The Belt of Gold (25 page)

John made no answer. He was listening to Karros's report of the holy man. Hagen's horse edged closer, while Theophano formed a scathing insult in her mind, and suddenly his hand shot out and pinned her wrist against the wooden frame of the chair.

She made no sound. She wrenched at his grip but could not move him, and quick-fingered as a wool-picker, he took the needle out of her hand.

At that she moaned in despair. Lifted her eyes to glare at him, and found him smiling at her, with his eyes more than his mouth. When he let her go, his fingertips minutely caressed the inside of her wrist, where the pulse beat.

She sat straight again, her eyes averted, in a panic. He had taken away her only weapon. Yet he had smiled at her. He loved her still. Or perhaps he hated her so much that disarming her gave him the deepest pleasure.

“Tell us your impression of the holy man, barbarian,” said John Cerulis.

Hagen kept still a moment, which Theophano had seen he was accustomed to do, when directly questioned; perhaps he was translating to himself, although his Greek was much improved.

“Well, speak up, fool,” said John.

“I trusted him,” Hagen said. “I thought he meant what he said.”

“That's hardly remarkable.”

“It is, among you Greeks,” Hagen said.

“You have a most unpleasant manner of address, which I advise you to reform, if you wish to serve me.”

Hagen said nothing, one hand on his hip; he looked amused rather than threatened. On his left hand, on the little finger, was a garnet ring she had not seen him wear before.

She said, “Get him away from me, Patrician, before I vomit all over both of you.”

Hagen said, “I'm leaving. The female smell here is making me sick.”

He rode off ahead of them, leaving in the space between her and John Cerulis a roil of acrid dust. The would-be emperor gave her a cold look.

“This holy man does not sound worth so much effort to me. And I find, Theophano, your value as entertainment declining. After we have met this desert Christ, I think we'll have one more spectacle of you—I know a certain act of theater, employing a brass bowl, a rat, and a pot of coals—you've heard of it? You would surely give us a fine performance.”

“Naturally I've heard of it,” she said, furious, and near to tears; her needle, her needle. He was within her reach now, and she might have killed him, but she had no weapon now. “You haven't the gift to think of novelty, have you, John?” She lifted her face to the sky. “God, I only want to die, now, before I must go another day without my hair washed.”

“We shall grant your wish,” he said. “After the holy man has disappointed me tomorrow.”

Daniel slept under a thorn bush by the side of the road, wrapped in his mantle. Around him his followers slept, a crowd of nearly one hundred, some having tents, some having servants to cook meals for them, some having wine, so that they kept the holy man awake half the night, and in the morning, when John Cerulis came, Daniel was brim full of the wrath of God.

With his staff in his hand, his garment clutched around him, he stood on the road watching the nobleman's train approach. A raucous mountain wind parted his beard and flapped his mantle against his legs, where fading purple scars remained from his struggles with the Devil. A solid mass of bodies spread around him in a cresent; his followers also watched the coming of the men from Constantinople.

There were more of these than there were people around Daniel. They all rode horses. One in their lead carried a great banner of silk, and others played on drums and cymbals and flutes; in their midst a man with silver hair was borne along in a cushioned chair.

Daniel recognized this man at once: the Emperor was coming to him, to seek his wisdom, to find his way to God, and so lead all of Christendom home to Heaven.

He thrust out his staff, and in a terrible voice shouted, “Halt! Stop where you are, and let the Emperor come to me on foot.”

At the bottom of the slope, the gaily clamorous and colorful little army came to a stop. In excited voices the riders called back and forth to one another.

“He named him the Emperor!”

“The Emperor!”

“It is an omen—the holy one took John Cerulis for the Emperor!”

Daniel heard them, and pressed his lips together, vexed with himself. His neck prickled up in a damp rash. He wondered if the others had heard, if they would doubt his words henceforth. The man on the chair was being carried nearer. Now at the very foot of the hill he was struggling to get up from the confines of his silken pillows, and a little crowd of men in leather armor hurried forward to help him. Braced on their hands, he climbed to the ground.

He thrust off the helping hands of his guards. Slipping and stumbling on the rough ground, he plunged up the slope toward Daniel. He fell once and rose again, stepping on the hem of his silk tunic. One of his jeweled slippers came off. He reached the top of the hill and flung himself on Daniel's feet.

“I am the Emperor. I am the Emperor.” He clutched Daniel's ankles, weeping, and tears splashed onto the holy man's bare feet. “I am the Emperor!”

Daniel thrust at him, furious and confused. But now there were others coming toward him, their hands out, reaching for him. They fingered the welts on his legs and arms and ripped off pieces of his mantle, and in their midst the silver-haired man stood with a face that glowed like a lamp, crying, “I am the Emperor!”

In the desert, by himself, Daniel had felt God in him, but now he shrank from himself, desecrated by these hands on him. Their din in his ears made thinking impossible. Who was this man, if not the Emperor? If he was not the Emperor, why had he come out riding to meet Daniel? Had God sent him? Did God mean him to be proclaimed? Or had the Devil sent another temptation? Why would God not answer him? If God were truly with him—

At that suddenly he lost all sense, and fell down in a swoon, there at John Cerulis's feet.

From head to foot they bathed her; she had only to stand still and let them do it. They heated the water in pots over the fire and strained it through Gaza cloth and perfumed it with scents of attar and almond and lime. They washed her hands and feet, each finger and toe by itself, and rubbed fine oil into her skin to soften away the harsh dry desert scale.

She lay down on her back and they rinsed her hair, running the water through it like a warm sweet-smelling river, every strand floating free. They dried her hair with heavy towels and then finished with a sheet of silk until her hair shone glossy and blue-black, curling damply at the ends.

She sat before a mirror of polished silver and saw herself beautiful again. They painted her face with the finest cosmetics, putting blue and violet around her eyes, and the hue of roses in her cheeks and on her lips, and they curled her hair and arranged it with combs and flowers of cloisonné, and put on her robes of costly work, and on her feet slippers of velvet.

The only imperfection was the great bruise on her cheek, which even the dense Egyptian color could not quite hide.

She sat there admiring herself in the mirror, thinking that she was ageing very well; at twenty-two she still had the vivid look of youth. Carefully she turned her head to one side, to hide the bruise. While she was experimenting with various postures, John Cerulis came into the tent.

“My heart,” he said, and standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders he bent to touch her cheek with his lips. “I forgive you everything.”

Even Theophano could not turn her mind that fast; she had to struggle against the bitter words that the mere sight of him brought like bile to her lips. In the mirror their faces were side by side.

She said, “The holy man serves, then?”

“He has named me emperor,” John said. He straightened. His hands pressed together before him, he paced away through the tent, his face assembled into an expression of lofty contemplation. “God has sent this man as a messenger, to urge the City to cleanse itself of the defilement of the usurper Irene, and to place upon the throne of Constantinople one who is worthy of the diadem.”

He crossed himself. Theophano looked deep into her own eyes in the mirror.

“And you shall be my empress,” he said, and laying his hands again on her shoulders he stooped to put his cheek against her right cheek. “You have proven yourself to me, and I accept you as my mate.”

“I think we are a match,” she said.

“‘A match'!” he said, surprised. “Well, perhaps—More of an ornament, I thought, but, yes, I suppose you might see that as a match.” His voice was smooth again, the fiery edge of conviction oiled over. “Come along, now, we must dine together tonight, to celebrate what you have given me this day.”

They went into the largest tent and sat down side by side, his guards in a double rank behind them. She did not see Hagen among them. What would he make of this? She wondered if she could get a weapon from him. Now that John trusted her again, she would have no trouble killing him, if only she had a knife. The first dishes were presented, the cook leading his assistants past the table, each with his spoon held upright like a lance in his right hand, while in their train came the servants with platters and bowls. The soups, one clear, one slightly thickened, were excellent.

A troop of acrobats came out, twirling and flipping. John leaned on his chair, looking bored; he took one bite of the bread and spat it out.

“Why can they not bake a decent loaf?” He beat his fist on the table. “What use to be emperor, if I must eat like a peasant?”

“Flay the chef,” Theophano said. The bread knife was certainly sharp enough. It was six feet from her, and he was in the way, but now he was glowering at her, peevish.

“Your face is very poorly dressed, my dear.”

“It's the bruise,” she said. “It's black as an African, there's no help for it.”

“I insist that you sit on my left, then, so that I need not be required to see it every time I look at you.”

“As you wish, Basileus.”

Moving to his left would put her directly in front of the bread knife. She rose, and a flock of servants rushed in to take her chair and rearrange the table. As she was sitting down again, Hagen came in.

He stood on the far side of the acrobats, and John Cerulis saw him. “There,” he said, and wiped his lips with a napkin. “I have a little surprise for you, Theophano, a token of my change of heart toward you.” With a gesture he sent away the acrobats, and Hagen walked forward.

“Welcome, barbarian,” said John Cerulis. “You remember that I told you I punish failure with an unerring hand. Karros!”

The fat man bustled around the table to Hagen's side and bowed down. His voice boomed out round as his belly. “Yes, Patrician!”

“Lately you have been a disappointment to me, Karros. I ask you to discover Michael's secrets, and you fail; I send you to recover my property from a mere girl, and you fail. Then you kill this man's brother and thereby engage his interest here, although he is utterly bereft of refinement, deserving of no place in my society.” John leaned forward, his chin thrust out. “The only way you can avoid death, Karros, is to kill this Frank for me!”

Hagen backed up quickly into the middle of the tent, looking one side to the other, his hands out. Theophano's fist clenched. He wore no sword, only the dagger in his belt. Karros strode toward him, and Karros drew his sword from its scabbard and brandished it.

“Don't run away, barbarian!”

Karros charged, and all around the tent people screamed and shrank back, their hands raised. Theophano stood up, her teeth set in her lip. On the carpets at the middle of the tent, Hagen's feet made no sound; he leapt backwards away from the wild horizontal swing of Karros's sword, jumped sideways to escape the returning stroke, and ducked under a third. At John Cerulis's order, the other guards ran swiftly around the table and formed a ring of bodies around the fighting men.

Karros stood still at the center of the space, panting, the sword raised above his shoulder. Hagen moved swiftly around him, bouncing on his toes. When Karros turned to follow him, Hagen lunged.

Karros's sword hissed through the air past the barbarian's white head, and whirling he caught the fat man's forearm. The sword flew from Karros's grasp. Hagen yanked on the arm, and the fat guard, off balance, wobbled and swayed to one side, his back to the Frank. Hagen crooked one arm around his neck and held him still.

He twisted the fat man's arm up between his shoulder blades and put his mouth to Karros's ear. The tent was utterly quiet. Everybody heard him say something in his own language, and then, in Greek, “This is for my brother, Karros.” He jerked hard with his arm around the fat man's neck. There was a muted crack, and Karros sagged down to the carpets.

Into the shocked hush, John Cerulis fed the little pat-pat of his applauding hands. Theophano sank down into her chair again; her legs were shaking so violently she almost fell. Hagen stood over Karros's body.

“Does this mean I take his place here?”

John Cerulis's smile widened with genuine amusement. “Oh, no,” he said. “You are entirely too dangerous. I like the men around me to be a little softer and more malleable than you. Besides, as she says, you are certainly the agent of the Empress. My guards, kill him.”

The guards hung back an instant, unused to orders direct from him, and Hagen jumped. Karros's sword lay on the carpets midway between him and the table, and he reached it in a single leap and snatched it up. With a yell, the guard, twenty strong, closed on him.

He let out a roar that raised the hackles on Theophano's scalp; he laid around him with the sword like a man swinging an axe at a tree. The guards in his path gave way and he rushed through the gap in their line to the table where the dinner's next dishes were waiting. The guards behind him reached him. Their swords struck at his back and his head. Wheeling, his back to the table, he met each blow with his own blade, fending them off in a flurry of ringing strokes. The guards could not reach him through the flying iron blade; he knocked aside their assault, and once or twice he counter-struck and each time killed a Roman soldier.