The Sarantine Mosaic (59 page)

The questioner, loosely wrapped in his own white sheet, sat eyeing him with a very blue gaze. He had magnificent golden hair, chiselled features, a scarred and honed body, and he was the Supreme Strategos of the Empire.

Crispin sat up. Very quickly. ‘My lord!' he exclaimed.

Leontes smiled. ‘An opportunity to talk,' he murmured. He used an edge of the sheet to wipe sweat from his brow.

‘Is this a coincidence?' Crispin asked, guardedly.

The other man laughed. ‘Hardly. The City is rather too large for that. I thought I'd arrange a moment to learn your views on some matters of interest.'

His manner was courteous in the extreme. His soldiers loved him, Carullus had said. Would die for him. Had died—on battlefields as far west as the Majriti deserts and north towards Karch and Moskav.

No visible arrogance here at all. Unlike the wife. Even so, the utterly confident control behind this encounter was provoking. There had been at least six men and an attendant slave in the steam a few moments ago …

‘Matters of interest? Such as my opinion of the Antae and their readiness for invasion?' This was blunt, he knew, and probably unwise. On the other hand, everyone knew his nature at home, they might as well start finding out here.

Leontes merely looked puzzled. ‘Why would I ask you that? Do you have military training?'

Crispin shook his head.

The Strategos looked at him. ‘Would you have knowledge of town walls, water sources, road conditions, paths through mountains? Which of their commanders deviate from the usual arraying of forces? How many arrows their archers carry in a quiver? Who commands their navy this year and how much he knows about harbours?'

Leontes smiled suddenly. He had a brilliant smile. ‘I can't imagine you could help me, actually, even if you wanted to. Even if any such thing as an invasion was being contemplated. No, no, I confess I'm more interested in your faith and your views on images of the god.'

A memory clicked into place then, like a key in a lock. Irritation gave way to something else.

‘You disapprove of them, might I guess?'

Leontes's handsome face was guileless. ‘I do. I share the belief that to render the holy in images is to debase the purity of the god.'

‘And those who honour or worship such images?' Crispin asked. He knew the answer. He had been
through this before, though not perspiring in steam and not with a man such as this.

Leontes said, ‘That is idolatry, of course. A reversion to paganism. What are
your
thoughts?'

‘Men need a pathway to their god,' Crispin said quietly. ‘But I confess, I prefer to keep my views to myself on such matters.' He forced a smile of his own. ‘Uncharacteristic as reticence about faith might be in Sarantium. My lord, I am here at the Emperor's behest and will endeavour to please him with my work.'

‘And the Patriarchs? Pleasing them?'

‘One always hopes for the approval of one's betters,' Crispin murmured. He passed a corner of his sheet across his streaming face. Through the steam, he thought he saw blue eyes flicker and the mouth quirk a little. Leontes was not without a sense of humour. It came as a relief of sorts. It was very much in his mind that there was no one here with them, and that this man's wife had been in Crispin's bedchamber this morning and had said … what she had said. This did not, he decided, represent the most predictable of encounters.

He managed another smile. ‘If you find me an inappropriate conversationalist on military matters—and I can see why you might—why would you imagine we ought to discuss my work in the Sanctuary? Tesserae and their designs? How much do you know or care to know about tinting glass? Or cutting it? What have you decided about the merits and methods of angling tesserae in the setting bed? Or the composition and layers of the setting bed itself? Have you any firm views on the use of smooth stones for the flesh of human figures?'

The other man was eyeing him gravely, expressionless. Crispin paused, modulated his tone. ‘We each have our areas of endeavour, my lord. Yours matters rather more, I would say, but mine might … last longer. We'd likely
do best conversing—should you honour me—about other matters entirely. Were you at the Hippodrome yesterday?'

Leontes shifted a little on his bench; his white sheet settled around his hips. There was a vivid diagonal scar running from his collarbone to his waist in a reddened line like a seam. He leaned over and poured another ewer of water on the stones. Steam cloaked the room for a moment.

‘Siroes had no difficulty telling us about his designs and intentions,' the Strategos said.

Us
, Crispin thought. ‘Your lady wife was his sponsor, I understand,' he murmured. ‘He also did some private work for you, I believe.'

‘Trees and flowers in mosaic, yes. For our nuptial chambers. Deer at a stream, boars and hounds, that sort of thing. I have no difficulty at all with such images, of course.' His tone was very earnest.

‘Of course. Fine work, I'm sure,' Crispin said mildly. There was a little silence.

‘I wouldn't know,' said Leontes. ‘I imagine it is competent.' His teeth flashed briefly again. ‘As you say, I could no more judge it than you could appraise a general's tactics.'

‘You sleep in the room,' Crispin replied, perversely abandoning his own argument. ‘You look at it every night.'

‘Some nights,' said Leontes briefly. ‘I don't pay much attention to the flowers on the wall.'

‘But you worry enough about the god in a sanctuary to arrange this encounter?'

The other man nodded. ‘That is different.
Do
you intend to render an image of Jad on the ceiling?'

‘The dome. I rather suspect that is what is expected of me, my lord. In the absence of instruction otherwise
from the Emperor, or the Patriarchs, as you say, I should think I have to.'

‘You don't fear the taint of heresy?'

‘I have been rendering the god since I was an apprentice, my lord. If this has formally become heresy instead of a matter of current debate, no one has informed me of the change. Has the army taken to shaping clerical doctrine? Shall we now discuss how to breach enemy walls with chanted Invocations of Jad? Or launch Holy Fools in catapults?'

He'd gone too far, it seemed. Leontes's expression darkened. ‘You are impertinent, Rhodian.'

‘I hope not, my lord. I
am
indicating that I find your chosen subject intrusive. I am not a Sarantine, my lord. I am a Rhodian citizen of Batiara, invited here as a guest of the Empire.'

Unexpectedly, Leontes smiled again. ‘True enough. Forgive me. You made a … dramatic entry among us last night, and I have to confess I felt easier about the decorations being planned, knowing Siroes was doing them and my wife was privy to his concepts. He was intending a design that did not … incorporate the rendered image of Jad.'

‘I see,' said Crispin quietly.

This was unexpected, and solved another part of the puzzle. ‘I had been told his dismissal might distress your lady wife. I see it is also a matter of concern to you, for different reasons.'

Leontes hesitated. ‘I approach matters of faith with seriousness.'

Crispin's anger was gone. He said, ‘A prudent thing to do, my lord. We are all children of the god and must do him honour … in our own way.' He felt a certain weariness now. All he'd come east to do was put pain a little way behind him, seek solace in important work. The
tangled complexities of the world here in Sarantium seemed extremely …
enveloping
.

On the facing bench, Leontes leaned back, not replying. After a moment he reached over and tapped on the door. At that signal it was pulled open by someone, letting in another rush of air, and then it closed. Only one man seemed to have been waiting to enter. He shuffled, favouring one foot, past the Strategos to take a seat opposite Crispin.

‘No attendant?' he growled.

‘He's allowed a few moments to cool down,' Leontes said politely. ‘Ought to be back shortly, or a different one will come. Shall I pour for you?'

‘Go ahead,' the other man said, indifferently.

He was, Crispin realized, evidently unaware who had just volunteered to serve as a bathhouse servant for him. Leontes picked up the ewer, dipped it in the trough, and poured water over the hot stones, once and then again. The steam sizzled and crackled. A wave of moist heat washed over Crispin like something tangible, thick in the chest, blurring sight.

He looked wryly at the Strategos. ‘A second employment?'

Leontes laughed. ‘Less dangerous. Less rewarding, mind you. I ought to leave you to your peace. You will come to dine one night, I hope? My wife would enjoy speaking with you. She … collects clever people.'

‘I've never been part of a collection before,' Crispin murmured.

The third man sat mute, ignoring them, closewrapped in his sheet. Leontes glanced over at him briefly then stood. In this small chamber he seemed even taller than he had in the palace the night before. Other scars showed along his back, and corded ridges of muscle. At the doorway, he turned.

‘Weapons are forbidden here,' he said gravely. ‘If you surrender the blade under your foot you will have committed only a minor offence to this point. If you do not, you will lose a hand to the courts, or worse, when tried on my evidence.'

Crispin blinked. Then he moved extremely fast.

He had to. The man on the bench opposite had reached down with a snarl and ripped a paper-thin blade free from under the sole of his left foot. He held it deftly, the back of his hand up, and slashed straight at Crispin, without challenge or warning.

Leontes stood motionless by the door, watching with what seemed to be a detached interest.

Crispin lurched to one side, sweeping his sheet from his shoulders, to catch the thrusting blade. The man across from him swore viciously. He ripped the knife upwards through the fabric, trying to wrench it free, but Crispin sprang from his bench, wrapping the great sheet in a sweeping movement like a death shroud about the other man's arms and torso. Without thought—or space for thought—but with an enormous, choking fury in his chest, he hammered an elbow viciously into the side of the man's head. He heard a dull grunt. The trammelled blade fell to the floor with a thin sound. Crispin pivoted for leverage, then swung his left arm in a backhanded arc that smashed the side of his fist full into the man's face. He felt teeth shatter like small stones, heard the breaking of bone, and gasped at a surge of pain in his hand.

The other man fell to his knees with a weak, coughing sound. Before he could grapple for the dropped knife, Crispin kicked him twice, in the ribs and then, as his assailant slid sideways on the wet floor, in the head. The man lay there and he did not move.

Crispin, breathing raggedly, slumped back naked onto the stone bench. He was dripping wet, slick with
perspiration. He closed his eyes then opened them again. His heart was pounding wildly. He looked over at Leontes, who had made no movement at all from his position by the door.

‘So kind … of you … to assist,' Crispin gasped. His left hand was already swelling up. He glared at the other man through the eddying mist and the wet heat.

The golden-haired soldier smiled. A light sheen of perspiration glistened all along his perfect body. ‘It is important for a man to be able to defend himself. And pleasing to know one can. Don't you feel better, having dealt with him yourself?'

Crispin tried to control his breathing. He shook his head angrily. Sweat dripped in his eyes. There was a pool of blood trickling across the stone floor, seeping into the white sheet in which the fallen man lay tangled.

‘You should,' Leontes said gravely. ‘It is no small thing to be able to protect your own person and your loved ones.'

‘Fuck you. Say that to plague sores,' Crispin snarled. He felt nauseated, struggling for control.

‘Oh dear. You can't talk to me like that,' the Strategos said with surprising gentleness. ‘You know who I am. Besides, I have invited you to my house … you
shouldn't
talk to me like that.' He made it sound like a social failing, a lapse of civilized protocol. It might have been comical, Crispin thought, had he not been so near to vomiting in the now-stifling wet heat, with a stranger's dark blood continuing to soak into the white sheet at his feet.

‘What are you going to do to me?' Crispin rasped through clenched teeth. ‘Kill me with a hidden blade? Send your wife to poison me?'

Leontes chuckled benignly. ‘I have no
reason
to kill you. And Styliane's reputation is far worse than her
nature. You'll see, when you join us for dinner. In the meantime, you'd best come out of the heat, and take some pride in knowing that this man will quite certainly reveal who it was who hired him. My men will take him to the Urban Prefect's offices. They are extremely good at interrogation there. You have solved last night's mystery yourself, artisan. At the small price of a bruised hand. You ought to be a satisfied man.'

Fuck you
, Crispin almost said again, but didn't.
Last night's mystery
. It seemed everyone knew about the attack by now. He looked over at the tall commander of all the Sarantine armies. Leontes's blue gaze met his through the eddying of the steam.

‘This,' said Crispin bitterly, ‘is the ambit of satisfaction for you? Clubbing someone senseless, killing him? This is what a
man
does to justify his place in Jad's creation?'

Leontes was silent a moment. ‘You haven't killed him. Jad's creation is a dangerous, tenuous place for mortal men, artisan. Tell me, how lasting have the glories of Rhodias been, since they could not be defended against the Antae?'

They were rubble, of course. Crispin knew it. He had seen the fire-charred ruin of mosaics the world had once journeyed to honour and exalt.