise, and perhaps amusement. “So; for once the tales were true.”

“What did you expect?” Alf asked coolly,
offering no more greeting or courtesy than he had received.

The eunuch smiled. “Less than what I see. Oh, much
less. They said that you were tall; fair; angelic in face and humble of bearing,
but at the same time royally proud. Well then, I looked for a light-haired man
of middle height or a little more, with some claim to handsomeness, and an air
of ill-concealed arrogance. Who would have thought that for once the rumors would
be true?”

Alf glanced at Dionysios. “Sir,” he said, “have
you called me here for a purpose? Am I to amuse your noble guest?”

“He’s noble certainly,” said the Master
without either awe or pleasure. “His name is Michael Doukas. He’s
come from the Emperor.”

“Truly?” Alf’s calmness did not waver. “Which
one?”

“Need it matter?” asked Michael Doukas softly,
toying with one of his many rings. “Yet if it concerns you, I shall be formal.
His Sacred Majesty, Isaac Angelos, commands you to attend him in his palace at
Blachernae.”

Alf’s eyes widened slightly. “I am of course
greatly honored. But why?”

The Emperor’s messenger looked him over slowly, dark
eyes glinting. “You are a very famous man, Master Theo. Even our exalted
Emperor, set aloft upon his throne, has heard your name and wondered at it. Wondered
indeed which of the many tales is true. Did you will the fire of accursed
memory, great master? Or did you will it away?”

Dionysios stood abruptly. “Emperor or no Emperor,”
he snapped, “I’ll not have courtiers’ games played in my presence.
If you have to take my best man away from me on a day when I can ill spare him,
do it, and let me get back to my work.”

“Certainly His Majesty has no intention of keeping you
away from your duties.” Michael Doukas rose with languid grace. He was
nearly as tall as Alf, and slender as a woman. “Come, Master Theo. You
are expected.”

Beneath Dionysios’ annoyance Alf sensed fear. It was
most irregular, this summons. The Emperor, Dionysios well knew, was not sane.
And Michael Doukas was as deadly as he was elegant. Who knew what trap had been
laid, or why?

Alf met the Master’s gaze and smiled. Dionysios
scowled in return.
Go on,
his eyes said,
get
yourself killed.
Should I care?

“Come,” said Michael Doukas.

The Emperor Isaac Angelos sat on his throne with his crown
upon his head and in his hand the orb of the world. Beside him on a second
throne lay the source and center of his power, that which alone might rule the
Lord of the Romans, the Heir of Constantine, the voice of God on earth: the
book of the Gospels laid open to the image of Christ the King.

All about the double throne stood the high ones of the
court. Above them arched trees of gold bearing fruits of diamond and ruby and emerald,
and on the branches jeweled birds; before them crouched a lion of brass.

The lion, Alf noticed, was tarnished, and tilted at a
precarious angle; the birds neither moved nor sang. The living courtiers seemed
splendid enough, yet most looked bored beyond words. He caught at least one
ill-concealed yawn before he turned his eyes away from them to the man upon the
throne.

By rite and by custom the Sacred Emperor was more than a man.
His every moment was hedged about in ritual as ornate and as holy as the Mass
itself. His every thought was shaped in and for his office. Or so the makers of
the empire had ordained over the long years. Like the beasts and the birds, the
office was failing, the man marred.

Isaac Angelos might have been handsome once. His features, though
strongly drawn beneath the greying red-gold beard, were furrowed deep with pain
and petulance. Over his ruined eyes he wore a band of silk, imperial purple,
that gave him the look of the blinded king in a play.

Every step of Alf’s approach from palace gate to the
dais’ foot had been a step in a solemn, hieratic dance. It should have brought
him into the sacred presence in a state of mindless awe; but he was only weary,
fastidiously distasteful of the robes that he had been made to wear.
Magnificent though they were, of priceless Byzantine silk embroidered with gems
and gold, they had not seen a cleaning in all the reigns since they were made.

He bowed as his guide directed him, the last and deepest of many
such obeisances, full upon his face as if before a god. Above him the Emperor
stirred. His voice rang out unexpectedly deep and rich. “Is he up yet?
Eyes—where are my Eyes?”

Alf rose. A small figure had come to stand beside the Emperor.
Despite its size, it was no child but a slim honey-brown youth with a proud
wisp or two of beard.

With his great dark eyes fixed upon Alf, he began to sing.
He had a clear tenor voice and a relentless eye for detail, and the gift of
painting a portrait in words. What he sang, the Emperor saw, even to the slight
wry smile as Alf heard the inventory of his robe’s smudges and stains.

The sweet voice stilled. The Emperor sat in all his majesty.
Beneath the bandage his cheek twitched slightly, spasmodically.

His fingers loosened on the golden orb; it rolled from his lap,
fell to the floor with a leaden thud, bounced like a child’s ball upon
the steps of the dais. It halted at Alf’s feet.

No one dared to touch it, although several of the guards and
eunuchs had started forward aghast. Nor did Alf move to pick it up.

Among the courtiers, some had stirred, alive to the portent.
Magicians, those: sorcerers; diviners and astrologers. They watched him avidly,
some with knowledge and perhaps with fear.

“Sire,” Alf said in the silence, clearly and
directly as if this had been a Western king and not the sacred Emperor, “surely
you did not summon me merely to look at me.”

The Emperor started a little, his fingers opening and
closing, finding only air. “To look? To look, you say? With what?”

“Why, Sire, with your Eyes.”

“My eyes are gone. Right in my palace he did it, my brother,
my little brother who always swore he loved me. Do you have eyes, child?”