Emperor's Winding Sheet

by The Emperor's Winding Sheet (retail) (epub)

  “Then I must heed it,” said the Lord Constantine. “But still I will not trouble Plethon’s calm old age. For it happens, by great good fortune, by the providence of God perhaps, that a person of no consequence at all has been hidden here all the while, not a yard from me, and him I shall take with me, and keep with me night and day.” And smiling wryly, the Lord Constantine reached down behind the marble bench he had been sitting on so peacefully not an hour since, and with astonishing strength lifted the boy by a handful of his rags, and stood him upon the bench, flinching at his sudden exposure to so many staring eyes.

  “This is my lucky find,” said the Lord Constantine. “My Vrethiki. And I swear that Plethon’s dream shall bind him to me.”

  Angry and bewildered, the boy stood looking at them all. They all looked well pleased at something, except the strange old man. He was looking straight at the Lord Constantine, and weeping openly, with love and grief writ ten clearly on his face.

  “Be satisfied,” said the Lord Constantine to him, very softly. Thus the boy’s fate was settled, and he had not understood a word of it.

  Chapter 2

  When the despot left the monastery garden, handing his gorgeous volume to the curator of books, speaking graciously to him but like a man who speaks while thinking of other things, mounting a white horse with splendid harnessings, riding away up the hill, the boy sidled along among the throng of his followers, hoping to get through the gate and make a dash for it down the street. But before he reached the street gate, the beardless man took him firmly by the hand and led him away, at a brisk trot to keep up with the Despot’s horse, among the at tendants and servants. The party gradually mounted the hill along a winding narrow road broken every few yards by flights of shallow steps. The Despot’s horse picked his way gingerly, side-stepping a little, up these stairwayed streets, and the donkeys on which some of his party were mounted barged straight up them, heads down, but the boy, feeble and sickly as he was, stumbled and dragged the hand that was leading him.

  No doubt that was partly through weariness; but he missed his footing most often through snatching sideways glances at his keeper, and not looking where he went. His captor had a man’s stature, but the smooth and beardless visage of a boy. The unnaturally womanish look of his face reminded the boy of poor Jack Half-Wit, who begged through the streets of Bristow, chewing his words up and slobbering pitifully, but this man’s face was neither coarse nor stupid, but handsome enough, and shrewd. Besides, it was he who had Latin enough to converse with the boy. Rather short of breath from scrambling up the steep slope so briskly, and distracted by the sight of the tall narrow houses, and the great many-arched façade of a huge building hanging, it seemed, in mid-air above them, the boy could not manage to inquire where he was being taken, let alone why. He did manage, “Who are you?” to his companion, who answered, “I am Stephanos Bulgaricos, Eunuch of the bedchamber, and many other things besides, to the Despot Constantine.”

  Then they turned off the street, through a wide tall archway cut and carved in honey-colored stone, into a wide courtyard, where the Despot dismounted, and a boy came running to lead away his horse. The Despot moved gravely and with even steps up a stairway to an inner room, but Stephanos drew the boy out through a side door, into an inner courtyard. There were people of all sorts thronging in it, soldiers, servants, boys and men, and kitchen girls, and, hurried though they looked, they all had time to stare at the boy, and chatter, and point at him.

  Stephanos led the boy toward a certain door, but an indignant outburst from the slave who sat before it, and the voices of others chiming in, mocking and angry, dissuaded him. He looked at the boy and led him back toward the well which stood in the middle of the courtyard. A monkey-faced derisive serving lad ran to turn the wheel and raise the bucket. Stephanos took hold of the boy’s rags by the scruff of his scruffy neck, and ripped them from him, letting them fall in a dirty heap, and leaving him standing mother-naked in the bitter winter sun, in front of all those staring eyes, and buffeted by gales of unfriendly laughter! Head held high, lips bitten hard together, his two hands held before him like a fig leaf, the boy smarted helplessly. The rope wheezed and creaked on the rumbling well wheel.

  Suddenly a thunderous shout broke through all the other voices. A black-robed figure—the churchman who had spoken in the garden—had appeared in one of the upper windows overlooking the courtyard. “Silence, impudent blasphemers!” he cried. Looking up, the boy saw a fierce visage contorted into a terrible frown above a flowing grizzled beard. “Has it not been said of this child that the very Empire shall not fall while he is with us? Wretch though he is, the Lord God has chosen him for a sign of His abiding mercy, and who shall dare to mock?”

  “Oh, what have I done?” thought the boy, cringing. It never entered his head that the man’s anger was not for him, and whatever it was he had done, being naked made him feel five times worse about it. “Is it not the poor and humble who are most pleasing to the Lord?” the voice ranted on. “Mysterious are the ways of the Lord our God, and beyond our understanding. Even with such a broken reed as this wretched child He can strike down our enemies, and save us from the jaws of the infidel, His will be done, Ameen!”

  During this outburst the bucket had been drawn, creaking and groaning, to the rim of the well, and as the speaker cried “Ameen!” and turned from the window arch above them, Stephanos unhooked the bucket, and tossed the water over the boy.

  Gray shining snakes and slopping gobbets of water struck him, and glazed his goosy skin. The cold seized and bit him, and cut off his breath in gasps; on the dusty slabs of the courtyard a pinkish dark starfish stain spread out from his feet all round him. His teeth chattered violently in his head. But nobody laughed; shamed into silence they looked at him, and looked away. Stephanos led him once again toward the bathhouse door, and this time the doorkeeper let them in.

  Within was a tall round room, lined with marble under a domed roof, with a pool of deep warm water set into the marble floor. A wraith-like twist of steam curled upward from the surface of the bath to the air vents of the dome. How gratefully the boy slid into the warm water! How he tingled and glowed as his blue pincushion skin smoothed flat and pink again. Pink, that is, except for the brown weathering on the back of his hands and over his face and neck, where the Mediterranean sun had marked him, and for certain darker, fading bruises and marks … Bobbing up and down in the bath, flopping and splashing round in the water like a seal, he warmed up enough to scrape some more Latin together, and came to the edge of the bath to look up at Stephanos, impassively sitting there, on a marble bench.

  “What was that crown they brought him?”

  “The crown of the Empire,” said Stephanos, somberly.

  “What Empire?” asked the boy.

  “The Roman Empire,” Stephanos replied.

  “But,” the boy exclaimed, “the Roman Empire passed away these thousand years ago!”

  “The Western Provinces,” Stephanos replied, “have been occupied by the barbarians for some considerable time, it is true. But in the East the Empire still stands. Against all onslaughts it has survived till now. Till now,” he repeated. “God knows how much longer.” And at that the somber note sounded so clearly in his voice that a little chill tremor reached the boy through his bewilderment.

  He climbed out of the bath, and Stephanos clapped his hands. Two slaves came, bringing towels to rub him down.

  “But if he’s a Roman Emperor,” the boy persisted, from the midst of the enveloping clouds of linen, and the hands of the slaves patting him dry, “why does he not speak Latin?”

  “Greek is the language of the Romans, and has been since the time of the Emperor Heraclius,” Stephanos told him.

  “And this land is Greece?”

  “It is the Morea; a province of the Empire.”

  “Of the Roman Empire?” The boy strove to find his feet among these mind-boggling answers.

  “Yes. The Lord Constantine has governed it un
der Christ, and most valiantly striven to keep out the infidel, and with some success. He has governed this province well, though he must leave it now.” Again came the chilling tone of sadness in the man’s voice.

  “But why must he leave it now?” the boy asked. “Where is he going?”

  “To the City. Where else? Come, we must go to the wardrobe master to find you a garment.” And wrapping the towel round the boy and taking his hand again, Stephanos led the boy away, through arches and arcades and little courts sunk deep in the high-storied palace walls, and up a narrow flight of stairs.

  “THIS ONE?” SAID THE WARDROBE MASTER, HOLDING A PURPLE tunic up against the boy. “No, that’s too long. Shame to cut it, it’s the only silk one left. This one? No, all those are too small. It’ll have to be this one. Can’t be choosy.”

  He offered for Stephanos’ approval a worn tunic of purple linen faded to a rusty red in stripes which marked the folds it had lain in on some other wearer.

  “Can’t I have this one?” asked the boy, finding a dark-green one about the right size, and made of coarse woolen cloth. The heat of the bath was wearing off rapidly.

  “You have to have purple, for the Emperor’s household,” said the wardrobe master, in guttural Latin.

  “But surely, I won’t be … I mean I’m not,” said the boy, “I’m not his man, nor he my master. I was hoping he would send me home … in Christian charity … he will, won’t he? Why not?” His voice grew increasingly desperate as he saw the expression with which the two men exchanged glances.

  The wardrobe master put the purple tunic over his head, and Stephanos found a belt and put it round him. The belt was of heavy leather, embossed with a pattern of leaves, and it was far too long—by the time it was comfortably drawn through to fit the boy’s slender girth, half its length was surplus, hanging free. Stephanos took a little dagger from his belt, and scratched a light mark where the buckle lay. Then, removing the belt, he went over to sit where the light of the window fell squarely on the floor, and began to trim it to size. The wardrobe master busied himself finding hose and boots, and neither of them looked at the boy while Stephanos, carefully wielding his little knife, said, “You could not go yet, child. You are in too starved a state for journeying. For the present you are taken into the Imperial household. You will be well cared for.” And Stephanos put the belt round the boy’s waist, and drew it tight, and buckled it.

  YET THE BOY COULD SEE THAT THE LORD CONSTANTINE HAD no material need of another page. He lived simply enough in his grand palace, though to the boy’s eyes he was surrounded by unbelievable luxury. The palace walls were plastered smoothly, and painted with splendid pictures, over which, to ease his boredom, the boy’s eyes traveled through forests and hunts and in among row upon row of sacred and royal personages. The palace was furnished with couches, and cupboards, and tables, all of outlandish design to honest English eyes. Every day the Lord Constantine put on clean linen next to his skin, and every day washed himself in warm water, or descended to the bath house. But although he had these almost sinfully extravagant personal luxuries, he did not seem to enjoy them. Watching his body slave put his shirt over his head, and straighten or twitch the fine cambric smooth over his body before bringing the stiff silk tunic that went over it, it seemed to the boy that the Lord Constantine suffered these ministrations patiently, rather than wanting them. Far from needing more help about his dressing than he already had, he often, while they were fussing over some detail of the garments laid out ready on the bed, dressed himself without waiting for them. There was nothing for the boy to do. But he studied the Lord Constantine, watching for the moment when he might kneel to him, and beg for his release.

  There was a restlessness about that great lord, a sense of impermanence. He lived like a soldier who had taken the palace as a billet for a short season—as though nothing in it belonged to him, or was of his ordaining, and all would continue when he was gone. He enjoyed the hunt, though most of his time at Mistra was taken up with receiving people and signing documents for them. The boy managed to dislodge the secretary’s slave from the office of bringing pen and ink and wax seals for all these grants of land and confirmations of privileges, required, it seemed, in large numbers to set the province in order before the Lord Constantine departed from it, and so got himself one small thing to do; but the palace was full of servants, built into it like the furniture, as well as those who were the Lord Constantine’s own—Stephanos, and Cup and chain man, who was called Manuel, and who poured out every drop of wine or water that passed the Lord Constantine’s lips, and now the boy himself—so the larger part of the boy’s time was spent standing around, idly staring, and when the pictures on the wall-plaster lost their charm, gazing sullenly at the Lord Constantine, his jailer.

  He was a man of middle age, fairly tall, very slender. His hair was dark, his skin sallow. He wore a short beard very neatly and closely trimmed to a point, but his hair was long, hanging over his collar in ringlets, which, somewhat to the watching boy’s disgust, required the attentions of a barber with hot curling tongs every few days. His lean face wore a somber expression as soon as it was at rest. Al though every day much time was spent going in procession with crowds of attendants to hear Mass said in this church or in that—at least the boy thought it was Mass, though most of it was hidden from sight behind gorgeous and complex screens—although they had always heard at least one, and sometimes as many as three services in three different churches in the course of the day, yet the Lord Constantine prayed again at bedtime, kneeling before an icon of the Virgin, in his nightshirt, with his black eyes shrouded by his drooping lids, murmuring, head bowed, for long minutes before he slept.

  And the only thing expected of the boy, he soon discovered, was simply to walk behind the Despot every where he went, three or four paces behind him, and be seen to be there. He might as well have been a dog.

  THE PLENTIFUL WHOLESOME FOOD OF THE PALACE BEGAN TO smooth over the grooves between his ribs, though at first he could eat only mouthfuls at a time. Stephanos made broth for him and Manuel brought him watered wine. He soon recovered enough to eat normally, and was full of curiosity, and rebellion. “Why do you carry that cup round on a chain?” he asked Manuel.

  “To foil attempts of poisoners,” said Manuel, in his limping, scanty Latin, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Cup bearer goes everywhere with Emperor; the Emperor drink no other cup. Cup chained to me; if Emperor poisoned they kill me at once. Only for ceremony, now, and all I’m for is taste and pour the wine.”

  “But might someone poison him?” asked the boy.

  “He crowned Emperor soon,” said Manuel. “More Emperors have died out of their beds than in them, I can tell you that.”

  “Why must I go to church with the Lord Constantine?” the boy demanded of Stephanos. “We’ve been to church three times already, and I’m sick of going. Why can’t I just stay here?”

  “He has sworn a great oath that all the people know about to keep you by his side,” Stephanos said. “Now stop arguing and get down there, this very moment.”

  SO WHEN THEY RETURNED THE BOY CHALLENGED STEPHANOS. he had time to think, walking to the church and back, and he was furiously angry. Stephanos and Manuel were together, sitting in a window arch looking out over the town, when he found them.

  “What do you mean he swore an oath to keep me with him?” the boy demanded. “You said he would send me home when I was well enough.”

  “I said only that you were too weak to go at once. I did not say what was to happen later …” said Stephanos quietly.

  “Why, you treacherous liar!” cried the boy.

  “It was true you were too weak,” said Stephanos. “Lower your voice, you will disturb the Lord Constantine.

  “That’s devilish!” the boy hissed, between clenched teeth. He was rigid from top to toe with rage. “You made a lie out of the truth! Do you think I would have stayed here so meekly if I’d known? I’d have run away long since!”

&nbs
p; “Where would you have fled to?” asked Stephanos, his voice still steady and low. “Back through the mountains to the sea? Or northward to the lands held by the Turks? Or to a seaport perhaps? They belong to Venice or to Genoa; how would you fare among them?”

  “I could hardly fare worse than here, if here I am a prisoner cruelly held!” the boy replied.

  “Cruelly held?” said Stephanos. “Cruelly? And yet what I would call cruel is the sending of a child as young as you on perilous journeys over distant seas.”

  At that the boy’s rigid posture gave place to trembling. Misery rose in his throat. “They couldn’t help it!” he said. “My father was sick. Trade was bad. The Baltic was closed to us, and the Iceland run. My Uncle Norton found a venture for me on Richard Sturmy, his friend’s, ship … he was not to know she would be shipwrecked.” But he remembered his mother’s alarm. Uncle Norton had come to see them, and stood before the fire in the hall, and rocked to and fro on his toes—a way he had, with his hands clasped behind his back, under his fur-trimmed cloak. “A fair opportunity for the boy,” he had been saying. “… As you know, I have no ship of mine own in harbor at this time, but my right good friend Richard Sturmy hath an enterprise making ready. He is to take pilgrims to Jaffa in the Levant …”

  “The Holy Land!” his mother had cried. “But there will be infidels, and surely, Brother, a risk of foul play from the men of Genoa, or Venice, for is not that trade all theirs?”

  The boy had thought no more of his mother’s alarm than if she had been fussing over him riding a dozen miles on some errand. But it all looked different to him now; his eyes brimmed with tears, and he turned his head away that Stephanos might not see them.

  “… For the homeward journey,” Uncle Norton had continued, “he hath cloth and wool and tin to take to Pisa, hard by Florence. Piers may take goods to trade on his own account, without charge or fee. This is a good offer, madam, made to you out of friendship. Others who embark with Master Sturmy must pay him a full tithe.”