Sailing to Sarantium (42 page)

'This Rhodian,' said an elegant, fair-haired woman behind her, 'has
all the presumption one might have expected, and none of the manners
one dared hope for. At least they chopped off his foliage. A red
beard along with an uncouth manner would have been too offensive.'

Crispin said nothing. He saw the Empress smile thinly. Without
turning, Alixana said, 'You knew he was bearded? You have been making
inquiries, Styliane? Even newly married? How very characteristic of
the Daleinoi.'

Someone laughed nervously and was quickly silent. The big,
frank-looking, handsome man beside the woman looked briefly uneasy.
But, from the name that had been spoken, Crispin now knew who these
two people were. The pieces slotting into place. He had a
puzzle-solving mind. Always had. Needed it now.

He was looking at Carullus's beloved Strategos, the man the tribune
had come from Sauradia to see, the greatest soldier of the day. This
tall man was Leontes the Golden, and beside him was his bride.
Daughter of the wealthiest family in Sarantium. A prize for a
triumphant general. She was, Crispin had to concede. She was a prize.
Styliane Daleina was magnificent, and the single, utterly spectacular
pearl that gleamed in the golden necklace at her throat might even be
...

An idea came to him in that moment, anger-driven. Inwardly he winced
at his own subversive thought, and he kept silent. There were limits
to recklessness.

Styliane Daleina was entirely unruffled by the Empress's remark. She
would be, Crispin realized: she'd revealed her knowledge of him
freely with the insult. She would have been ready for a retort. He
had an abrupt sense that he was now another very minor piece in a
complex game being played between two women.

Or three. He was carrying a message.

'He can beard himself like a Holy Fool if he chooses,' said the
Emperor of Sarantium mildly, 'if he has the skills to assist with the
Sanctuary mosaics.' Valerius's voice was quiet, but it cut through
all other sounds.

It would, Crispin thought. Everyone in this room would be tuned to
its cadences.

Crispin looked at the Emperor, pushing the women from his mind. 'You
have spoken persuasively about engineering and moonlight,' said
Valerius of Sarantium. 'Shall we converse a moment about mosaic?'

He sounded like a scholar, an academician. He looked like one. It was
said that this man never slept. That he walked one or another of his
palaces all night dictating, or sat reading dispatches by
lanternlight. That he could engage philosophers and military
tacticians in discourse that stretched the limits of their own
understanding. That he had met with the aspiring architects of his
new Great Sanctuary and had reviewed each drawing they presented.
That one of them had killed himself when the Emperor rejected his
scheme, explaining in precise detail why he was doing so. This much
had reached even Varena: there was an Emperor in Sarantium now with a
taste for beauty as well as power.

'I am here for no other reason, thrice-exalted,' Crispin said. It was
more or less the truth.

'Ah,' said Styliane Daleina quickly. 'Another Rhodian trait. Here to
converse he tells us-no deeds. Thus, the Antae conquered with such
ease. It is all so familiar.'

There was laughter again. In its own way, this second interruption
was intensely revealing: she had to feel utterly secure, either in
her own person or that of her husband, the Emperor's longtime friend,
to break into a colloquy of this sort. What was unclear was why the
woman was attacking him. Crispin kept his gaze on the Emperor.

'There are a variety of reasons why Rhodias fell,' said Valerius II
mildly. 'We are discussing mosaics, however, for the moment. Caius
Crispus, what is your opinion as to the new reverse transfer method
of laying tesserae in sheets in the workshop?'

Even with all he'd heard about this man, the technical precision of
this question-coming from an Emperor after a banquet, in the midst of
his courtiers-caught Crispin completely by surprise. He swallowed.
Cleared his throat.

'My lord, it is both suitable and useful for mosaics on very large
walls and floors. It enables a more uniform setting of the glass or
stone pieces where that is desired, and relieves much of the need for
speed in setting tesserae directly before the setting bed dries. I
can explain, if the Emperor wishes.'

'Not necessary. I understand this. What about using it on a dome?'

Crispin was to wonder, afterwards, how the ensuing events would have
unfolded had he tried to be diplomatic in that moment. He didn't try.
Events unfolded as they did.

'On a dome?' He echoed, his voice rising. 'Thrice-exalted lord, only
a fool would even suggest using that method on a dome! No mosaicist
worth the name would consider it.'

Behind him someone made what could only be called a spluttering
sound.

Styliane Daleina said icily, 'You are in the presence of the Emperor
of Sarantium. We whip or blind strangers who presume so much.'

'And we honour those,' said the Empress Alixana, in her exquisite
voice, 'who honour us with their honesty when directly asked for it.
Will you say why you offer this... very strong view, Rhodian?'

Crispin hesitated. 'The court of the glorious Emperor, on a Dykania
night... do you really wish such a discussion?'

'The Emperor does,' said the Emperor.

Crispin swallowed again. Martinian, he thought, would have done this
much more tactfully.

He wasn't Martinian. Directly to Valerius of Sarantium he spoke one
of the tenets of his soul. 'Mosaic,' he said, more softly now, 'is a
dream of light. Of colour. It is the play of light on colour. It is a
craft ... I have sometimes dared call it an art, my lord . . . built
around letting the illumination of candle, lantern, sun, both moons
dance across the colours of the glass and gemstones and stones we use
... to make something that partakes, however slightly, of the
qualities of movement that Jad gave his mortal children and the
world. In a sanctuary, my lord, it is a craft that aspires to evoke
the holiness of the god and his creation.'

He took a breath. It was incredible to him that he was saying these
things aloud, and here. He looked at the Emperor.

'Go on,' said Valerius. The grey eyes were on his face, intent,
coolly intelligent.

'And on a dome,' said Crispin, 'on the arch of a dome-whether of
sanctuary or palace-the mosaicist has a chance to work with this, to
breathe a shadow of life into his vision. A wall is flat, a floor is
flat-'

'Well, they ought to be,' said the Empress lightly.

'I've lived in some rooms' Valerius laughed aloud. Crispin, in
mid-flight, paused, and had to smile. 'Indeed, thrice-gracious lady.
I speak in principle, of course. These are ideals we seldom attain.'

'A wall or a floor is flat, in its conception,' said the Emperor. 'A
dome .. .?'

'The curve and the height of a dome allow us the illusion of movement
through changing light, my lord. Opportunities beyond price. It is
the mosaicist's natural place. His... haven. A painted fresco on a
flat wall can do all a mosaic can, and-though many in my guild would
call this heresy-it can do more at times. Nothing on Jad's earth can
do what a mosaicist can do on a dome if he sets the tesserae directly
on the surface.'

A voice from behind him, refined and querulous: 'I will be allowed to
speak to this crass western stupidity, I dare trust, thrice-exalted
lord?'

'When it is done, Siroes. If it is stupid. Listen. You will be asked
questions. Be prepared to answer them.'

Siroes. He didn't know the name. He ought to, probably. He hadn't
prepared himself as well as he should have ... but he had not
expected to be here at court a day after arriving in the City.

He was also angry now. Crass? Too many insults at once. He tried to
hold down his temper, but this was the place where his soul resided.
He said, 'East or west has nothing to do with any of this, my lord.
You described the reverse transfer as new. Someone has misled you, I
am afraid. Five hundred years ago mosaicists were laying reversed
sheets of tesserae on walls and floors in Rhodias, Mylasia, Baiana.
Examples still exist, they are there to be seen. There are no such
examples on any dome in Batiara. Shall I tell the thrice-exalted
Emperor why?'

'Tell me why,' said Valerius.

'Because five hundred years ago mosaicists had already learned that
laying stone and gems and glass flat on sticky sheets and then
transferring that relinquished all the power the curves of the dome
gave them. When you set a tessera by hand into a surface you position
it. You angle it, turn it. You adjust it in relation to the piece
beside it, and the one beside that and beyond it, towards or away
from the light entering through windows or rising from below. You can
build up the setting bed into a relief, or recede it for effect. You
can-if you are a mosaicist, and not merely someone sticking glass in
a pasty surface-allow what you know of the proposed location and
number of candles in the room below and the placement of the windows
around the base of the dome and higher up, the orientation of the
room on holy Jad's earth, and the risings of his moons and the god's
sun ... you allow light to be your tool, your servant, your . . .
gift in rendering what is holy.'

'And the other way?' It was Gesius the Chancellor this time,
surprisingly. The elderly eunuch's spare, gaunt features were
thoughtful, as if chasing a nuance through this exchange. It wouldn't
be the subject that engaged him, Crispin suspected, but Valerius's
interest in it. This was a man who had survived to serve three
Emperors.

'The other way,' he said softly, 'you turn that gift of a high,
curved surface into ... a wall. A badly made wall that bends. You
forego the play of light that is at the heart of mosaic. The heart of
what I do. Or have always tried to do, my lord. My lord Emperor.'

It was a cynical, jaded court. He was speaking from the soul, with
too much passion. Far too much. He sounded ridiculous. He felt
ridiculous, and he had no clear idea why he was giving vent in this
way to deeply private feelings. He rubbed at his bare chin.

'You treat the rendering of holy images in a sanctuary as... play?'
It was the tall Strategos, Leontes. And from the blunt, unvarnished
soldier's tone, Crispin realized that this was the man who'd
intervened earlier. One western artisan is like another, he'd
suggested then. Why do we care which one came?

Crispin took a breath. 'I treat the presence of light as something to
glory in. A source of joy and gratitude. What else, my lord, is the
sunrise invocation? The loss of the sun is a grave loss. Darkness is
no friend to any of Jad's children, and this is even more true for a
mosaicist.'

Leontes looked at him, a slight furrow in the handsome brow. His hair
was yellow as wheat. 'Darkness is sometimes an ally to a soldier,' he
said.

'Soldiers kill,' Crispin murmured. 'It may be a necessary thing, but
it is no exaltation of the god. I would imagine you agree, my lord.'

Leontes shook his head. 'I do not. Of course I do not. If we conquer
and reduce barbarians or heretics, those who deride and deny Jad of
the Sun, do we not exalt him?' Crispin saw a thin, sallow-faced man
lean forward, listening intently.

'Is imposing worship the same as exalting our god, then?' More than a
decade of debating with Martinian had honed him for this sort of
thing. He could almost forget where he was.

Almost.

'How extremely tedious this suddenly becomes,' said the Empress, her
tone the embodiment of capricious boredom. 'It is even worse than
talk of which way to lay a piece of glass on some sticky bed. I do
not think sticky beds are a fit subject here. Styliane's just
married, after all.'

It was the Strategos who flushed, not the elegant wife beside him, as
the Emperor's own thoughtful expression broke into a smile, and
laughter with an edge of malice rippled through the room.

Crispin waited for it to die. He said, not sure why he was doing so,
'It was the thrice-exalted Empress who asked me to defend my views.
My strong views, she called them. It was someone else who described
them as a stupidity. In the presence of such greatness as I find
myself, I dare choose no subjects, only respond when asked, as best I
may. And seek to avoid the chasms of stupidity.'

Alixana's expressive mouth quirked a little, but her dark eyes were
unreadable. She was a small woman, exquisitely formed. 'You have a
careful memory, Rhodian. I did ask you, didn't I?'

Crispin inclined his head. 'The Empress is generous to recall it.
Lesser mortals cannot but recollect each word she breathes, of
course.' He was surprising himself with almost every word he spoke
tonight.

Valerius, leaning back on the throne now, clapped his hands. 'Well
said, if shameless. The westerner may yet teach our courtiers a few
things besides engineering and mosaic technique.'

'My lord Emperor! Surely you have not accepted his prattle about the
reverse-'

The relaxed demeanour disappeared. The grey gaze went knifing past
Crispin.

'Siroes, when you presented your drawings and your plans to our
architects and our self, you did say this device was new, did you
not?'

The tone of the room changed dramatically. The Emperor's voice was
icy. He was still leaning back in his throne, but the eyes had
altered.

Crispin wanted to turn and see who this other mosaicist was but he
dared not move. The man behind him stammered, 'My lord . . .
thrice-exalted lord, it has never been used in Sarantium. Never on
any other dome. I proposed-'

'And what we have just heard of Rhodias? Five hundred years ago? The
reasons why? Did you consider this?'

'My lord, the affairs of the fallen west, I-'