Sailing to Sarantium (52 page)

The Emperor shivers, crossing the gardens in the night wind. It is
only the chill and damp. He is not fearful, at all. He has only been
afraid once in his adult life that he can remember: during the
rioting two years ago, in the moment he learned that the Blues and
Greens had joined together, side by side in the Hippodrome and in the
burning streets. That had been too unexpected a development, too far
outside the predictable, the rational. He was-and is-a man who relies
on orderly conduct to ground his existence and his thinking.
Something so unlikely as the factions joining with each other had
rendered him vulnerable, unmoored, like a ship with an anchor ripped
free in a storm.

He had been prepared to follow the advice of his most senior
counsellors that day. To take a small craft from the little cove
below the Precinct and flee the sack of his city. The foolish,
illogical rioting over a small increase in taxes and some depravities
alleged on the part of the Quaestor of Imperial Revenue had been on
the very cusp of bringing down a lifetime's worth of planning and
achievement. He had been frightened and enraged. This memory is much
more vivid than the one from long ago, the winter trek down to the
City.

He reaches the smaller of the two main palaces, ascends the wide
steps. Doors are opened for him by the soldiers on duty there. He
pauses on the threshold, looking up at the grey-black clouds west
over the sea, then he walks into the palace to see if the woman whose
words saved them all that day two years ago is still awake, or has-as
threatened-gone to sleep.

Gisel-Hildric's daughter, queen of the Antae-is said to be young and
even beautiful, though that last hardly matters in the scheme of
things. It is distinctly probable she could offer him an heir, though
less likely that she would really afford an alternative to the
invasion of Batiara. Were she to come east to wed the Emperor of
Sarantium it would be seen as an act of treachery by the Antae. A
successor would be named, or emerge.

Successors among the Antae tend to follow each other rapidly in any
case, he thinks, as swords and poison do their winnowing. It is true
that Gisel would serve as excuse for Sarantine intervention, lending
validity to his armies. Not a trivial thing. The endorsement of the
High Patriarch might reasonably be expected in the name of the queen,
and that would carry weight among the Rhodians-and many of the
Antae-which could turn the balance in a war. The young queen, in
other words, is not really wrong in her reading of what she might
represent for him. No man who prided himself on his command of logic
and capacity to analyse and anticipate could deny that this is so.

Marrying her-if she could be winkled out of Varena alive-would
represent a truly dazzling opening up of avenues. And she is indeed
young enough to bear, many times. Nor is he so old himself, though he
might feel it at times.

The Emperor of Sarantium comes to his wife's chambers by way of the
inner corridor he always uses. He sheds the cloak there. A soldier
takes it from him. He knocks, himself. He is genuinely uncertain if
Aliana will be awake. She values her sleep more than he does-most
people do. He hopes she has waited. Tonight has been interesting in
unexpected ways, and he is far from tired, keen to talk.

Crysomallo opens the door, admitting him to the innermost of the
Empress's rooms. There are four doors here. The architects have made
of this wing a maze of women's chambers. He himself doesn't even know
where all the corridors lead and branch. The door closes on the
soldiers. There are candles burning here, a clue. He turns to her
longtime lady-in-waiting, eyebrows lifted in inquiry, but before
Crysomallo can speak, the door to the bedchamber itself opens, and
Aliana, the Empress Alixana, his life, appears.

He says, 'You are awake. I am pleased.'

She murmurs, mildly, 'You look chilled. Go nearer the fire. I have
been considering which items of my clothing to pack for the exile to
which you are sending me.'

Crysomallo smiles, lowering her head quickly in a vain attempt to
hide it. She turns, without instruction, and withdraws to another
part of the web of rooms. The Emperor waits for the door to close.

'And why,' he says, austere and composed, to the woman who remains
with him, 'do you assume you'll be allowed any of them when you go?'

'Ah,' she says, simulating relief, a hand fluttering to her bosom.
'That means you don't intend to kill me.'

He shakes his head. 'Hardly necessary. I can let Styliane do it once
you are discarded and powerless.'

Her face sinks as she considers this new possibility. 'Another
necklace?'

'Or chains,' he says agreeably. 'Poisoned manacles for your cell in
exile.'

'At least the indignity would be shortened.' She sighs. 'A cold
night?'

'Very cold,' he agrees. 'Windy for an old man's bones. The clouds
will break by morning, though. We'll see the sun.'

'Trakesians always know the weather. They just don't understand
women. One can't have all gifts, I suppose. Which old man were you
walking with?' She smiles. So does he. 'You will take a cup of wine,
my lord?'

He nods. 'I'm quite certain there's nothing wrong with the necklace,'
he adds.

'I know. You wanted the artisan to take a warning about her.' He
smiles at that. 'You know me too well.'

She shakes her head, walking over with the cup. 'No one knows you too
well. I know some things you are inclined to do. He will be a prize,
after tonight, and you wanted to give him some caution.'

'He's a cautious man, I think.'

'This is a seductive place.'

He grins suddenly. He can still look boyish at times. 'Very.'

She laughs, hands him his wine. 'Did he tell us too easily?' She
walks over to take a cushioned seat. 'About Gisel? Is he weak that
way?'

The Emperor also crosses and sits easily-no sign of age in the
movement-on the floor by her feet among the pillows. The fire near
her low-backed chair has been attentively built up. The room is warm,
the wine is very good and watered to his taste. The wind and the
world are outside.

Valerius, who was Petrus when she met him and still is when they are
private, shakes his head. 'He's an intelligent fellow. Very much so,
actually. I didn't expect that. He didn't really tell us anything, if
you recall. Kept his silence. You were too precise in what you asked
and said merely to be hazarding a guess. He drew that conclusion and
acted on it. I'd call him observant, not weak. Besides, he'll be in
love with you by now.' He smiles up at her and sips his wine.

'A well-made man,' she murmurs. 'Though I'd have hated to see the red
beard they say he came with.' She shudders delicately. 'But, alas, I
like my men much younger than that one.'

He laughs. 'Why did you ask him here?'

'I wanted dolphins. You heard.'

'I did. You'll get them when we're done with the Sanctuary. What
other reasons?'

The Empress lifts one shoulder, a motion of hers he has always loved.
Her dark hair ripples, catching the light. 'As you say, he was a
prize after discrediting Siroes and solving the charioteer's
mystery.'

'And the gift to Styliane. Leontes didn't much like that.'

'That isn't what he didn't like, Petrus. And she will not have liked
having to match his generosity, at all.'

'He'll have a guard. At least for the first while. Styliane did
sponsor the other artisan, after all.'

She nods. 'I have told you, more than once, that that marriage is a
mistake.'

The man frowns. Sips his wine. The woman watches him closely, though
her manner appears relaxed. 'He earned it, Aliana. Against the
Bassanids and in the Majriti.'

'He earned appropriate honours, yes. Styliane Daleina was not the way
to reward him, my love. The Daleinoi hate you enough, as it is.'

'I can't imagine why,' he murmurs wryly, then adds, 'Leontes was the
marriage-dream of every woman in the Empire.'

'Every woman but two,' she says quietly. 'The one here with you and
the one forced to wed him.'

'I can only leave it to him to change her mind, then.'

'Or watch her change him?'

He shook his head. 'I imagine Leontes knows how to lay a siege of
this kind, as well. And he is proof against treachery. He is secure
in himself and his image of Jad.'

She opens her mouth to say something more, but does not. He notices
though, and smiles. 'I know,' he murmurs. 'Pay the soldiers, delay
the Sanctuary.'

She says, 'Among other things. But what does a woman understand of
these great affairs?'

'Exactly,' he says emphatically. 'Stick to your charities and dawn
prayers.'

They both laugh. The Empress is notorious for mornings abed. There is
a silence. He drinks his wine, finishing it. She rises smoothly,
takes the cup, fills it again and comes back, sitting as she hands it
to him again. He lays a hand on her slippered foot where it rests on
a pillow beside him. They watch the fire for a time.

'Gisel of the Antae might bear you children,' she says softly.

He continues to gaze into the flames. He nods. 'And be much less
trouble, one has to assume.'

'Shall I resume selecting a wardrobe for exile? May I take the
necklace?'

The Emperor continues to look into the tongues of fire. Heladikos's
gift, according to the schismatics he has agreed to suppress in the
cause of harmony in the faith of Jad. Chieromancers claim they can
read futures in flames, see shapes of destiny. They, too, are to be
suppressed. All pagans are. He has even-with a reluctance few will
know-closed the old pagan Schools. A thousand years of learning. Even
Aliana's dolphins are a transgression. There are those who would burn
or brand the artisan for Grafting them, if he ever does.

The Emperor reads no mystic certainties of any kind in the late-night
flames, sitting at the woman's feet, one hand touching her instep and
the jewelled slipper. He says, 'Never leave me.'

'Wherever would I go?' she murmurs after a moment, trying to keep the
tone light and just failing.

He looks up. 'Never leave me,' he says again, the grey eyes on hers
this time.

He can do this to her, take breath from chest and throat. A
constriction of great need. After all these years.

'Not in life,' she replies.

 

Kasia awakened from a dream at dawn. She lay in bed, confused, half
asleep, and only gradually became aware that there were bells pealing
outside. There had been no Jaddite bells at home where the gods were
found in the black forest or by rivers or in the grainfields,
assuaged by blood. These sanctuary bells were a part of city life.
She was in Sarantium. Half a million people, Carullus had said. He'd
said she'd get used to the crowds, learn to sleep through the bells
if she chose.

The dream had been of her waterfall at home, in summer. She'd been
sitting on a bank of the pool below the falls, shaded by leafy trees
that bent low over the water. There had been a man with her, which
had never been so at home, in life.

She couldn't see his face in the dream.

The bells continued, summoning Sarantium to prayer. Jad of the Sun
was riding up in his chariot. All who sought the god's protection in
life and his intercession after death should be rising with him,
making their way, even now, to the chapels and sanctuaries.

Kasia lay very still, thinking about her dream. She felt strange,
unsettled; something nagged at her awareness. Then she remembered:
the men had not come home last night, or not before she'd fallen
asleep. And there had been that disquieting visit from the court
mosaicist. An edgy man, afraid. She'd not been able to warn Crispin
about him before he was taken off to the court. Carullus had assured
her it didn't matter, that the Rhodian could handle himself in the
Imperial Precinct, that he'd have protectors there.

Kasia knew that the very idea of a protector meant that there might
be someone you needed to be protected from, but she hadn't said that.
She and Carullus and Vargos had had their dinner together and then
come back here through the very wild streets for a quiet glass of
wine. Kasia knew the tribune would have greatly enjoyed strolling
through the last night of the Dykania with a flask of ale in his
hand, that he was staying inside for her. She was grateful for his
kindness, his easy way with a story. Several stories. He made her
smile and grinned when he did. He had knocked Crispin unconscious
with an iron helmet the first moment they met. Vargos had been beaten
very badly by his men. Much had changed in a short time.

Later, from the festive chaos outside, a brisk messenger had entered
looking for the soldiers: they were to go to the Imperial Precinct,
wait by the Bronze Gates-or wherever they were ordered when they got
there-and escort the Rhodian mosaicist, Caius Crispus of Varena, home
when he was dismissed. It was a command, from the Chancellor.

Carullus had smiled at Kasia across the table. 'Told you,' he'd said.
'Protectors. And he got away with using his own name, too. This is
good news, girl.' He and five of his men had armed themselves and
gone.

Vargos, used to early nights and early mornings, had already gone to
bed. Kasia had been alone again. She didn't really have any fears for
herself. Or, that wasn't quite true. She had no idea what was to
become of her life. That would turn into a fear if she stopped to
dwell upon it.

She had left the last of the wine on the table and had gone up to her
room, locked the door, undressed, eventually fallen asleep. Had had
dreams on and off through the night, awakening at random noises from
the streets below, listening for returning footsteps down the hall.

She hadn't heard them.

She rose now, washed her face and upper body at the basin in the
room, dressed herself in what she'd worn on the road and since
arriving. Crispin had spoken of buying her clothing. The comment had
raised in her mind again the uneasy question of her future.