Anna of Byzantium (15 page)

“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me about your meetings with that man.”

“Malik and I grew up together,” she said quietly. “Our fathers’ lands adjoined each other, and when we were old enough, we were betrothed. He was captured during the battle, and was sold as a slave. He had a kind
master who let him keep a portion of what he earned when he was hired out, and he saved every coin. He bought his freedom two years ago, and has been looking for me ever since.

“One day last year, when I was at the market, he finally found me. Oh, Princess—it was like seeing my mother and father again, like seeing my sister and brothers. He spoke in our language; he made me remember all those who died. He told me he had never forgotten me and wanted to buy my freedom. It’s hard, but he has managed to save almost half of what he would need. Whenever he can get away, at the dark of the moon, he comes here. We meet for just a few minutes—I’m so afraid of being found out. We talk, I give him any coins that have come my way—that’s all, I swear it!”

“And what makes you think you can buy your freedom? I can raise your price to any level I want!”

“I have already spoken to your mother while you slept,” she answered, her square jaw set firmly. “She is the one who purchased me, so she knows what is my worth. She has named a fair price for my freedom.”

I had grown accustomed to Sophia; I even would have said, if it had not sounded so absurd, that I liked her. I had to find some way to keep her with me.

“How do I know he isn’t plotting to overthrow my father?”

“He cares nothing about politics! He was a farmer’s son, just as I was a farmer’s daughter. Malik has no interest in who leads the empire. Nor do I!”

I found it hard to believe that anyone could be indifferent
to the ruling of the empire. But I stood up. “Dress me,” I commanded. “I’ll have to see for myself.”

Sophia ran to pull a robe from the chest at the foot of my bed. As she fastened the dozens of tiny buttons down my back, her fingers felt like ice. She spoke no more, just tied and fastened until I was ready. I hastened out of the room, with Sophia at my heels.

The hall had now returned to its normal daytime appearance, with servants and guards going about their business. I hurried along and pushed aside the heavy hanging covering the library door, expecting to see Simon there. Instead, a tall, stooped man wearing the long robes of a scholar stood with his back to the door, inspecting the books on the tall shelves. He turned at the sound of our entry, then bowed low.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

“Where is Simon?” I demanded.

“The librarian?” he asked. “He has gone out with a new servant, I understand. He left me here to examine the books.”

“When will he be back?”

“He didn’t say, Your Majesty. Is there something I can help you find?”

This amused me, even in my impatience. No one knew this library better than I, especially the history books where the man was standing.

“No,” I said. “It is Simon I require. Sophia! Go find Simon,” I ordered. “Tell him that I require him and that new servant here instantly.”

Sophia hesitated, glancing at the man.

“Never mind that,” I whispered. “You can leave me alone with him—there are dozens of guards within earshot. Just hurry!” Sophia left.

The man stood, looking at me, holding an open book. I recognized it as one of my favorites. He saw my glance and handed it to me.

“You know this?” he asked. I ran my eyes over the familiar words.

“Thucydides,” I said. “He was a great historian. But Herodotus—”

I suddenly remembered that I was in conversation with a stranger, and fell silent. He didn’t appear disturbed by my sudden change, just quietly took the book and returned it to its proper place.

He turned again to face me. “Herodotus?” he prompted.

“The father of history,” I said. “Before him people just repeated what they had heard about the past and did not bother to find out the truth.”

“And what is the truth?” he questioned, sounding like Pontius Pilate in the Bible.

“The truth—what really happened—what people really did and really said. Not what the gods made them do, but what greed and lust for power made them do.”

Before either one of us could speak again, the door flew open and Simon shot in, followed closely by Sophia. As he caught sight of me standing near the stranger, he shot me a warning glance. I understood, and withdrew a few paces, asking him with my eyes if I was now at
the proper distance. He nodded, then belatedly bowed low.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

“Master Librarian,” I answered. “How do you find your new servant?”

I hoped that Malik and Sophia between them had explained the situation to him. “He appears satisfactory,” he said. “I only hope that a freedman will not be discontented taking orders from a slave.”

I winced at this reminder of my harsh words of the night before. But it was unseemly for a princess to apologize, so I merely cast him what I hoped was a penitent look. After a moment, Simon gave me a little smile. I was forgiven.

“I doubt he will find anything to complain of,” I said.

All this time I had forgotten the other man, but Simon now caught sight of him, and bowed hastily.

“My Lord Bryennius,” said Simon. “Pray excuse me. May I present to you Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Anna Comnena, firstborn of the emperor?”

Bryennius—this must be the great historian, Nicephorus Bryennius. Simon had said that someday when the great historians were named, Bryennius’ name would be on that list. My cheeks burned as I recalled the history lesson I had been giving him. It irked me to see him trying to repress a smile as though he knew what I was thinking.

“I have heard your name, of course,” I said. “What is your purpose in visiting our palace? Are you looking for material for a history?”

Now it was the historian’s turn to flush. He looked at
Simon as though for assistance, but Simon looked down at the floor. “Did they not tell you, Princess?” he asked.

“Tell me what? Simon, what is he talking about?” If I had not been thirteen years old, I would have stamped my foot the way I used to, when I was in a temper as a child.

“Your father has returned home,” Bryennius said. I whirled to Simon and he nodded. The stranger was still talking, and I found it hard to pay attention to him, as I was itching to go find my father. But his next words made me forget everything else. “Your father summoned me to accompany him here,” he said. “I am surprised no one has told you. He has commanded me to marry you, Princess Anna.”

My father had
commanded
him to marry me? Bryennius must have seen and understood my expression, for he hastily added, “Not that commands are necessary, you understand. I am honored to be told to do that which I would choose freely for myself.”

It was fortunate, I thought, that his writing style was superior to his speaking style, otherwise his histories would be tedious to read. Bryennius turned tactfully to Simon and said, “Master Librarian, your works here are indeed as extensive as I had been led to believe. Perhaps you will show me more?” The two of them moved down the aisles, Simon casting an anxious look at me.

Not that he need worry. I knew that I should have to marry soon, and this Bryennius seemed as good a choice as any. I pushed out of my mind the thought of the golden Constantine, galloping after my father on his
brown horse. Constantine was dead, just as my hopes for the throne were dead. There was no need even to think of him. So why not a historian? At least we would have something to talk about.

So I guessed why I was wanted when Sophia came to me later that day to tell me that my father required my presence in the throne room.

“That man’s with him,” she whispered as we hastened down the corridor. “The one who said he was commanded—” she stopped.

“Commanded to marry me,” I finished for her. “You can say it, Sophia; I am thirteen years old, and it is time my father found me a husband.” She nodded wordlessly, then pulled aside the hanging over the throne-room door, staying out in the corridor as I advanced into the room. Though I modestly lowered my eyes to the floor, I could see a crowd of men around my father and mother on their high thrones.

It was a bright afternoon, and the light slanting through the high windows beat down on the polished floor, making the marble gleam like jewels. As I had so many times, I studied the colors as my feet went over them: red, green, black, white. When the pattern changed, I knew without raising my eyes that I was close to the throne. I stretched out full-length on the floor, my face in my hands.

My father’s voice, surprisingly gentle, said, “You may arise, daughter.” Usually in public he called me Princess or Your Majesty. The unexpected “daughter” brought tears to my eyes and a hard lump to my chest. I swallowed, trying
to push the lump down, and stood, grateful to be standing semiconcealed in the shadow.

“I hear you have spoiled my surprise,” my father said. His voice sounded as though he were smiling; I looked up and saw that indeed he was. Emboldened by his warmth, so unexpected after our last meeting in this room, I looked up farther and saw my mother seated in the cedar throne on his left. She looked pale and tired.

I should have lowered my eyes then. If I had, I would not have seen the little monkey, the one they called the prince, standing to my father’s right. And not only did he have Constantine’s former place of honor—not only was he standing, gazing proudly out at the ministers while I stood with my head humbly and properly bowed, but he was dressed in a miniature copy of my father’s imperial suit. He was wearing purple silk, and had a diadem on his head that might, at first glance, be mistaken for a tiny crown. I was suddenly conscious of the rumpled linen robe I had hastily girdled on.

How old was the monkey now—eight? Yes, eight, older than I had been when he was born. I considered that fact with some satisfaction. My parents were still young enough to have more children. You may be the heir now, I thought. But you never know what will happen. Don’t forget Fate. And Vengeance.

My father was twisting the gold ring on his finger, a sign that he was not as calm as he appeared. “The choice of your husband is mine and mine alone to make,” he went on, looking at my mother, who set her lips tight and turned her head away. Aha, I thought—she doesn’t want
me to marry this man. She still wants to ally the house of Comnenus with her own Ducas family. Her marriage to my father had formed the alliance; mine with Constantine would have cemented it. Was there another Ducas prince who could wed me? Was that what my mother would prefer?

My father went on, “—but I would never force you, my daughter, to marry against your will. Tell me, is this man satisfactory to you?” He gestured behind him, and Bryennius stepped forward from among the crowd of ministers. I considered the tall man with the stooped shoulders. Although he was older, his beard and hair were untouched by gray. He was a famous historian and so must be intelligent, and he had no obvious physical defects. Anyway, what did it matter? But I was pleased that my father had consulted me before making a final decision.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, he is acceptable.”

My father smiled, stood, and stepped down to me. Reaching for my hand, he led me up the steps to the throne and turned us around to face the ranks. I carefully positioned myself so that I stood directly in front of the little boy, blocking him from the crowd. My father apparently did not notice what I had done, for he said in his clear, ringing voice, “We will celebrate the betrothal of my beloved daughter, Princess Anna Porphyrogenita Comnena, to the historian and my comrade-at-arms, Nicephorus Bryennius, with a banquet this evening. You are all commanded to attend.”

It was only after I left the room that I realized that a banquet of that importance takes weeks to plan. My consent
had been assumed, despite my father’s words. But it made little difference to me. I had come to realize that my wishes were not to be granted, that what I wanted and what happened had very little to do with each other. Someday that would change. I was patient. I could wait.

ere, in the cold convent in the mountains, I often think of that long-ago betrothal feast. No one here cares much for food, and while we eat, there is silence, save for the voice of the lectrix, the nun who reads to us from the Bible. But at my banquet there was rich food of many kinds, and the hall rang with song and laughter and conversation.

The feast was splendid, and, as I had realized, had obviously been planned for weeks. At betrothal feasts the men and the women were allowed to dine together, and shrieks of laughter and loud conversations came from all sides. As the guests of honor, my future husband and I sat between the emperor and the empress, with Anna
Dalassena on my father’s other side. John, to my satisfaction, was relegated to a stool farther down the table, with Maria and our numerous cousins.

I lost track of the courses as I sat on my high purple pillow between my father and Nicephorus Bryennius. We had huge roasts of pork, carved into exquisite shapes by my father’s experts. We ate fish from both the rivers and the sea, one of them with my favorite green sauce. Fat ducks stuffed with raisins. Boiled chicken. Tiny fried artichokes that you could pop whole into your mouth. Sweet asparagus, many different salads. And fruit: apples, melons, dates.