The Sarantine Mosaic

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  A stranger had gazed back at him, wet and pale and angry-looking. Smooth-cheeked as a child. He’d had the beard since before he met Ilandra. Over a decade now. He hardly knew or remembered the oddly vulnerable, truculent, square-chinned person he encountered in the glass. His eyes showed very blue. His mouth—his entire face—felt unguarded and exposed. He’d essayed a brief, testing smile and stopped quickly. It did not look or feel like his own face. He’d been … altered. He wasn’t himself. Not a secure feeling, as he prepared to be presented at the most intricate, dangerous court in the world, bearing a false name and a secret message.

  Waiting, he was still angry, taking a kind of refuge from mounting anxiety in that. He knew the Chancellor’s officials had been acting with undeniable goodwill and a good-humoured tolerance for his water-spraying fit of temper. The eunuchs wanted him to make a good impression. It reflected upon them, he’d been made to understand. Gesius’s signature had summoned him and smoothed his way here on the road. He stood now in this sumptuous, candlelit antechamber, hearing the sounds of the court beginning to enter the throne room through doors on the far side, and he was—in some complex way—a representative of the Chancellor, though he’d never even seen the man.

  One arrived in the Imperial Precinct, Crispin belatedly realized, already aligned in some fashion, even before the first words or genuflections took place. They had told him about the genuflections. The instructions were precise and he’d been made to rehearse them. Against his will, he’d felt his heart beginning to pound, doing so, and that feeling resumed now as he heard the dignitaries of Valerius II’s court on the other side of the magnificent silver doors. There was rising and falling laughter, a lightly murmurous flow of talk. They would be in a good humour after a festival day and a banquet.

  He rubbed at his naked chin again. The smoothness was appalling, unsettling. As if a shaven, silk-clad, scented Sarantine courtier were standing in his body, half a world away from home. He felt dislodged from the idea of himself he’d built up over the years.

  And that sensation—this imposed change of appearance and identity—probably had much to do with what followed, he later decided.

  None of it was planned. He knew that much. He was simply a reckless, contrary man. His mother had always said so, his wife, his friends. He’d given up trying to deny it long ago. They used to laugh at him when he did, so he’d stopped.

  After the protracted wait, watching the blue moon rise across an interior courtyard window, events happened quickly when they did begin. The silver doors swung open. Crispin and the Chancellor’s representatives turned quickly. Two guardsmen—enormously tall, in gleaming silver tunics—stepped from within the throne room. Crispin caught a glimpse beyond them of movement and colour. There was a drifting fragrance of perfume: frankincense. He heard music, then that—and the shifting movements—stopped. A man appeared behind the guards, clad in crimson and white, carrying a ceremonial staff. One of the eunuchs nodded to this man, and then looked at Crispin. He smiled—a generous thing to do in that moment—and murmured, ‘You look entirely suitable. You are benevolently awaited. Jad be with you.’

  Crispin stepped forward hesitantly to stand beside the heraldic figure in the doorway. The man looked over at him indifferently. ‘Martinian of Varena, is it?’ he asked.

  It really wasn’t planned.

  The thought was in his mind even as he spoke that he might die for this. He rubbed his too-smooth chin. ‘No,’ he said, calmly enough. ‘My name is Caius Crispus. Of Varena, though, yes.’

  The herald’s startled expression might actually have been comical had the situation been even slightly different. One of the guards shifted slightly beside Crispin, but made no other movement, not even turning his head. ‘Fuck yourself with a sword!’ the herald whispered in the elegant accents of the eastern aristocracy. ‘You think I’m announcing any name other than the one on the list? You do what you want in there.’

  And, stepping forward into the room, he thumped once on the floor with his staff. The chattering of the courtiers had already stopped. They’d aligned themselves, waiting, creating a pathway into the room.

  ‘Martinian of Varena!’ the herald declared, his voice resonant and strong, the name ringing in the domed chamber.

  Crispin stepped forward, his head whirling, aware of new scents and a myriad of colours but not really seeing clearly yet. He took the prescribed three steps, knelt, lowered his forehead to the floor. Waited, counting ten to himself. Rose. Three more steps towards the man sitting on the candlelit shimmer of gold that was a throne. Knelt again, lowered his head again to touch the cool stone mosaics of the floor. Counted, trying to slow his racing heart. Rose. Three more steps, and a third time he knelt and abased himself.

  This last time he stayed that way, as instructed, about ten paces from the Imperial throne and the second throne beside it where a woman sat in a dazzle of jewellery. He didn’t look up. He heard a mildly curious murmuring from the assembled courtiers, come from their feast to see a new Rhodian at court. Rhodians were of interest, still. There was a quip, a quicksilver ripple of feminine laughter, then silence.

  Into which a papery thin, very clear voice spoke. ‘Be welcome to the Imperial Court of Sarantium, artisan. On behalf of the Glorious Emperor and the Empress Alixana I give you leave to rise, Martinian of Varena.’

  This would be Gesius, Crispin knew. The Chancellor. His patron, if he had one. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. And remained utterly motionless, his forehead touching the floor.

  There was a pause. Someone giggled.

  ‘You have been granted permission to rise,’ the thin, dry voice repeated.

  Crispin thought of the zubir in the wood. And then of Linon, the bird—the soul—who had spoken in his mind to him, if only for a little while. He had wanted to die, he remembered, when Ilandra died.

  He said, not looking up, but as clearly as he could, ‘I dare not, my lord.’

  A rustle, of voices, of clothing, like leaves across the floor. He was aware of the mingled scents, the coolness of the mosaic, no music now. His mouth was dry.

  ‘You propose to remain prostrate forever?’ Gesius’s voice betrayed a hint of asperity.

  ‘No, good my lord. Only until I am granted the privilege of standing before the Emperor in my own name. Else I am a deceiver and deserve to die.’

  That stilled them.

  The Chancellor appeared to be momentarily taken aback. The voice that next spoke was trained, exquisite, and a woman’s. Afterwards, Crispin would remember that he shivered, hearing her for the first time. She said, ‘If all who deceived in this room were to die, there would be none left to advise or amuse us, I fear.’

  It was remarkable, really, how a silence and a silence could be so different. The woman—and he knew this was Alixana and that this voice would be in his head now, forever—went on, after a gauged pause, ‘You would rather be named Caius Crispus, I take it? The artisan young enough to travel when your summoned colleague deemed himself too frail to make the journey to us?’

  Crispin’s breath went from him, as if he’d been hit in the stomach. They knew. They knew. How, he had no idea. There were implications to this, a frightening number of them, but he had no chance to work it through. He fought for control, forehead touching the floor.

  ‘The Emperor and Empress know the hearts and souls of men,’ he managed, finally. ‘I have indeed come in my partner’s stead, to offer what assistance my meagre skills might avail the Emperor. I will stand to my own name, as the Empress has honoured me by speaking it, or accept what punishment is due my presumption.’

  ‘Let us be extremely clear. You are not Martinian of Varena?’ A new voice, patrician and sharp, from near the two thrones.

  Carullus had spent some of the time on the last stages of their journey telling what he knew of this court. Crispin was almost certain this would be Faustinus, the Master of Offices. Gesius’s rival, probably the most powerful man here—after the one on the throne.
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  The one on the throne had said nothing at all yet.

  ‘It seems one of your couriers failed to ensure proper delivery of an Imperial summons, Faustinus,’ said Gesius in his bone-dry voice.

  ‘It rather seems,’ said the other man, ‘that the Chancellor’s eunuchs failed to ensure that a man being formally presented at court was who he purported to be. This is dangerous. Why did you have yourself announced as Martinian, artisan? That was a deception.’

  It was difficult doing this with his head on the floor. ‘I did not,’ he said. ‘It seems that—regrettably—the herald must have … misheard my name when I spoke it to him. I did say who I am. My name is Caius Crispus, son of Horius Crispus. I am a mosaicist, and have been all my grown life. Martinian of Varena is my colleague and partner and has been so for twelve years.’

  ‘Heralds,’ said the Empress softly, in that astonishing, silken voice, ‘are of little use if they err in such a fashion. Would you not agree, Faustinus?’

  Which offered its clue, of course, as to who appointed the heralds here, Crispin thought. His mind was racing. It occurred to him he was making enemies with every word he spoke. He still had no idea how the Empress—and so the Emperor, he had to assume—had known his name.

  ‘I shall inquire into this, naturally, thrice-exalted.’ Faustinus’s sharp tone was abruptly muted.

  ‘There does not appear to be,’ a new voice, blunt and matter-of-fact, inserted itself, ‘any great difficulty here. An artisan was requested from Rhodias, an artisan has answered. An associate of the named one. If he is adequate to the tasks allotted him, it hardly matters, I would say. It would be a misfortune to mar a festive mood, my lord Emperor, with wrangling over a triviality. Are we not here to amuse ourselves?’

  Crispin didn’t know who this man—the first to directly address Valerius—would be. He heard two things, though. One, after a heartbeat, was a ripple of agreement and relief, a restoration of ease in the room. Whoever this was had a not-inconsiderable stature.

  The other sound he caught, a few moments later, was a slight, almost undetectable creaking noise in front of him.

  It would have meant nothing at all to virtually any other person in Crispin’s awkward position here, forehead pressed to the floor. But it did mean something to a mosaicist. Disbelieving at first, he listened. Heard suppressed laughter from right and left, quick whispers to hush. And the soft, steady creaking sound continuing before him.

  The court had been diverting itself tonight, he thought. Good food, wine, amorous, witty talk, no doubt. It was night—a festival night. He pictured female hands laid expectantly on male forearms, scented, silk-clad bodies leaning close as they watched. A Rhodian needing a measure of chastisement might offer wonderful sport.

  He didn’t feel like offering them sport.

  He was here at the Sarantine court in his own family name, son of a father who would have been proud beyond words in this moment, and he wasn’t inclined to be the mark for a jest.

  He was a contrary man. He’d admitted it already, long ago. It was self-destructive at times. He’d acknowledged that, too. He was also the direct descendant of a people who’d ruled an empire far greater than this one, at a time when this city was no more than a gathering of wind-blown huts on a rocky cliff.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said the Chancellor Gesius, his voice almost but not quite as dry as it had been. ‘You have permission to rise, Caius Crispus, Rhodian. Stand now before the all-powerful, Jad’s Beloved, the high and exalted Emperor of Sarantium.’ Someone laughed.

  He stood, slowly. Facing the two thrones.

  The one throne. Only the Empress sat before him. The Emperor was gone.

  High and exalted, Crispin thought. How terribly witty.

  He was expected to panic, he knew. To look befuddled, disoriented, even terrified, perhaps wheel about in a stumbling bear-like circle looking for an Emperor, reacting in slack-jawed confusion when he did not find him.

  Instead, he glanced upwards in relaxed appraisal. He smiled at what he saw when he did so. Jad could sometimes be generous, it seemed, even to lesser, undeserving mortals.

  ‘I am humbled beyond all words,’ he said gravely, addressing the figure on the golden throne overhead, halfway to the height of the exquisite little dome. ‘Thrice-exalted Emperor, I shall be honoured to assist in any mosaic work you or your trusted servants might see fit to assign me. I might also be able to propose measures to improve the effect of your elevation on the glorious Imperial throne.’

  ‘Improve the effect?’ Faustinus again, the sharp voice aghast. Around the room, a sudden tidal murmuring. The joke was spoiled. The Rhodian, for some reason, hadn’t been fooled.

  Crispin wondered what the effect of this artifice had been over the years. Barbarian chieftains and kings, trade emissaries, long-robed Bassanid or fur-clad Karchite ambassadors, all would have belatedly looked up to see Jad’s Holy Emperor suspended in the air on his throne, invisibly held aloft, elevated as much above them in his person as he was in his might. Or so the message would have been, behind the sophisticated amusement.

  He said mildly, still looking upwards, not at the Master of Offices, ‘A mosaicist spends much of his life going up and down on a variety of platforms and hoists. I can suggest some contrivances the Imperial engineers might employ to silence the mechanism, for example.’

  He was, as he spoke, aware of the Empress regarding him from her throne. It was impossible not to be aware of her. Alixana wore a headdress more richly ornamented with jewellery than any single object he’d ever seen in his life.

  He kept his gaze fixed overhead. ‘I should add that it might have been more effective to position the thrice-exalted Emperor directly in the moonlight now entering from the southern and western windows in the dome. Note how the light falls only on the glorious Imperial feet. Imagine the effect should Jad’s Beloved be suspended at this moment in the luminous glow of a nearly full blue moon. A turn and a half less, I surmise, on the cables, and that would have been achieved, my lord.’

  The murmuring took a darker tone. Crispin ignored it. ‘Any competent mosaicist will have tables of both moons’ rising and setting, and engineers can work from those. When we have set tesserae on some sanctuary or palace domes in Batiara it has been our good fortune— Martinian’s and mine—to achieve pleasing effects by being aware of when and where the moons will lend their light through the seasons. I should be honoured,’ he concluded, ‘to assist the Imperial engineers in this matter.’

  He stopped, still looking up. The murmuring also stopped. There was a silence that partook of a great many things then in the candlelit throne room of the Attenine Palace, among the jewelled birds, the golden and silver trees, the censers of frankincense, the exquisite works of ivory and silk and sandalwood and semi-precious stone.

  It was broken, at length, by laughter.

  Crispin would always remember this, too. That the first sound he ever heard from Petrus of Trakesia, who had placed his uncle on the Imperial throne and then taken it for himself as Valerius II, was this laughter: rich, uninhibited, full-throated amusement from overhead, a man suspended like a god, laughing like a god above his court, not quite in the fall of the blue moonlight.

  The Emperor gestured and they lowered him until the throne settled smoothly to rest beside the Empress again. No one spoke during this descent. Crispin stood motionless, hands at his side, his heart still racing. He looked at the Emperor of Sarantium. Jad’s Beloved.

  Valerius II was soft-featured, quite unprepossessing, with alert grey eyes and the smooth-shaven cheeks that had led to the attack on Crispin’s own beard. His hairline was receding though the hair remained a sandy brown laced with grey. He was past his forty-fifth year now, Crispin knew. Not a young man, but far from his decline. He wore a belted tunic in textured purple silk, bordered at hem and collar with bands of intricately patterned gold. Rich, but without ornament or flamboyance. No jewellery, save one very large seal ring on his left hand.

 
; The woman beside him took a different approach in the matter of her raiment and adornment. Crispin had actually been avoiding looking directly at the Empress.

  He couldn’t have said why. Now he did so, aware of her dark-eyed, amused gaze resting upon him. Other images, auras, awarenesses impinged as he briefly met that gaze and then cast his eyes downwards. He felt dizzied. He had seen beautiful women in his day, and much younger ones. There were extraordinary women in this room.

  The Empress held him, however, and not merely by virtue of her rank or history. Alixana—who had been merely Aliana of the Blues once, an actress and dancer—was dressed in a dazzle of crimson and gold silk, the porphyry in the robe over her tunic used as an accent, but present, unavoidably present, defining her status. The headdress framing her very dark hair and the necklace about her throat were worth more, Crispin suspected, than all the jewellery in the regalia of the queen of the Antae back home. He felt, in that moment, a shaft of pity for Gisel: young and besieged and struggling for her life.

  Her head held high despite the weight of ornament she carried, the Empress of Sarantium glittered in his sight, and the clever, observant amusement in her dark eyes reminded him that there was no one on earth more dangerous than this woman seated beside the Emperor.

  He saw her open her mouth to speak, and when someone, astonishingly, forestalled her he saw, because he was looking, the quick pursing of lips, the briefly unveiled displeasure.

  ‘This Rhodian,’ said an elegant, fair-haired woman behind her, ‘has all the presumption one might have expected, and none of the manners one dared hope for. At least they chopped off his foliage. A red beard along with an uncouth manner would have been too offensive.’