by Judith Tarr
“A grey morning,” Thea said. Now that Alf was gone, she seemed her usual self.
That cold moment had brought back Sophia’s headache in full force. She could find no smile for Thea and barely a pleasant word. “Grey? Black, rather. Have you ever had days when the whole world seems out of sorts?”
“Too many.” Thea’s arm settled about Sophia’s shoulders. She had not Alf’s gift of heart’s ease; she was fire and quicksilver, bracing rather than comforting.
Sophia sighed and let herself lean briefly against the other. “You two,” she said. “What would I do without you?”
Although Thea’s voice was light, Sophia felt the tension in her body. “Don’t go thinking of us as angels of mercy! We’re like cats; we look after our own comfort. If it adds to anybody else’s, why then, how pleasant for him.”
“You’re too modest.”
They walked toward Sophia’s workroom. It was warm there, a warmth that crept up through their feet from the hypocaust below.
Thea went to the window and stood gazing out at the rain that lashed the barren garden. Her face in profile was unwontedly still.
“Is something wrong?” Sophia asked her.
She did not turn. “No,” she answered, “Of course not. What makes you think that?”
“You and Alf. You’ve been avoiding one another for days now. Has something happened? Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” Thea said again. “It’s all right. It’s nothing.”
Sophia approached her and laid a hand on her arm. “If I’m prying, I beg your pardon. But it’s not nothing when the whole family can feel a difference. All’s not well between you. Is it?”
“You are prying,” Thea said in a thin cold voice. She clasped herself tightly, tensely, dislodging Sophia’s hand. But she did not move to go.
The other waited, silent.
Suddenly she spun about. “Stop thinking sympathy at me!”
“I can’t help it.”
“You aren’t trying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You aren’t.” Thea drew a shuddering breath, controlling her face and voice, mastering her temper. “I…sometimes we forget; humans have eyes, too. Has it been so obvious?”
“Rather. It’s Alf, isn’t it?”
“How can you tell?”
“I have eyes,” Sophia said without irony. “For all his sweetness, he has a temper. A terrible one, with staying power. You’re much quicker to anger, and to forgive.”
“Sometimes,” Thea muttered. “Sometimes not. God, what fools men are!”
She prowled the small room, restless as a cat. After a circuit or two she stopped. “He asked me to marry him.”
“And you refused?”
“Of course I did! He doesn’t want a wife any more than I want a husband.”
“Then why did he ask?”
“Temporary insanity. Why else? But now he’s got his pride to think of, and a wound in it that he won’t let heal. Does he think I don’t have any of my own? Marriage is bad enough for any woman without her having to contend with a husband who’s still more than half a monk.”
“You could cure him of that, if you would.”
“Not by marrying him,” Thea said. “He was a monk for longer than you’d ever believe, with no more thought for his body’s needs than a marble saint. The first time he realized he was made of flesh, and warm flesh at that, he hardly knew what was happening. When he found out, he was terrified. Terrified and disgusted, as if God hadn’t made that part of him, too.”
“Can you honestly blame him?”
“For being afraid, no. Not even for being ashamed; that’s only his upbringing. But I won’t marry him. He has to come to me without shame, with no more fear than anyone might expect of a man who’s never taken a woman; as a lover, or not at all.”
“You’re proud, too,” Sophia said. “As proud as he is. One of you is going to have to yield.”
“He won’t. And I refuse to crawl at his feet.”
Sophia shook her head. “Stubbornness never solved anything. God forgive me for encouraging a sin; but if I were you, I’d go to him tonight and stay there until I’d broken this deadlock.”
“No,” said Thea, immovable. “I’m done with begging. He’ll come to me or he won’t come at all.”
Sophia sighed. Quarrels, she thought. What had they ever brought but grief? And this one shadowed the whole household.
She bit back angry words, tried to speak gently. “Whatever else God gave you beyond what He’s given the rest of us, He didn’t take away your capacity for foolishness.”
“Probably not,” Thea agreed willingly. “I have business in the City. Is there anything I can do for you there?”
You know well, Sophia thought, but she held her tongue.
Thea left pleasantly enough, even with a smile, leaving Sophia to her accounts and to her troubled thoughts.
o0o
Alf was late in coming to Saint Basil’s. Even as he shed his sopping cloak, a throng of students, doctors, and walking wounded converged upon him. He had promised to teach a class in anatomy; Stephanos was much better but still in pain; he was not permitted to tend the women, but this one surely, he must advise, such symptoms, no one here had ever seen…
“Master Theo!” a voice called over the din. It was one of the students, her high voice pitched even higher with urgency. “Master Theo! You must come at once. Master Dionysios—”
The name freed Alf from the pressing crowd and sent him striding swiftly toward the Master’s study.
Just within the door, he stopped. Dionysios sat in his accustomed chair, a book in front of him, fallen open to a brilliantly painted page. But he was not alone. On either side of the door stood a guard in splendid livery, and across from the Master sat the most elegant creature Alf had ever seen.
“This is the man called Theo?” The voice was soft, cultured, and contralto, yet not a woman’s. Nor, though the face was beardless and beautiful, was it a woman’s face. It registered some little surprise, and perhaps amusement. “So; for once the tales were true.”
“What did you expect?” Alf asked coolly, offering no more greeting or courtesy than he had received.
The eunuch smiled. “Less than what I see. Oh, much less. They said that you were tall; fair; angelic in face and humble of bearing, but at the same time royally proud. Well then, I looked for a light-haired man of middle height or a little more, with some claim to handsomeness, and an air of ill-concealed arrogance. Who would have thought that for once the rumors would be true?”
Alf glanced at Dionysios. “Sir,” he said, “have you called me here for a purpose? Am I to amuse your noble guest?”
“He’s noble certainly,” said the Master without either awe or pleasure. “His name is Michael Doukas. He’s come from the Emperor.”
“Truly?” Alf’s calmness did not waver. “Which one?”
“Need it matter?” asked Michael Doukas softly, toying with one of his many rings. “Yet if it concerns you, I shall be formal. His Sacred Majesty, Isaac Angelos, commands you to attend him in his palace at Blachernae.”
Alf’s eyes widened slightly. “I am of course greatly honored. But why?”
The Emperor’s messenger looked him over slowly, dark eyes glinting. “You are a very famous man, Master Theo. Even our exalted Emperor, set aloft upon his throne, has heard your name and wondered at it. Wondered indeed which of the many tales is true. Did you will the fire of accursed memory, great master? Or did you will it away?”
Dionysios stood abruptly. “Emperor or no Emperor,” he snapped, “I’ll not have courtiers’ games played in my presence. If you have to take my best man away from me on a day when I can ill spare him, do it, and let me get back to my work.”
“Certainly His Majesty has no intention of keeping you away from your duties.” Michael Doukas rose with languid grace. He was nearly as tall as Alf, and slender as a woman. “Come, Master Theo. You are expected.”
Beneath Dionysios’ annoyance Alf sensed fear. It was most irregular, this summons. The Emperor, Dionysios well knew, was not sane. And Michael Doukas was as deadly as he was elegant. Who knew what trap had been laid, or why?
Alf met the Master’s gaze and smiled. Dionysios scowled in return. Go on, his eyes said, get yourself killed. Should I care?
“Come,” said Michael Doukas.
17.
The Emperor Isaac Angelos sat on his throne with his crown upon his head and in his hand the orb of the world. Beside him on a second throne lay the source and center of his power, that which alone might rule the Lord of the Romans, the Heir of Constantine, the voice of God on earth: the book of the Gospels laid open to the image of Christ the King.
All about the double throne stood the high ones of the court. Above them arched trees of gold bearing fruits of diamond and ruby and emerald, and on the branches jeweled birds; before them crouched a lion of brass.
The lion, Alf noticed, was tarnished, and tilted at a precarious angle; the birds neither moved nor sang. The living courtiers seemed splendid enough, yet most looked bored beyond words. He caught at least one ill-concealed yawn before he turned his eyes away from them to the man upon the throne.
By rite and by custom the Sacred Emperor was more than a man. His every moment was hedged about in ritual as ornate and as holy as the Mass itself. His every thought was shaped in and for his office. Or so the makers of the empire had ordained over the long years. Like the beasts and the birds, the office was failing, the man marred.
Isaac Angelos might have been handsome once. His features, though strongly drawn beneath the greying red-gold beard, were furrowed deep with pain and petulance. Over his ruined eyes he wore a band of silk, imperial purple, that gave him the look of the blinded king in a play.
Every step of Alf’s approach from palace gate to the dais’ foot had been a step in a solemn, hieratic dance. It should have brought him into the sacred presence in a state of mindless awe; but he was only weary, fastidiously distasteful of the robes that he had been made to wear. Magnificent though they were, of priceless Byzantine silk embroidered with gems and gold, they had not seen a cleaning in all the reigns since they were made.
He bowed as his guide directed him, the last and deepest of many such obeisances, full upon his face as if before a god. Above him the Emperor stirred. His voice rang out unexpectedly deep and rich. “Is he up yet? Eyes—where are my Eyes?”
Alf rose. A small figure had come to stand beside the Emperor. Despite its size, it was no child but a slim honey-brown youth with a proud wisp or two of beard.
With his great dark eyes fixed upon Alf, he began to sing. He had a clear tenor voice and a relentless eye for detail, and the gift of painting a portrait in words. What he sang, the Emperor saw, even to the slight wry smile as Alf heard the inventory of his robe’s smudges and stains.
The sweet voice stilled. The Emperor sat in all his majesty. Beneath the bandage his cheek twitched slightly, spasmodically.
His fingers loosened on the golden orb; it rolled from his lap, fell to the floor with a leaden thud, bounced like a child’s ball upon the steps of the dais. It halted at Alf’s feet.
No one dared to touch it, although several of the guards and eunuchs had started forward aghast. Nor did Alf move to pick it up.
Among the courtiers, some had stirred, alive to the portent. Magicians, those: sorcerers; diviners and astrologers. They watched him avidly, some with knowledge and perhaps with fear.
“Sire,” Alf said in the silence, clearly and directly as if this had been a Western king and not the sacred Emperor, “surely you did not summon me merely to look at me.”
The Emperor started a little, his fingers opening and closing, finding only air. “To look? To look, you say? With what?”
“Why, Sire, with your Eyes.”
“My eyes are gone. Right in my palace he did it, my brother, my little brother who always swore he loved me. Do you have eyes, child?”
“Yes,” Alf answered. Off to the side a courtier drooped against his fellow, limp with ennui.
“Cherish your eyes, little one. So beautiful they are, so clever to take in the light.” Isaac Angelos trailed off. For an instant he seemed to subside into a torpor; abruptly he drew himself up in his seat. His fists clenched on the arms. “You,” he said in a new voice, a strong one. “They call you Theo. What is the rest of it? Theophilos? Theodoros? Theophylaktos?”
“Only Theo, Sire.”
Above the bandage the Emperor’s brow clouded. “No man has but half a name.”
One of the sorcerers made his way to the Emperor’s side. He was a prince of his kind, a turbaned Moor with a smooth ageless face the color of ebony and a fixed, serpent’s stare.
“Your Sacred Majesty,” he said softly in perfect Greek, “no man may have so little of a name. But is he a man?”
Michael Doukas stirred beside Alf, as languid as ever. “A boy, then. A youth, in courtesy, and quite likely to become a man. Of that, learned master, I can assure you.”
No one quite ventured to smile. Skeptical of the Moor’s magics they might be, but they knew enough to fear his influence.
He did not deign to reveal anger. “I questioned not his gender but his species. Look, sacred Eyes. Is that the face of a mortal man?”
“He is very fair,” sang the dwarf, “like to the old gods.”
The sorcerer bent, speaking in the Emperor’s ear. “Your Majesty, his name, his face, hint at great mysteries. The tales you have heard, the marvels of which your servants have told you—”
“Marvels,” Isaac Angeles echoed him. “Magic. Mysteries. An angel in the fire. It burned, my City, like old Rome. But nobody sang its fall to the lyre. He was working miracles. A house fell down and he walked out of it, no scratch or burn, and in his arms a man of twice his bulk. He laid on his hands and men healed. He healed them. He heals them. Come here, child, and lay your hands on me.”
Alf spoke gently, with compassion. “Sire, if I have a gift or a skill, it is of God’s giving. But He has granted me no power to restore what is gone. I cannot give you back your eyes.”
The Moor was a basilisk, the courtiers carrion birds, circling, waiting for their prey to fall. None yawned now or wished for release.
The Emperor turned his head from side to side as if to scan the audience. “No healing? No recompense? A throne—how easy after all to win it back. But I would rather have my eyes.”
He leaned forward. “They said there would be a miracle. They said one would come. It was in the stars, and in the crystal, and in the fires.”
“Aye,” intoned the Moor. “The time will come, beloved of God, when you will see again. You will have your eyes, your youth and strength, your empire in all its glory. You shall rule the world.”
Alf stooped and lifted the orb. Its fall had dented it, shaken loose a jewel or two, bent askew the cross that crowned it.
The courtiers had taken up the sorcerer’s proclamation, an interchange of verse and response, caught up short as Alf raised the sphere of gold. Suddenly he was weary of all this, the ritual, the tarnished splendor, the Emperor whose mind wandered on the paths of madness. They had made him so, these fawning servants, ruled by men who boasted of power and magic.
Charlatans, all of them. Liars, sycophants, parasites.
The Moor, who had more knowledge than most if no wisdom, drew back a step. In his eyes Alf saw himself, a frail figure in a great weight of soiled silk, grown suddenly terrible.
“Sire,” Alf said quietly in silence thick enough to touch, “your empire has fallen from your hand.”
“Then,” said Isaac Angelos, reasonably, “give it back to me.”
“I cannot.”
“I am the Emperor. I command you.”
“I cannot,” Alf repeated. “It has gone the way of your eyes. There is no healing for you, Lord of the Angeloi. Your eyes are gone. Your empire is gone. Your city will fall, because you have not ruled it but hav
e sat upon your throne dreaming of miracles, paying heed to these false prophets who gather like jackals about you.”
“Lies!” thundered the Moor. “Who has sent you, O liar without power? The Doge? Marquis Boniface? Or,” he added with a venomous glance at Alf’s guide, “our own Doukas?”
Alf regarded the sorcerer calmly. “His Majesty summoned me, as you know well who brought my name to him. What was it that you wished for? That I add my voice to yours, echo your feigned foreseeings, strengthen your lies with mine? Or that I speak the truth as all my kind are bound to do, and perish for it, thus removing the threat of my presence? For true power must not endure if smooth words and conjurers’ tricks are to prevail.”
The Moor’s lip curled. “A poisonous serpent, you are, bloated with lies and twisted prophecies.”
With a sudden movement the Emperor smote the arm of his throne. “Prophesy, boy. Prophesy!”
“No one commands my power,” Alf said softly, “not even His Sacred Majesty.”
“Command it yourself, then,” snapped Isaac Angelos.
Alf did not quite smile. “Very well, Sire. What would you know?”
That took even the Emperor aback. “What? There are no incantations? No fires or crystals or arcane instruments?”
“I am not a sorcerer, Sire. My power comes from within. Ask and I will answer.”
The Emperor paused for a long while, stroking his beard. At last he spoke. “Where is my gold sandal?”
In the breaking of tension, one or two of the courtiers laughed.
Alf betrayed neither scorn nor fear. “You asked me to prophesy, Sire, not to find what you have lost. Your sandal,” he added coolly, “lies with its mate in the dragon chest that came from Chin, under your robe of crimson silk embroidered with pearls.”
The Emperor’s fingers knotted in his beard. “Prophesy,” he said. “Prophesy!”
Alf looked up into the haggard blinded face, with the orb a dead weight in his hands. The crowd of courtiers waited, minds and faces set for mockery. He drew a long breath and loosed the bonds of his seeing.
