Anna of Byzantium

by Tracy Barrett

  As my parents talked, they appeared to forget that they were in a holy sanctuary, and their voices rose with anger. I shrank back farther behind the tapestry, desperate now to avoid detection.

  “A fine welcome!” my father was saying. “I have been away for nearly a year, and the first thing you tell me after thanking God for my safe return is that my mother must go!”

  “Husband …” My mother’s voice was more pleading than angry, although I recognized a determination in her tone. “If you knew what she was doing, how she was turning our own daughter against us—”

  “Turning which daughter against us? Little Maria?” I almost laughed at the thought of my grandmother having any interest at all in my little sister. But my mother’s voice held no humor as she replied.

  “Anna, our firstborn, your heir—she is becoming hard and cold like your mother, she thinks only of the glory of her future—”

  “And it is about time she thought of that, rather than of the studies that that silly little eunuch sets her.”

  “Simon is not silly, husband, and he is an able tutor. Even your mother admits that the children are better schooled than any she has seen elsewhere. But we were not talking of Simon; we were talking of the way your mother—”

  “And I find it hard to believe what you are telling me. I left her in charge of the empire while I was at war, and from all reports things have been running smoothly. Anna is growing up, wife, and it is time she learns what her future holds.”

  “Her future? Is that all you can think of? And even if it is, what kind of ruler will she be if that harpy squeezes the goodness, the kindness out of her?”

  I could tell from the scraping sound that my father had stood up, pushing his chair out from under him. When he spoke next, his voice was cold.

  “Her Imperial Majesty Anna Dalassena is not a harpy. If anyone but you had referred to her in such a way, I would have him put to death. You must reflect how much of your hatred toward her goes back to the past, when she tried to convince me not to marry a Ducas, and then not to have you crowned queen, but kept as a secondary wife. That is all long past.”

  A little laugh, with no humor in it, escaped from my mother. “Long past, you say? I did not know that I was allowed to resent her actions for only a limited time. But as you say, this is in the past. What she is doing to the princess is in the present. You must see our daughter, and judge for yourself.”

  “I intend to do that, madam,” said my father. “Let me bathe and rest from my journey, and then after a meal, you will bring the children to me. I will, as you suggest, judge for myself.”

  I heard him leave the chapel, and then such a long silence fell that I thought my mother must have slipped out unheard by me. But then I heard a heavy sigh, the rustle of silk, and the sound of her feet moving quickly down the aisle toward the door. As soon as she had left, I remembered the chalice. Thank God they had not noticed its absence! I slipped in and placed the chalice as near to its accustomed place as I could in my haste, not bothering to open its wooden case. Let them wonder why it was out; no one had any reason to think I had been in there.

  I turned to flee. But as I spun around I caught sight of the embroidered altar cloth, which hung over the high table at which Father Agathos performed the services. The cloth seemed to be bulging in an odd way. I froze as my mind raced for an explanation. Was someone there? But who would hide under the altar? As I stared, the cloth moved a little. But there was no wind in the closed room. The thought came to me that a demon was waiting for me to get near, so he could pounce and bear me to Hell for my theft. I felt frozen, but I forced myself to back slowly away, keeping my gaze fixed on the cloth (which had not moved again), until I nearly stumbled over the threshold of the door as the back of my heel hit it. Then I turned, and ran as fast as I could through the courtyard and back into the door that led to my bedchamber.

  CHAPTER NINE

  stopped for a moment to catch my breath, pressing flat against the wall to avoid the people hurrying through the halls. All was bustle and confusion; I could tell that a great feast was being prepared. Already the smell of roasting meats and vegetables sizzling in oil wafted from the kitchens. People were shouting orders, slaves were running to obey them. Maids bearing heavy buckets of hot water and thick towels hastened past to prepare baths for the weary travelers. A pair of long-bearded priests hurried past me, bearing incense and fine cloths; I realized that they were heading toward the chapel to prepare a Mass of thanksgiving so that we all could give thanks publicly for my father’s safe return. I sent up my own prayer of thanksgiving that I had been successful in returning the chalice to its proper place before they arrived there.

  I hoped to find peace to reflect on what I had heard in the chapel when I entered my room, but as soon as she caught sight of me, Sophia grabbed my arm and pulled me in. “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  “Sophia …” I started automatically to reprimand her for her familiarity, but stopped. It seemed, after all, a losing battle, and in any case, she was not listening to me.

  “Your father has returned from the war,” she said, and I tried to look surprised. Fortunately, no one was paying much attention to me. Maria was already propped up on a high stool while her maid endeavored to coax her fine red hair into some kind of order, and before I knew what was happening, Sophia had pushed me down into a chair and was pulling the combs and ribbons out of my own black hair. She handed me a mirror, fresh ribbons, and pins, commanded, “Hold these!” and started brushing the snarls out my hair, muttering to herself at the mess she was finding there.

  “If you do not look proper at the reception, it will be I who takes the blame, and I who receive the whipping. Where have you been?”

  I didn’t answer, merely squirmed away as her too-harsh treatment yanked my scalp.

  “Hold still!” she said. Her deft fingers found the source of the knot she was working on, and quickly smoothed it out. Finally the brush finished its work, but not before my head was burning. Sophia started making the tiny braids all over my head that my mother found most suitable for her daughters, weaving gold beads and bright ribbons in among the strands. Until we were married, we would of course wear our hair down, and it was a challenge for Sophia and Dora, Maria’s maid, to find hairstyles ornate enough to set us apart from the common women, without having recourse to the knots and coils that married women could use.

  Now that the tangles were out, the feel of Sophia’s fingers began to be soothing, and I leaned back against her and closed my eyes. Seeing how still I was, she stopped scolding and continued her work, occasionally pushing me forward, away from her, to work on my back hair.

  Finally, silence to reflect. I uncomfortably recalled what I had heard, and knew that I could never ask about it without giving away my presence in the chapel. What had my mother been talking about? My grandmother was not teaching me anything unseemly. Indeed, she was even more strict and rigid than my mother herself, and certainly more proper than Simon, with his scandalous tales of the old gods. She was teaching me the arts of diplomacy, leadership, finance—certainly all skills that I would need in the future. I still did not understand why my mother objected to these studies.

  And meanwhile, I was continuing my lessons with Simon. I was easily the best reader in the school, and could memorize long passages from both the Bible and pagan writers. My mathematical skills were good, and I loved to study the orderly, predictable rhythms of the stars when Simon would wake us all up late at night and take us out on the battlements to watch the heavens in their dance.

  I had heard of the bad blood between Anna Dalassena and the Ducas family, but had always thought that my mother was somehow exempt from that hatred, being her daughter-in-law and the mother of the future ruler. I squirmed again as I realized that the discomfort I always felt when in the presence of the two of them together was more than just the lack of ease I experienced in my grandmother’s presence. There obviously was a deep dislike—even hatred—ther
e, and it made for a tension that I had felt, even while not understanding its source.

  My squirming brought another rebuke from Sophia. “Do you not see how your sister sits so still that Dora is almost through with her hair?”

  I glanced sidelong at Maria, who indeed was sitting with her usual serenity. She smiled at me, then turned her eyes in Sophia’s direction and made a mocking scowl, imitating Sophia’s displeased countenance. Without moving her head, she stretched out a hand in my direction, and I clasped it, glad that she had the forbearance not to appear smug at being praised while I was being scolded. And so we sat, her small hand in mine, until both of us were declared fit to be robed.

  We stood, happy to be released from our cramped postures, and stretched out our arms for the sleeves of our gowns. Maria’s pale blue silk went on first, making her blue eyes sparkle and her hair appear even brighter than it already was. As Dora knelt to fasten Maria’s white slippers, Sophia lifted a new robe over my head. It too was blue, but of a darker hue than my sister’s, and around the border was an elaborate design in deep purple.

  Startled, I held Sophia off for a moment. “Where did this come from?” I asked. “I am not allowed to wear purple, Sophia; even a Turk must know that. Only the emperor and empress may wear purple.”

  “Your grandmother brought it in after she heard that your father had arrived. It is by her order that you wear it,” answered Sophia, ignoring my restraining hand and pulling the robe over my arms and then my head. She spun me around and started fastening the ribbons that held the robe together in the back, while Dora, finished with Maria, slipped deep blue slippers onto my feet. These were new too, and the tiny buttons up the side were also purple.

  The robe fit perfectly, and was of a heavier silk than I was accustomed to wearing. I liked the feel of it as I took a tentative step, then turned to face Maria. Her pretty eyes were wide, and her mouth hung open. “Oh, sister,” she breathed. “You look … you look …” She couldn’t finish, but Dora did.

  “You look just like your father,” she said. Maria nodded in wordless agreement. I wished that I had a mirror larger than the small silver one I held in my hand, but before I could think of how to see my entire form at once, the hanging swung open and our grandmother appeared.

  “Let me see the imperial princesses in their finery,” she said. She looked Maria up and down, not smiling. “A pretty little thing, you are,” she said in a tone of dismissal. “Like your mother. Like a Ducas.” Again that tone of contempt as she said the name. Maria didn’t answer, but I could see that she was fighting back tears. Grandmother turned from her, as though my sister was not worthy of further comment, and looked at me. This time satisfaction spread over her angular features.

  “A Comnenus,” she said. She made a twirling motion with her finger to tell me to turn around, which I did, slowly, holding my head as high as I could to increase my height. “But one thing is missing. You are a woman now,” she said, drawing a folded cloth from her pocket and approaching me.

  I saw that what she held was a veil. “Turn around,” she commanded, and I did so, then felt the silk flutter over my face, covering me from the nose to the chin, as she looped the slender cords over my ears and tied them at the back of my head. “Face me again,” she said. I did so. The fine cloth felt cool on my face, and moved in and out slightly as I breathed. I realized what an advantage the veil would be in disguising my emotions.

  “A true Comnenus,” Grandmother said again. “He will be pleased.” No need to ask who “he” was, for at that moment we heard the trumpeters from the far end of the palace announce my father’s arrival in his throne room. “Come,” my grandmother said, extending her thin hand to me. Clutching my fingers in hers, she hastened from the room, leaving Maria to follow, small and forgotten, in our wake.

  In a few moments we arrived at the door, the purple hanging with its gold tassels pulled back and secured against the side, the guards in their smart imperial livery standing straight at attention. Quickly Grandmother adjusted my clothes, and as I hung back, trying to delay the inevitable entry, she gave me an impatient push. “Go in,” she snapped. “And don’t forget your manners!”

  I took a deep breath, then started toward the throne, watching my blue and purple slippers flash, flash, flash, against the stones. The familiar patterns of the floor repeated themselves until I knew that I was in front of my father. I stretched out flat, burying my face in my hands, waiting for him to tell me to rise. How would he appear? I wondered. It had been almost a year since I had seen him. I knew I had changed, but I hoped that he had not.

  I did not have long to wait. Rather than hearing his voice telling me to rise, it was his hands I felt on my upper arms—his hard, callused palms scraping and catching on the fine material, lifting me to my feet, the smell of his leather boots filling my nostrils—and finally I dared to look up, and there he was, Alexius Comnenus, emperor of the Byzantines, conqueror of the Turks, his beard a little more gray, perhaps, his face a little more lined, but still my father, home from the war.

  CHAPTER TEN

  murmured a dazed welcome as he pressed his hand on top of my head, blessing me. “Daughter Anna,” he said, and my heart sank, sure that I was about to be interrogated about my grandmother and what I was learning from her. Fortunately, it was not to be yet, but I did not have the chance to relax, for another interrogation was in store for me. My father placed his hand lightly under my chin and tilted my head up. He frowned a little. “A veil?” he said. He turned to my mother. “Surely she is not old enough. She is but—how old are you, child?”

  “She is almost twelve,” my mother answered. “And I agree with you, she is too young to be wearing a veil. I don’t even know where she got it from.”

  “She got it from me,” said my grandmother, so smoothly that it seemed as though she had been waiting for the question. “At her age I had already been veiled for two years. She is not a Ducas, but a Comnenus, and she must behave accordingly.”

  I dared not look at my mother, and she did not reply. My father sighed and passed his hand over his face. He suddenly looked weary, and I realized how fatigued he must be from the journey. After all, he must have been riding hard to come home again and see us all. But he seemed to pull himself more erect, and once more turned his smile in my direction.

  “You have grown, child,” he said, “and look ready to step into my throne. Surely that is not purple you are wearing on your gown?” He looked amused rather than angry, although I knew how strictly he observed rules governing who should wear what color and what style.

  “I did not know it had purple on it until I was ready to put it on,” I said, my voice scarcely rising above a whisper.

  “Ah, so it is a new robe?” he asked. I nodded. He turned to my mother. “And which of our weaving-women decided to add purple to the border?” he asked. Before she could answer, my grandmother did so.

  “It was a gift from me, Alexius,” she said. “I told the slave to make it deep blue with red embroidery around the edges. Evidently she thought that purple would be a better color. She is not of our race, my son, and does not know the significance we place on imperial purple. I have already had the woman flogged for her mistake.”

  My father made a face. I knew how much he disliked unnecessary punishment. “Surely,” he said, “if the slave did not know of her misdeed beforehand, a reprimand would have sufficed.”

  My grandmother’s expression did not change, although I thought I noted a touch of coldness in her voice when she replied. “That is not the way of the Comneni, Your Majesty. A slave who willfully disobeys must be punished so that others do not think we are soft. I had told her to use red, and she used purple. Next time, she will think twice before taking it upon herself to disobey my order.”

  As always, my father did not contradict his mother, although I knew that he disapproved of beating slaves for such small reasons. Instead, he sighed and turned to Maria, who had not been long to follow me in. He blessed her i
n her turn, exclaimed over how she had grown, and how much she resembled our mother. She looked terrified as she tried to answer him, and suddenly my heart went out to my little sister, who was so obviously trying to be brave. She looked relieved when her blessing was accomplished and she moved next to me as we lined up next to my mother. We dared not hold hands in so public an assembly, but I sidled close to her, and under the cover of our long robes I pressed the toe of my slipper reassuringly on her foot. She glanced up a little at me, and a tiny smile moved across her lips.

  Finally it was John’s turn. I leaned forward a little, as I had not seen him close up in months, although I had heard stories of his legendary tantrums, his refusals to wear appropriate clothes, and of course his continued absence from the schoolroom. He was taller, I saw, although still short for a six-year-old. But for once, it appeared, the nurse had had no difficulty in getting him to wear proper dress, or even to behave correctly. He stood in front of our father, his head bowed with respect, hands clasped in front of him. What a little gentleman, I thought, and glanced sidelong at Maria. She was staring at the boy in frank astonishment.

  “My son,” said our father. John approached. Our father must surely be nearly a stranger to him now, and I was curious to see how the boy would respond. John approached in a most seemly manner, head held low, humility oozing from every pore. I had never seen him so proper. Nor had anyone else, and I saw amazement on everyone’s features. John knelt at my father’s feet, and as my father pressed his hand on the boy’s head in blessing, John looked up at him and threw himself in the emperor’s arms, crying out, “I missed you so!”

  Taken aback by this display of emotion, my father patted John awkwardly on the back, looking around desperately for someone to help him. John’s nurse came to the rescue, pulling the little boy, sobbing now, off my father. “My apologies, sire,” she said, bowing low. “We have been inclined to spoil him during your absence, and have neglected to school him sufficiently in his behavior toward his elders.”