The Sarantine Mosaic (55 page)

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 crafting 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.

CHAPTER IX

K
asia 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.

The bells seemed to have stopped. She tugged fingers through her tangled hair and went out into the hall. She hesitated there, then decided it was permissible to look in on him, tell of the other mosaicist who had come, find out what had happened in the night. If it was
not
permitted, best she learn that now, Kasia thought. She was free. A citizen of the Sarantine Empire. Had been a slave less than a year. It did
not
define your life, she told herself.

His door was closed, of course. She lifted a hand to knock and heard voices inside.