The Belt of Gold (17 page)

The eunuch's long white hands came unclasped, and the fingers pattered busily over the clutter of papers before him. In the back of his mind ibn-Ziad noticed, with satisfaction, that they used Baghdadi paper here.

“My dear fellow,” said the Parakoimomenos softly. “I am afraid you misunderstand us here. First of all, your objectives, if I may be so bold as to characterize them, fall in the realm of the Basileus's barbarian policy. I am merely the keeper of her household, nothing more, and therefore of no use to you in your efforts to sway her in your favor.” The long flexible fingers swatted suddenly, contemptuously, at the purse. “Even if I were so deluded as to accept a bribe.”

“Ummm.” Taken aback, ibn-Ziad sank deeper into his chair.

“But let me put your mind at rest, my dear friend. You need not resort to such methods here. We are men of good will here. We desire what you yourself no doubt desire—the honorable and just relationship between our two powers.”

“Unnh,” said ibn-Ziad.

He felt his face glowing with embarrassment; he wondered where he had gotten the notion that a man as rich as this one would succumb to an offer of money.

“However, my good man, while I have you here, allow me to read with you the schedule of your visit with us.”

“Very well,” said ibn-Ziad loftily.

“I have the list here.” In all that welter of paper the Parakoimomenos put his hand immediately on the slip he wanted. He cleared his throat.

“This afternoon we hope to amuse you with a reading of poetry in the rose garden. Afterward, a tour of the sacred relics in the Chapel of the Virgin—”

Ibn-Ziad picked up his purse and restored it to its place under his robes. “Excellent,” he said. His head buzzed.

“And we shall have the honor of your presence at a state dinner in the Triclinium. Tomorrow—”

There followed a calendar of entertainments and events at which he would be expected to appear: an accessory to the glory of the Basileus; a witness to the power of those whom he had come here to dominate. He felt Constantinople closing in around him, slick and smooth as a golden cage.

We have conquered you, he thought. Beaten your armies, seized your provinces—some of them, anyway. You should fall down on your faces and beg our mercy. Instead—

The Parakoimomenos was still rumbling on through his schedule. “And then you will attend the service at the Church of the Holy Wisdom, where the Basileus will—”

“Wait,” said ibn-Ziad, trying to catch hold of this slick surface of protocol. “When shall I have the honor of speaking candidly with the Empress?”

The eunuch drew back, his eyes widening. “I speak your pardon, my dear prince.”

“I require deep speech with the Empress, at once. Concerning the payment of the tribute which she owes us.”

“Concerning the tribute, you shall speak this very day to the Treasurer of the Empire, the great Nicephoros.” The Parakoimomenos lifted his piece of paper again. “After the ceremony in the Holy Wisdom—”

“No,” said ibn-Ziad stubbornly. “I must speak face to face with the Empress. My lord the Caliph—”

“Well, of course,” the eunuch said, and put his paper carefully to one side. “You are expected to attend on the Empress at the Hippodrome, for the races. A very great honor, I can assure you, and one at which, surely, the moment may very well arise during which you might exchange a few words of relaxed conversation with the Basileus.”

“The races,” said ibn-Ziad. He remembered the Hippodrome from a previous visit, the excitement, and the thrill of competition. “Very good. Is it to be a championship race?” He remembered, belatedly, what they called it. “A race for the Golden Belt?”

“Alas, no.” The eunuch spread his hands. His face, pale and smooth, with the noble sweep of brow like a cliff above the mild kindly eyes, was grave with regret. “Unfortunately in the course of your visit with us only part of the challenge series will be run. But we expect an excellent race. Besides the divine Ishmael—”

“Ishmael. Is there an Arab driver?”

“Ah, no, a devout Christian, I fear. Although of Syrian and Arabian ancestry, I believe. You know that Constantinople attracts to her bosom men from all over the world who desire the challenges and rewards of civilization.” The Parakoimomenos's hands began to move, busily sorting through the papers and small objects on his table. “There is an Arab team in this series, however.”

“Really,” said ibn-Ziad.

If he was to spend his days touring churches and viewing relics and listening to foreign poetry read, the horse-race at least would be something to look forward to. And if one of the teams were Arab—

“Yes, there is a new team coming in from Caesarea.” The eunuch lowered his already mild voice. “It's widely known although not officially accepted that the driver is of the persuasion of Islam.” The eunuch's eyes darted toward the corner of the table where the heavy purse had lain. “If I were you, my dear, I would take your money and bet it all on this Caesarean team. I understand they are certain to win.”

“Hunh.” Ibn-Ziad sat back.

They would use him to glorify themselves; he would have to stand there and watch the Basileus proclaimed master of the cosmos, and have his presence seem a testimony to her power. But a horse-race was something else, something he could understand, something he could use. He smiled at the Parakoimomenos, and the eunuch smiled in answer, rather too warmly, as if he saw into ibn-Ziad's mind.

“Thank you,” said ibn-Ziad. “You have served your Basileus and me with honor, and I am grateful to you for your help.”

“I am overwhelmed by your generous praises.” The Parakoimomenos bowed over his table. Ibn-Ziad left.

From the window the Parakoimomenos watched him go. It amused him that ibn-Ziad, wanting to bribe him, should have been so straightforward about it; a Roman would have made a gift of the money, or a challenge. The Arabs were children, after all.

And being a child, ibn-Ziad would be easily guided by knowing hands. It was unfortunate that the Basileus, the adored one, had chosen to place him into the hands of Nicephoros, who would not make use of the opportunity, save for the most pedestrian and obvious purposes.

He needed another guide, did ibn-Ziad, one who would introduce him to Constantinople in ways deeper than mere words. One through whom the Parakoimomenos could achieve purposes of his own. The eunuch slipped his tongue between his teeth, considering his possibilities, and called for a page.

“Most noble Parakoimomenos.” The page bowed to him.

“Send Prince Constantine to me,” said the eunuch.

Irene woke in the deep of the night, her bed shaking all around her. She sat up, her arms out to support herself. The bed quivered a moment longer, the hangings trembling, and from the darkness of the room came the wails of a frightened page; beneath the cries of the child and the shushings of another woman the rumbling voice of the earthquake died away.

“Ah.” Irene swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Helena! My robe.” She enjoyed earthquakes; this one left her with a residual excitement trembling in her veins; she knew she witnessed an arcane detail of the divine purpose. Helena came up to her, a robe extended in her hands, and swirled the gauze around her mistress's shoulders.

“Come,” Irene said. “We'll go up to the Kathismus—see what damage has been done.”

Helena yawned. “Mistress—it was only a little tremble. Nothing will have fallen, except a few tenements—” The page-boy, still shrieking, clung to the woman's nightdress with both hands, and now Helena bent down suddenly and caught the little boy's wrists and gave him a sound shaking of her own, more ferocious than the earthquake. “Be still! Stop thinking of yourself, little brute—you are of the Empress's train, comport yourself accordingly.”

The boy screeched. Irene, gathering the robe around her, made for the door.

The guard was gone from the door into the Kathismus, the stair-tower that led to the Imperial box of the Hippodrome. Trailing her maids, Irene went swiftly up the stairs into the open air. The silk curtains had been removed until the next race; the moonlight poured down into the open box, bleaching the marble blue-white. The guard was there at the front of the box, looking out, and when the Empress burst in through the door from the stair, he wheeled, dropping to his hands and knees.

“Ah!” She walked straight past him, ignoring him. “See what the Hand of God has brought upon us, to warn us of the fragility of life, and His awful power over us!”

The women crowded around her. They leaned out into the warm summer night. Out there, beyond the great dark curve of the Hippodrome wall, the City spread away from them, the Mesê a white river along the spine of the ridge, and on either side of this white stream, great golden flowers bloomed in the night, tossing heads of flame. The earthquake, as usual, had started fires in half the crumbling tenements of Constantinople.

Beside Irene, her tiring woman Ida began to pray. Helena was grumbling again about being pulled from her warm bed; the others were silent, or weeping. Irene raised her arms out. The scene exhilarated her. The leaping flames tinged the sky a sultry red, and fired volleys of sparks into the wind; from the deep stirring darkness out there came the faint wails and cries of people trapped in catastrophe. She pressed herself against the cold marble rail, her heart pounding. Out there, the only real truth was manifesting itself once again, the ordinary lives of ordinary people were dissolving in the rhythmless, irresistible tides of the cosmos.

Beside her something pressed against her; she lowered her hand, unwilling to take her eyes from the death and life flaring in the dark before her. It was Philomela beside her. The child laid her cheek against the Empress's hand, and Irene stroked her face quickly, reassuring her.

The fires would burn all night; at this time of the year, with the overheated winds from the east, and the water level falling in every fountain in Constantinople, there would be little anyone could do to put them out. Irene beckoned to the guard, still prostrated beside her feet.

“You. Send to the City Prefect, have him call the
cursores
out, to keep order and help prevent the spreading of these fires.”

“My Basileus commands.” The guard raced away down the stairs.

As he went down, he passed someone coming up, and Irene turned, now, to face a party of men squeezing into the Imperial balcony. Startled, the guard saw that the Caliph's ambassador had somehow found his way here, surrounded by his men.

Ibn-Ziad pushed forward to the rail, and looked out across the City; his breath hissed out through his teeth in a sigh of relief. The Empress watched him calmly.

Now he turned; he swept her a bow, his long Arabian sleeves fluttering. “Augustus. Allow me the luxury of apology after the fact—I knew of no other place from which I could assess the damage done by the restless earth, and did not expect to find you here as well.”

“Your apology is needless, grandson of the great Yahya,” she said. “Rather, I am pleased to see in you one who enjoys the cosmic play as well as I.”

“‘Enjoy,'” said ibn-Ziad blankly; he turned toward the City again. The faint red hue from the fires danced along the beaked profile he presented to her. “God, God, I thought the whole world was falling into pieces.”

The Empress laughed, delighted at this childlike awe. “Yes, God is wonderful in His exuberance.”

A gust of the summer wind blew the smell of smoke into their faces, and the screams and wailings of people suffering. A glowing cinder floated through the air, a flake of red-gold that quivered and glowed as it fell. Ibn-Ziad reached out his hand suddenly and knocked the ember away from the Empress's arm.

She said, “Have no fear for me, sir. Jesus Christ is my protector.” She smiled at him, who faced her now, his forehead furrowed up with thought. “In my City, also, you need fear nothing, ibn-Ziad, and no one.”

As she spoke, she put out her hand and pressed his, to comfort him, as if he were a child, and he moved a little closer to her. His face turned toward the City again, and when he looked back toward her, something in his expression had changed, the nakedness of his fear covered with a clothing of intention.

He said, “Lady, by the Hand of God, we find ourselves together; perhaps now we may discuss those broad questions of policy I am charged with in my embassy here.”

“It is the middle of the night, my child,” she said. “Yet, if you have questions that cannot wait for my ministers' answers, I shall hear them.”

“We require the payment of the tribute—”

“Ah, no.” She raised her hand, palm toward him. “Talk about that with Nicephoros.”

“And there is the matter of the border raids—”

“I know nothing of that.”

“And the trade in silks—”

“Is a matter for the Prefect of the City and his staff.” She turned away, back toward the fires, smiling. “Also you will have to meet as soon as possible with the Grand Chamberlain, who has some issues to take up with you.”

Ibn-Ziad was silent a moment. Perhaps he had learned what she was trying to tell him. Down there in the City, in the Zeugma district, the fire was spreading; the flames glittered on the waters of the Golden Horn.

He said, “I have seen the Parakoimomenos.”

“Excellent.”

“I tried to bribe him.”

“You did!” Stunned, she wheeled toward him, although he was still facing the dark City; she wondered what sort of fool he was, to reveal something like that, which not even the Parakoimomenos himself would have told her. “And did he accept?”

“He told me, lady, to bet it on the horse-races.” Now the young Arab swung toward her, and he was smiling. “So I have a challenge for you, lady—one in which we shall be matched, as it were, in single combat.”

“Combat, my dear boy!”