The Belt of Gold (20 page)

“Not in the least,” she said, too loudly, and became much interested in her clothing.

“Karros, allow your new friend to enjoy the hospitality of your fire.” John's stick nudged and nudged; she refused to try to fend it off, and abruptly he jabbed her hard in the crotch. At the pain, she whined, and Hagen, leaving with Karros, heard it and looked around; over the heads of the fat bodyguard and John's servants and her bearers, his gaze met hers. There was no yielding in his look, no warmth, no friendship; it was as if he struck her with his eyes. He went away. Theophano sank down onto the cushions, her hand to her bruised vulva, suddenly near tears.

Karros stayed nearby the Frank all the rest of the evening, although the big man provided little in the way of conversation. Karros wondered if he had not the Greek for it, or if he were merely stupid.

It was the others who inclined Karros to favor him. The other guards were suddenly treating their fat officer with a good deal more deference, now that they saw Hagen with him.

Karros mentioned a few more times about their meeting on the Chalcedon road, and how they had crossed swords and come off equally, which, as he worked at the memory, did not seem so far from the truth. The other guards were impressed with that. He knew why: they were toy soldiers, he and his men, having little exercise of their ability in John Cerulis's cause save the bullying of already frightened people and the guarding of their master's person at ceremonies. Hagen was something else, something from a darker, crueller world, where people actually had to fight for their lives.

The brother had been that way also. With a twinge of fear, Karros remembered the fight at the inn in Chrysopolis; he and his three underlings had surprised the brother naked and engaged in sex with Theophano, and yet the Frank had come off the couch with a sword in his hand and taken on all four of them, and had Karros not fallen down and feigned death and gotten behind him, the Frank might very well have won.

This other one, Hagen, believed that Theophano had done that. Another reason to keep him close by Karros's side, since two of the men who had been in that room at Chrysopolis were now sitting across the fire from him. Karros did not trust them; he trusted nobody, in fact. He began to watch for the chance to kill Hagen.

Nothing occurred that evening, or all the next day's march, while Hagen rode silent in their midst; but that next afternoon, late in the day, when they stopped again to camp, Karros decided to do something.

Hagen had gone off by himself. Karros and his guard were setting up their part of the camp on the sandy floor of a dry wash, whose throat was choked with squat twisted shrubs, and taking out his short sword, Karros gave a dramatic war cry, and plunged into the midst of these warped little trees and began to hew at them.

“Ah, ha! I'll match swords with any of you—watch!”

With a single blow, he hacked through one of the shrubs, throwing the gnarled top fifteen feet through the air. Hagen was just coming up along the top of the wash's bank and the branches nearly hit him.

“Come on,” Karros called to him, with a broad and friendly smile. “Show off your strength and skill to these City men!”

Hagen did not move, but the other guards rushed into the shrubbery and began to beat at the brush with their swords, uttering yells and whistles of excitement, crowing in victory when one managed to break off part of the little shrubs, which were tough even if they were small. Bits of green boughs flew through the air and sprinkled the sand. Karros howled, dealing a death blow to a little bush.

“Come on, Hagen—join us! Show us your power!”

The Frank went to the sandy ground at the mouth of the wash, where the fire was laid out, and sat down with his back to the battle in the brush. Now one or two of the other guards hooted at him.

“What's the matter—afraid of a few sticks?”

Hagen kept his back to them. Karros paused, breathing hard, his hands splattered with bits of green and sticky sap. If he could lure the Frank into this mock fight, in the course of the mêlée he could get behind him and strike. A hamstring, or a neck shot, or even a good solid blow to the right arm, and Hagen would be at his mercy; it would take little to set all the others on him at once, and kill him in a few seconds.

“Come on, Hagen!”

The Frank did not move. The other guards were leaping into the brush now, screeching; half the dense thicket had been cut down and lay in ruins on the dry sand. Karros plunged deeper into it, his sword raised. Something alive squealed and ran off at his approach, and he flinched back a moment, his scalp prickling up.

The other guards were nagging and taunting Hagen now in strident voices. The battle with the shrubs had aroused their fighting spirit. A few of them even went down to the fire and danced around him, waving their swords in his face and whooping at him, and kicked sand on him. Hagen ignored them.

Dark was coming. Slowly the guards' killing frenzy subsided, and they drifted down on to the sand and finished building their fire. Hagen had not moved at all; he sat there with his shoulders hunched, his knees drawn up to his chest, staring into the darkness, and later, into the fire. Karros walked by him, once, close enough to brush against him, and the Frank ignored that too.

Had it been all bluff, then? Karros remembered, now that he thought back, that in his doings with Hagen, the barbarian had never really proved any prowess. Karros had reacted, rabbitlike, to the smell of danger the big Frank gave off. Maybe it was just a front. Maybe there was nothing behind it but the common fears and inabilities of ordinary men. Men like Karros. Maybe he was no better than Karros. The fat man beamed; he felt as if a heavy mantle of foreboding had fallen from his shoulders. Hagen was nothing. Karros had dealt with people like him many times. The brother, now: he had slain the brother. He went around the camp, throwing out his chest, buoyant with relief.

Hagen sat by the fire, thinking about Theophano. Every word she said to him struck him like a dart of fire; yet everything else—her looks, her acts, and John Cerulis himself—all pulled the other way entirely.

She had betrayed him to John, telling him that Hagen was the Empress's agent. That alone ought to make her Hagen's enemy. And yet he remembered, over and over, the little gesture of her hand, the palm raised, the fingers softly cupped, a sort of plea, quickly hidden.

He sat by the fire, trying to sort this all out. John was engaged in a sort of struggle with her—no, not a struggle, a game, a cat-and-mouse game. Prodding her with his stick. If they were lovers, or even conspiring together, he would not jab at her like that.

She had gasped in pain, once. He had not seen why. The low cry from her lips had gone all through him like needles.

She had betrayed him. If John thought him the agent of the Empress, he would not live very long in this camp.

And then there was Karros.

He had gone away from the camp, when the caravan stopped, and made water in private, and hid away the Greek paper where no one could find it, and gone back to the camp to find Karros and his men happily butchering a clump of little trees.

That had struck him with a peculiar force. His grandfather, whose soul had not belonged to Christ, had worshipped trees—not such puny pitiful things as these, but the great oaks and ashes of the north, the children of the supernatural Tree that was the world's axis. Hagen understood Karros's purpose; he understood also what sort of warrior it was who would draw his sword to club down a stunted tree.

There were no trees left here, only statues of them, he thought, remembering the white columns of marble along the Mesê. They had no warriors, either. Hagen suspected a connection between these two things, a conclusion that satisfied him very well; he thought no more about it.

18

“You've been to Baghdad,” ibn-Ziad was saying, surprise in his voice.

“As a young man,” Nicephoros said. He bowed his head to avoid an overhanging palm frond. They were walking through the palm garden, near the Phiale of the Greens. “I studied at al-Ghazi's school of arithmetic for a few months, before I took up the belt of Imperial service.”

“I was under the impression that the rest of the cosmos had nothing of value for Constantinople.”

Behind these two, the Parakoimomenos walked with his arms folded, listening; at the sarcasm in the Arab's voice, he smiled. Nicephoros of course, took no amusement from the envy disguised in the remark.

“I learned much at the school of al-Ghazi.”

“Then you must also have learned that we Arabs keep our word to friend and enemy alike. The tribute due us from the Basileus must be paid.”

“Ah,” said Nicephoros.

They were walking along the foot of the palm garden now. It was the full of the day, the day after the earthquake, and the intense humid heat characteristic of such phenomena pressed down upon them like a lid. All around them, in pots and jars and wooden boxes, stood a hundred different kinds of palm—some tall, some small, some bushy—some full of fruit, their shadows like black daggers sharp on the ground.

“If you people are having some difficulty with your finances, we can arrange payment in separate allotments, but we must have what is due us, or we give offense to God.”

“I understand your position perfectly,” said Nicephoros.

Ibn-Ziad was a large, jocose man, his habits of mood betrayed by the great webs of laugh lines spread around the corners of his eyes and the deep marks at the corners of his mouth when he smiled—an optimist, over all, the Parakoimomenos suspected, one easily induced to believe that what he wished for would befall him, because of his special place in the love of God.

They were slowly climbing down the palace grounds, toward the Pharos, where in the little Chapel of the Virgin that stood next door they were supposed to view the sacred relics. From the palm garden a short flight of steps fell to the next level; beside the steps stood a statue of Venus, and ibn-Ziad paused to admire the figure. Beside him, Nicephoros allowed himself one of his rare smiles.

“Lovely,” said ibn-Ziad, and sighed, his hand moving toward the statue, which was three-quarter size, the goddess standing with her head turned over her shoulder, her pert little breasts coyly shielded by one curved forearm.

“You people deny yourselves much grace and pleasure when you will not allow your artisans to form figures,” Nicephoros said. “It is a gift from God, to gaze on something lovely; it directs the soul outward, and gives it rest from its constant labor of self-examination.”

“We believe it blasphemy,” said the Arab. “Yet such objects as I have seen of the works of the pagans stir my heart.”

“Perhaps,” said the Parakoimomenos, moving up beside the others, “our friend prefers women of less impermeability.”

“That, too,” said ibn-Ziad, and released a hearty laugh that shook his handsome clothes.

Nicephoros scratched his nose. “Our guest surely will have no difficulty in cultivating the females of his choice. We should be going in.”

They moved on, descending the steps. On this level, in the curve of the pavement, their attendants awaited them; the heavy sun-drenched air seemed to stir sluggishly around them, making walking a labor against nature. Beyond the cypresses along the edge of the terrace, the lighthouse rose, its fire transparent in the sun. They made their way toward the chapel, with its sets of fluted columns all around, and its dome of silver.

The Parakoimomenos fell back to walk beside Nicephoros. “Are we not giving a dinner party for our guest this evening? Some companion could be found for him. That woman of the Empress's, Theophano—”

“I think,” said Nicephoros, between his teeth, “he should be allowed to secure such companionship for himself.”

“Excuse me,” said ibn-Ziad, and moved on, out of earshot of the two men and their argument.

“A man needs a woman,” said the Parakoimomenos, and bowed.

“How would you know?” Nicephoros said. “He does not need a pander. Nor does he need a heavy-handed effort at seduction, by you, by Theophano, by anyone.”

Turning on his heel, he walked on after their guest, now the center of a sedate crowd, moving in through the double doors of the chapel. The Parakoimomenos stayed where he was. In spite of the rage in his heart, he smiled; he promised himself that when the day came of Nicephoros's downfall, he would know who had arranged it. Drawing himself up to his full height, his face smoothed free of any expression, the Parakoimomenos went after the others at a pace designed to keep a distance between them.

Ibn-Ziad loved Constantinople. He had been coming here now since his boyhood, when he had accompanied his father on an informal embassy to the court of the Emperor Leo. Every time he came here he felt more at home.

Certainly he was at home in the Chapel of the Virgin. Several other foreigners had joined their little group, and a guide in the clothes of a Christian priest was supposed to be escorting them about, but before they had set eyes on the first of the wonderful objects in the Treasure Room, ibn-Ziad had begun his own discourse.

He could not help it. He knew these relics, now, as well as any Greek, and he loved showing off to his hosts and lording it over his fellow barbarians. The looks of amazement and wonder on the faces of the Romans spurred him on. He would show them they had no monopoly on knowledge.

“Ah,” he said. “The rib of Saint Paul. The reliquary”—he paused, to allow those in the mob around him unfortunate enough not to recognize this word to grasp its meaning—“was designed in the time of Justinian, was it not?”

The guide bowed with a flourish. “The most excellent Lord Ambassador flatters us with his knowledge.”

Ibn-Ziad bowed; around him with a rustle and a hiss of silk the others bowed too. They moved on through the magnificent room. After the blasting heat of the day, the cool stone of the chapel made this space a blessed sanctuary. The marbles of the floor and the walls were wonderful in themselves, dark brown veined with white and gold in the exuberant patterns of nature; God's paintings, ibn-Ziad thought, sentimentally. In cases of glass and polished wood, set around this room, the relics of the Imperial collection were displayed, chips of bone and wood surrounded by goldwork and enamel, little vials of crystal clasped in filigree, all set off on cushions of velvet and subtly lit by lamps whose direct glare, shielded off by screens of perforated gold, was reduced to a reverent glow.

It was this that was most Roman, to ibn-Ziad: these small masterpieces, this attention to detail, this elegance. They went from one case to the next; sometimes he let the guide talk, but usually he pushed himself forward, delighted with what he knew, and expounded at length on the finding of the True Cross by the mother of Constantine the Great, and on the miracles wrought by the little bottle of the Virgin's Tears, stoppered by a huge diamond. The others listened with such attention that he felt himself released from all inhibitions; he knew himself the most assured of orators, and when he was done, they burst into applause, and he felt the heat rising into his face, and could not restrain his smiles.

But when they had seen everything, and the others were gathering at the doorway, ready to be whisked off to another gathering, ibn-Ziad went back by himself, and stood looking through the glass at the wonderful reliquary of the True Cross: a tiny replica of the chapel itself, with doors that really opened, and goldwork so ornate and finely done he had to squint to make out the details.

While he stood there, Prince Constantine came up to him, and stood waiting, a little to one side, to be noticed. Ibn-Ziad turned to him, smiling.

“Good afternoon to you, sir. I trust you have some happy news for me?”

Constantine's mouth curved into a grin, and he winked. “I have the girls, the room, and the wine. When will your official duties be over?”

“Ask the Parakoimomenononono.”

Constantine laughed outright; the two men shared another knowing smile. Ibn-Ziad straightened, putting his shoulders back, his head high; it soothed the lingering bruises in his pride to make fun of the Parakoimomenos, and he turned to look for the tall eunuch in the crowd that still filled the far end of the chapel. Suddenly something else, something much more vital and amusing, leapt into his mind.

He turned to Constantine again. “That race—remember? You told me—some Arab team is coming to race in the Hippodrome?”

“‘Some Arab team.' I did not tell you.”

“One of you did.” Ibn-Ziad plumped out his chest and bounced on his heels. “From Caesarea, it is.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I have engaged the Augustus in a wager. That ought to make the moments with her more compelling, don't you think?”

Constantine grunted. “You've bet on the Caesareans? How much?”

“Unimportant. I gather I shall not lose, in any case?”

But Constantine did not smile reassurances at him; Constantine was frowning.

“I'm sorry?” Ibn-Ziad said stiffly. “I've erred, in some way?”

Constantine shook his head. “No, of course not. A wager is a wager, isn't it? Gambling's a matter of taking risks.”

“I was under the impression that this Arab team would sweep all before it.”

Constantine's eyebrows jerked up and down over his nose. “The Caesarean team is in the race with Ishmael—Mauros-Ishmael, you saw him, yesterday, do you remember? In the Hippodrome, the blacks and greys.”

“Ah?” Ibn-Ziad said, alarmed. Who had told him of this race? He could not remember; someone had told him that the Caesarean team would surely win.

“Of course, everybody has a chance,” said Constantine. “And the Caesareans are supposed to be very good.”

Ibn-Ziad stared at the Prince with a hostile look. Now he saw the pitfalls beneath the velvet cushions and honeyed words and the instant fulfilling of his pleasures. Somehow he had been lured into this wager, and now it seemed that he would lose.

He pulled up his chest again, thrusting out his chin. He did not mean to lose.

“My dear Prince,” he said. “Surely some way could be found to assure that my team reaches the finish line ahead of all the others.”

“Aaah.”

Now Constantine's smile began again, slow as flowing oil, and his gaze met the Arab's. With a wave of one hand, he bowed deeply in ibn-Ziad's direction.

“Whatever you wish, my lord.”

“See that it is done,” said ibn-Ziad loftily.

Nicephoros had walked through the chapel with the others, looking at the relics; he enjoyed the displays, and he always hoped that the mere proximity of so many sacred objects would work some small miracle in his heart and give him peace.

He had no peace. The confrontation with the City Prefect in the baths of Zeuxippus had left him sore and low of mind. He liked Peter and knew the other man liked him, and it disturbed him that the Basileus should put this friendship in jeopardy by making Nicephoros into the Prefect's harpy. Beyond the simple fact of having to deal with his friend's crimes against his office there was the undeniable truth in Peter's own argument that Nicephoros could loan him the money to make all right.

Nicephoros could not phrase in words his reluctance to do this; it was a black pressure in his mind that nagged at him, the thought that he ought to rescue his friend, the suspicion that the Basileus rather expected him to do just that, beneath those sentiments the hard ugly unwillingness to do it.

All this soured everything he did. He could find no solace in his numbers anymore, no pleasure in the simple performance of his duties, no joy in Christ. Besides, he knew that the Parakoimomenos was plotting against him.

Now the eunuch was talking to ibn-Ziad, on the far side of the Treasure Room. Beside him stood Prince Constantine. Nicephoros's eyes rested on this trio, and almost against his will the upwelling suspicions and fears of a lifetime spent at court swelled up through the dank distempered depths of his mind and flooded all his thoughts.

They were plotting against him. The Basileus was behind it. She wanted his disgrace. Why did he go on? Nothing he did worked out properly anymore. He turned away, his heart sick.

Nearby him, also waiting for this part of the tour to end, was one of the other foreign visitors; this was a monk, clearly, by his tonsure, his cassock of some coarsely woven grey stuff, his hands, folded before him, innocent of any ornament. Above the cowled neck of his garment his head was close-cropped where the hair grew; his face was leanly made, the skin weatherbeaten, the eyes wide-spaced and clear as an animal's, as if he had no thoughts to veil.

The severe and simple aspect of this person was so at variance with the others that Nicephoros on an impulse drew near and with a gesture and a bow said, “Allow me, Father, the honor and privilege of making myself known to you—I am Nicephoros, the Imperial Treasurer.”

The monk faced him gravely, with no change of expression. His eyes were pale as water. It seemed as if nothing could surprise him. But when he spoke it was in Latin.

Nicephoros gritted his teeth. He knew no Latin. With a few more gestures and another bow, he expressed this sad fact to his new companion, and the monk, by his look, was not inclined to mourn the loss of conversation. Nicephoros would have ended it there.

Unfortunately the guide had seen him attempt to speak to the barbarian monk, and the guide, his functions usurped by ibn-Ziad's extraordinary exercise in self-expression, was eager to be of use. He rushed up to the two men and pattered out a string of Latin to the monk.

The barbarian responded in a low voice, which the guide translated.

“He is a monk of Eire, my lord—Hibernia, that is, at the edge of the world.”