The Sarantine Mosaic (137 page)

Crispin didn't care.

He said, ‘The Emperor is gracious beyond my deserving. I simply tried to assist my queen in her desire to pay homage to the dead. What came of it has nothing to do with me, my lord. It would be a presumption to claim otherwise.'

Leontes shook his head. ‘What came of it would not have happened without you. The presumption is to pretend otherwise. Do you always deny your own role in events?'

‘I deny that I
had
any intended role in … events. If people make use of me it is a price I pay to have the chance to do my work.' He wasn't sure why he was saying this.

Leontes looked at him. Crispin was remembering another conversation with this man, amid the steam of a bathhouse half a year ago, both of them naked under sheets.
What we build—even the Emperor's Sanctuary— we hold precariously and must defend.
A man had come in to kill Crispin that day.

The Emperor said, ‘And was this true yesterday morning, as well? When you went to the isle?'

They knew about that. Of course they did. It was hardly likely to have been kept secret. Alixana had warned him.

Crispin met the other man's blue gaze. ‘It is exactly the same, my lord. The Empress Alixana asked me to accompany her.'

‘Why?'

He didn't think they would do anything to him now. He wasn't certain (how could one be?), but he didn't think so. He said, ‘She wished to show me dolphins in the sea.'

‘Why?' Blunt and assured. Crispin remembered that immense self-confidence. A man never defeated in the field, they said.

‘I do not know, my lord. Other things happened, it was never explained.'

A lie. To Jad's anointed Emperor. He
would
lie for her, however. Dolphins were a heresy. He would not be the one to betray her. She was gone, had not reappeared. Would have no power at all now even if she did trust them and come from hiding. Valerius was dead, she might never be seen again. But he would not, he would
not
betray her.
A small thing, really, but in another way it wasn't. A man lived with his words and actions.

‘What other things? What happened on the isle?'

This he could answer, though he didn't know
why
she had wanted him to see Lecanus Daleinus and hear her pretend to be his sister.

‘I saw the … prisoner there. We were on the isle, elsewhere, when he escaped.'

‘And then?'

‘As you must know, my lord, there was an attempt on her life. It was … repelled by the Excubitors. The Empress left us then and made her own way back to Sarantium.'

‘Why so?'

Some men asked questions when they knew the answers. Leontes seemed to be one of those. Crispin said, ‘They had tried to kill her, my lord. Daleinus had escaped. She was of the belief that an assassination plot might be unfolding.'

Leontes nodded. ‘It was, of course.'

‘Yes, my lord,' Crispin said.

‘The participants have been punished.'

‘Yes, my lord.'

One of the participants, the leader, had been this man's wife, golden as he was. He was Emperor of Sarantium now, because of her plot. Styliane. A child when it had all begun, the burning that had begotten a burning. Crispin had lain with her in a tangled, desperate darkness so little time ago.
Remember this room. Whatever else I do.
The words came to him again. He suspected he could recall every word she'd ever spoken to him, if he tried. She was in a different kind of darkness now, if she was alive. He didn't ask. He didn't dare ask.

There was a silence. Behind the Emperor, the cleric cleared his throat, and Crispin suddenly recollected him:
the adviser to the Eastern Patriarch. A fussy, officious man. They had met when Crispin had first submitted the sketches for the dome.

‘My secretary … has complained of you,' the Emperor said, looking briefly back over his shoulder. A hint of amusement in his voice, almost a smile. A minor disagreement among the troops.

‘He has cause,' Crispin said mildly. ‘I struck him a blow last night. An unworthy action.'

That much was true. He could say that much.

Leontes made a dismissive movement with one hand. ‘I'm sure Pertennius will accept that apology. Everyone was under great strain yesterday. I … felt it myself, I must say. A terrible day and night. The Emperor Valerius was like … an older brother to me.' He looked Crispin in the eye.

‘Yes, my lord.' Crispin lowered his gaze.

There was another brief silence. ‘Queen Gisel has requested your presence in the palace this afternoon. She would like one of her countrymen present when we wed, and given your role—denied though it may be—in the events of last night, you are easily the most appropriate witness from Batiara.'

‘I am honoured,' Crispin said. He
should
have been, but there was, still, this slow, deep coil of rage within him. He couldn't define it or place it, but it was there. Everything was so brutally entangled here. He said, ‘The more so since the thrice-exalted Emperor came to extend the invitation himself.'

A flirting with insolence. His anger had gotten him in trouble before.

Leontes smiled, however. The brilliant, remembered smile. ‘I fear I have rather too many affairs to attend to, to have come only for that, artisan. No. No, I wanted to see this Sanctuary and the dome here. I've not been inside before.'

Few people had, and the Supreme Strategos would have been an unlikely man to petition for an early glimpse at architecture or mosaic work. This had been Valerius's dream, and Artibasos's, and it had become Crispin's.

The cleric, behind Leontes, was looking up. The Emperor did the same.

Crispin said, ‘I should be honoured to walk you about, my lord, though Artibasos—who will be somewhere in here—is far better able to guide you.'

‘Not necessary,' said Leontes. Brisk, businesslike. ‘I can observe for myself what is currently done, and Pertennius and Maximius both saw the original drawings, I understand.'

Crispin felt, for the first time, a faint thrill of fear. Tried to master it. Said, ‘Then, if my guidance is not needed, and I am requested for later in the day, might I have the Emperor's leave to withdraw to my labours? The setting bed for today's section has just been laid for me up above. It will dry if I delay over-long.'

Leontes returned his gaze from overhead. And Crispin saw a flicker of something that might—just—have been called sympathy in the man's face.

The Emperor said, ‘I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't go up, were I you, artisan.'

Simple words, one could even say they had been gently spoken.

It was possible for the world, the sensual evidence of it—sounds, smells, texture, sight—to recede far away, to dwindle down, as if perceived through a keyhole, to one single thing.

All else fell away. The keyhole showed the face of Leontes.

‘Why so, my lord?' Crispin said.

He heard his own voice, on the words, crack a little. But he knew. Before the other man replied, he finally
understood why these three had come, what was happening, and he cried out then, in silence, within his heart, as at another death.

I have been a better friend than you know. I did tell you not to become attached to any work on that dome.

Styliane. Had said that. The very first time she'd been waiting in his room, and then again,
again
,
that night in her own chamber two weeks ago. A warning. Twice. He hadn't heard it, or heeded.

But what
could
he have done? Being what he was?

And so Crispin, standing under Artibasos's dome in the Great Sanctuary, heard Leontes, Emperor of Sarantium, Jad's regent upon earth, the god's beloved, say quietly, ‘The Sanctuary is to be holy, truly so, but these decorations are not, Rhodian. It is not proper for the pious to render or worship images of the god or show mortal figures in a holy place.' The voice calm, confident, absolute. ‘They will come down, here and elsewhere in the lands we rule.'

The Emperor paused, tall and golden, handsome as a figure from legend. His voice became mild, almost kindly. ‘It is difficult to see one's work undone, come to naught. It has happened to me many times. Peace treaties and such. I am sorry if this is unpleasant for you.'

Unpleasant.

An unpleasantness was a cart rumbling through the street below one's bedroom too early in the morning. It was water in one's boots on winter roads, a chest cough on a cold day, a bitter wind finding a chink in walls; it was sour wine, stringy meat, a tedious sermon in chapel, a ceremony running long in summer heat.

Unpleasantness was not the plague and burying children, it was not Sarantine Fire, not the Day of the Dead, or the
zubir
of the Aldwood appearing out of fog with blood dripping from its horns, it was not … this. It was not this.

Crispin looked up, away from the men before him. Saw Jad, saw Ilandra, triple-walled Sarantium, fallen Rhodias, the wood, the world as he knew it and could bring it forth.
They will come down.

This was not an unpleasantness. This was death.

He looked back at those standing before him. He must have looked quite ghastly in that moment, he realized after, for even the cleric seemed alarmed, and Pertennius's newly smug expression altered somewhat. Leontes himself added quickly, ‘You understand, Rhodian, that you are accused of no impiety at all. That would be unjust and we will not be unjust. You acted in accord with faith as it was understood … before. Understandings may change, but we will not visit consequences on those who proceeded faithfully in … good faith …'

He trailed off.

It was astonishingly difficult to speak. Crispin tried. He opened his mouth, but before he could even try to shape words another voice was heard.

‘Are you barbarians? Are you entirely mad? Do you even know what you are saying? Can someone
be
so ignorant? You lump-witted military imbecile!'

Imbecile.
Someone used to use that word. But this time it was not an alchemist's stolen bird-soul addressing Crispin. It was a small, rumpled, barefoot architect, exploding from the shadows, his hair in alarming disarray, his voice high, strident, bristling with rage, carrying through the Sanctuary, and he was addressing the Emperor of Sarantium.

‘Artibasos, no! Stop!' Crispin rasped, finding his voice. They would kill the little man for this. Too many people had heard. This was the
Emperor.

‘I will
not
stop. This is an abomination, an act of evil!
Barbarians
do this, not Sarantines! Will you destroy this glory? Leave the Sanctuary naked?'

‘There is no fault found with the building itself,' Leontes said. He was exerting real self-restraint, Crispin realized, but the celebrated blue eyes were flinty now.

‘How
very
good of you to say so.' Artibasos was out of control, his arms waving like windmills. ‘Have you any idea,
can
you have any idea of what this man has achieved? No fault? No
fault?
Shall I tell you how grievous a fault there will be if the dome and walls are stripped?'

The Emperor looked down at him, still controlling himself. ‘There is no suggestion of that. Proper doctrine allows them to be decorated … with … I don't care … flowers, fruit, even birds and animals.'

‘Ah!
There
is a solution! Of course! The Emperor's wisdom is vast!' The architect was still enraged, wild. ‘You will turn a holy place decorated with a vision and grandeur that honours the god and exalts the visitor into a place covered with … vegetation and little rabbits? An aviary? A fruit storehouse? By the god! How pious, my lord!'

‘Curb your tongue, man!' snapped the cleric.

Leontes himself said nothing for a long moment. And under that silent gaze the little man finally stopped. His furiously waving arms fell to his sides. He did not back down, though. Staring at his Emperor, he drew himself up. Crispin held his breath.

‘It would be best,' Leontes murmured, speaking through thin lips, his own colour high, ‘if your friends removed you now from us, architect. You have our permission to depart. We do not wish to begin our reign by appearing harsh in our treatment of those who have done service, but this manner before your Imperial lord demands you be branded or executed.'

‘Then kill me! I do not wish to live to see—'

‘Stop!'
Crispin cried. Leontes
would
give the order, he knew it.

He looked around frantically and saw, with desperate relief, that Vargos had come down from the scaffolding. He nodded urgently at the big man and Vargos came quickly forward. He bowed. Then, expressionlessly, without warning, he simply picked up the small architect, threw him over his shoulder, and carried the struggling, loudly protesting Artibasos off into the dimness of the Sanctuary.

Sound carried extremely well in this space—the building had been brilliantly designed. They could hear the architect cursing and shouting for a long time. Then a door was opened and closed, in the shadows of some recess, and there was silence. No one moved. Morning sunlight fell through high windows.

Crispin was remembering the bathhouse again. His first conversation with this man, in the drifting steam. He ought to have known, he thought. Ought to have been prepared for this. He'd been warned by Styliane and even by Leontes himself that afternoon, half a year ago:
I'm interested in your views on images of the god.

‘As I told you, we attach no consequences to those things done before our time.' The Emperor was explaining again. ‘But there have been … lapses in the true faith, failures of proper observance. Images of the god are
not
to be created. Jad is ineffable and mysterious, entirely beyond our grasp. For a mortal man to dare picture the god behind the sun is a heresy. And to exalt mortal men in a holy place is arrogant presumption. It always has been, but those … before us simply did not understand it.'