Censer-swinging priests followed the chorus toward the worship area; the sweet fragrances of balsam, frankincense, cedar oil, myrrh, and storax filled the air. Behind the priests came Balsamon. The congregation rose to honor the patriarch. And behind Balsamon was Thorisin Gavras in full imperial regalia. Along with everyone else, Marcus and Gaius Philippus bowed to the Avtokrator. The tribune tried to keep the surprise from his face; on his previous visits to the High Temple, the Emperor had taken no part in its services, but watched from a small private room set high in the building’s eastern wall.
Balsamon steadied himself, resting a hand on the back of the patriarchal throne. Its ivory panels, cut in delicate reliefs, must have delighted the connoisseur in him. After resting for a moment, he lifted his hands to the Phos in the dome, offering his god the Videssians’ creed: “We bless thee, Phos, Lord with the right and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor.”
The congregation followed him in the prayer, then chorused its “Amens.” Marcus heard Utprand, Soteric, and a few other Namdalener officers append the extra clause they added to the creed: “On this we stake our very souls.”
As always, some Videssians frowned at the addition, but Balsamon gave them no chance to ponder it. “We are met today in gladness and celebration!” he shouted. “Sing, and let the good god hear your rejoicing!” His quavery tenor launched into a hymn; the choir followed him an instant later. They swept the worshippers along with them. Taron leimmokheir’s tuneless bass rose loud above the rest; the devout admiral, his eyes closed, rocked from side to side in his seat as he sang.
The liturgy of rejoicing was not commonly held. The Videssian notables, civil and military alike, threw themselves into the ceremony with such gusto that the interior of the High Temple took on a festival air. Their enthusiasm was contagious; Scaurus stood and clapped with his neighbors and followed their songs as best he could. Most, though, were in the archaic dialect preserved only in ritual, which he still did not understand well.
He caught a quick stir of motion through the filigreed screening that shielded the imperial niche from mundane eyes and wondered whether it was Komitta Rhangawe or Alypia Gavra. Both of them, he thought, would be there. He hoped it was Alypia.
Her uncle the Emperor stood to the right of the patriarchal throne. Though he did no more than pray with the rest of the worshipers, his presence among them was enough to rivet their attention on him.
Balsamon used his hands to mute the congregation’s singing. The voices of the choir rang out in all their perfect clarity, then they, too, died away, leaving a silence as speaking as words. The patriarch let it draw itself out to just the right length before he transformed its nature by taking the few steps from his ivory throne to the altar at the very center of the worship area. His audience leaned forward expectantly to listen to what he would say.
His eyes twinkled; he plainly enjoyed making them wait. He drummed his stubby fingers on the sheet silver of the altartop, looking this way and that. At last he said, “You really don’t need to hear me at all today.” He beckoned Gavras to his side. “This is the man who asked me to celebrate the liturgy of rejoicing; let him explain his reasons.”
Thorisin ignored the irreverence toward his person; from Balsamon it was not disrespectful. The Emperor began almost before his introduction was through. “Word arrived this morning of battle just east of Gavras. Forces loyal to us—” Even Gavras’s bluntness balked at calling mercenaries by their right name. “—decisively defeated their opponents. The chief rebel and traitor, Baanes Onomagoulos, was killed in the fighting.”
The three short sentences, bald as any military communique, touched off pandemonium in the High Temple. Bureaucrats’ cheers mingled with those of Thorisin’s officers; if the present Avtokrator was not the pen-pushers’ choice, he was a paragon next to Onomagoulos. For once, Gavras had all his government’s unruly factions behind him.
Master of his own house at last, he basked in the applause like a sunbather on a warm beach. “Now we will deal with the Yezda as they deserve!” he cried. The cheering got louder.
Marcus nodded in sober satisfaction; Gaius Philippus’ fist rose and slowly came down on his knee. They looked at each other with complete understanding. “Our turn to go west next,” the senior centurion predicted. “Still some work to do to get ready.”
Marcus nodded again. “It’s as Thorisin said, though—at least we’ll be fighting the right foe this time.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Harry Turtledove was born in Los Angeles in 1949. After flunking out of Caltech, he earned a Ph.D. in Byzantine history from UCLA. He has taught ancient and medieval history at UCLA, Cal State Fu Merton, and Cal State L.A., and he has published a translation of a ninth-century Byzantine chronicle, as well as several scholarly articles. He is also a Hugo Award-winning and critically acclaimed full-time writer of science fiction and fantasy. He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.
An Emperor for the Legion (Videssos Cycle) Page 39
