“Your Majesty,” he said.
“Where is Simon?” I demanded.
“The librarian?” he asked. “He has gone out with a new servant, I understand. He left me here to examine the books.”
“When will he be back?”
“He didn’t say, Your Majesty. Is there something I can help you find?”
This amused me, even in my impatience. No one knew this library better than I, especially the history books where the man was standing.
“No,” I said. “It is Simon I require. Sophia! Go find Simon,” I ordered. “Tell him that I require him and that new servant here instantly.”
Sophia hesitated, glancing at the man.
“Never mind that,” I whispered. “You can leave me alone with him—there are dozens of guards within earshot. Just hurry!” Sophia left.
The man stood, looking at me, holding an open book. I recognized it as one of my favorites. He saw my glance and handed it to me.
“You know this?” he asked. I ran my eyes over the familiar words.
“Thucydides,” I said. “He was a great historian. But Herodotus—”
I suddenly remembered that I was in conversation with a stranger, and fell silent. He didn’t appear disturbed by my sudden change, just quietly took the book and returned it to its proper place.
He turned again to face me. “Herodotus?” he prompted.
“The father of history,” I said. “Before him people just repeated what they had heard about the past and did not bother to find out the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” he questioned, sounding like Pontius Pilate in the Bible.
“The truth—what really happened—what people really did and really said. Not what the gods made them do, but what greed and lust for power made them do.”
Before either one of us could speak again, the door flew open and Simon shot in, followed closely by Sophia. As he caught sight of me standing near the stranger, he shot me a warning glance. I understood, and withdrew a few paces, asking him with my eyes if I was now at the proper distance. He nodded, then belatedly bowed low.
“Your Majesty,” he said.
“Master Librarian,” I answered. “How do you find your new servant?”
I hoped that Malik and Sophia between them had explained the situation to him. “He appears satisfactory,” he said. “I only hope that a freedman will not be discontented taking orders from a slave.”
I winced at this reminder of my harsh words of the night before. But it was unseemly for a princess to apologize, so I merely cast him what I hoped was a penitent look. After a moment, Simon gave me a little smile. I was forgiven.
“I doubt he will find anything to complain of,” I said.
All this time I had forgotten the other man, but Simon now caught sight of him, and bowed hastily.
“My Lord Bryennius,” said Simon. “Pray excuse me. May I present to you Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Anna Comnena, firstborn of the emperor?”
Bryennius—this must be the great historian, Nicephorus Bryennius. Simon had said that someday when the great historians were named, Bryennius’ name would be on that list. My cheeks burned as I recalled the history lesson I had been giving him. It irked me to see him trying to repress a smile as though he knew what I was thinking.
“I have heard your name, of course,” I said. “What is your purpose in visiting our palace? Are you looking for material for a history?”
Now it was the historian’s turn to flush. He looked at Simon as though for assistance, but Simon looked down at the floor. “Did they not tell you, Princess?” he asked.
“Tell me what? Simon, what is he talking about?” If I had not been thirteen years old, I would have stamped my foot the way I used to, when I was in a temper as a child.
“Your father has returned home,” Bryennius said. I whirled to Simon and he nodded. The stranger was still talking, and I found it hard to pay attention to him, as I was itching to go find my father. But his next words made me forget everything else. “Your father summoned me to accompany him here,” he said. “I am surprised no one has told you. He has commanded me to marry you, Princess Anna.”
My father had commanded him to marry me? Bryennius must have seen and understood my expression, for he hastily added, “Not that commands are necessary, you understand. I am honored to be told to do that which I would choose freely for myself.”
It was fortunate, I thought, that his writing style was superior to his speaking style, otherwise his histories would be tedious to read. Bryennius turned tactfully to Simon and said, “Master Librarian, your works here are indeed as extensive as I had been led to believe. Perhaps you will show me more?” The two of them moved down the aisles, Simon casting an anxious look at me.
Not that he need worry. I knew that I should have to marry soon, and this Bryennius seemed as good a choice as any. I pushed out of my mind the thought of the golden Constantine, galloping after my father on his brown horse. Constantine was dead, just as my hopes for the throne were dead. There was no need even to think of him. So why not a historian? At least we would have something to talk about.
So I guessed why I was wanted when Sophia came to me later that day to tell me that my father required my presence in the throne room.
“That man’s with him,” she whispered as we hastened down the corridor. “The one who said he was commanded—” she stopped.
“Commanded to marry me,” I finished for her. “You can say it, Sophia; I am thirteen years old, and it is time my father found me a husband.” She nodded wordlessly, then pulled aside the hanging over the throne-room door, staying out in the corridor as I advanced into the room. Though I modestly lowered my eyes to the floor, I could see a crowd of men around my father and mother on their high thrones.
It was a bright afternoon, and the light slanting through the high windows beat down on the polished floor, making the marble gleam like jewels. As I had so many times, I studied the colors as my feet went over them: red, green, black, white. When the pattern changed, I knew without raising my eyes that I was close to the throne. I stretched out full-length on the floor, my face in my hands.
My father’s voice, surprisingly gentle, said, “You may arise, daughter.” Usually in public he called me Princess or Your Majesty. The unexpected “daughter” brought tears to my eyes and a hard lump to my chest. I swallowed, trying to push the lump down, and stood, grateful to be standing semiconcealed in the shadow.
“I hear you have spoiled my surprise,” my father said. His voice sounded as though he were smiling; I looked up and saw that indeed he was. Emboldened by his warmth, so unexpected after our last meeting in this room, I looked up farther and saw my mother seated in the cedar throne on his left. She looked pale and tired.
I should have lowered my eyes then. If I had, I would not have seen the little monkey, the one they called the prince, standing to my father’s right. And not only did he have Constantine’s former place of honor—not only was he standing, gazing proudly out at the ministers while I stood with my head humbly and properly bowed, but he was dressed in a miniature copy of my father’s imperial suit. He was wearing purple silk, and had a diadem on his head that might, at first glance, be mistaken for a tiny crown. I was suddenly conscious of the rumpled linen robe I had hastily girdled on.
How old was the monkey now—eight? Yes, eight, older than I had been when he was born. I considered that fact with some satisfaction. My parents were still young enough to have more children. You may be the heir now, I thought. But you never know what will happen. Don’t forget Fate. And Vengeance.
My father was twisting the gold ring on his finger, a sign that he was not as calm as he appeared. “The choice of your husband is mine and mine alone to make,” he went on, looking at my mother, who set her lips tight and turned her head away. Aha, I thought—she doesn’t want me to marry this man. She still wants to ally the house of Comnenus with her own Ducas family. Her marriage to my father had formed the allia
nce; mine with Constantine would have cemented it. Was there another Ducas prince who could wed me? Was that what my mother would prefer?
My father went on, “—but I would never force you, my daughter, to marry against your will. Tell me, is this man satisfactory to you?” He gestured behind him, and Bryennius stepped forward from among the crowd of ministers. I considered the tall man with the stooped shoulders. Although he was older, his beard and hair were untouched by gray. He was a famous historian and so must be intelligent, and he had no obvious physical defects. Anyway, what did it matter? But I was pleased that my father had consulted me before making a final decision.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, he is acceptable.”
My father smiled, stood, and stepped down to me. Reaching for my hand, he led me up the steps to the throne and turned us around to face the ranks. I carefully positioned myself so that I stood directly in front of the little boy, blocking him from the crowd. My father apparently did not notice what I had done, for he said in his clear, ringing voice, “We will celebrate the betrothal of my beloved daughter, Princess Anna Porphyrogenita Comnena, to the historian and my comrade-at-arms, Nicephorus Bryennius, with a banquet this evening. You are all commanded to attend.”
It was only after I left the room that I realized that a banquet of that importance takes weeks to plan. My consent had been assumed, despite my father’s words. But it made little difference to me. I had come to realize that my wishes were not to be granted, that what I wanted and what happened had very little to do with each other. Someday that would change. I was patient. I could wait.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ere, in the cold convent in the mountains, I often think of that long-ago betrothal feast. No one here cares much for food, and while we eat, there is silence, save for the voice of the lectrix, the nun who reads to us from the Bible. But at my banquet there was rich food of many kinds, and the hall rang with song and laughter and conversation.
The feast was splendid, and, as I had realized, had obviously been planned for weeks. At betrothal feasts the men and the women were allowed to dine together, and shrieks of laughter and loud conversations came from all sides. As the guests of honor, my future husband and I sat between the emperor and the empress, with Anna Dalassena on my father’s other side. John, to my satisfaction, was relegated to a stool farther down the table, with Maria and our numerous cousins.
I lost track of the courses as I sat on my high purple pillow between my father and Nicephorus Bryennius. We had huge roasts of pork, carved into exquisite shapes by my father’s experts. We ate fish from both the rivers and the sea, one of them with my favorite green sauce. Fat ducks stuffed with raisins. Boiled chicken. Tiny fried artichokes that you could pop whole into your mouth. Sweet asparagus, many different salads. And fruit: apples, melons, dates.
There were hundreds of guests. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and courtiers—people familiar to me since my childhood—mingled with foreign visitors, and the babble of many tongues was deafening. I looked down the long rows of tables. There was redheaded Maria, soon to be betrothed herself. I caught a glimpse of a head of short gold hair and my heart skipped a beat. Was it Constantine? No, of course it couldn’t be. Still, my appetite suddenly deserted me, and I leaned back in my chair, feeling ill. But I knew better, this time, than to leave the room. So I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep from crying. A few tears oozed out and flowed down my cheeks as I remembered that long-ago conversation with Constantine. “Our first meeting was sweet,” he had said. My first meeting with Bryennius had not been unpleasant, but there had been nothing particularly sweet about it.
No one noticed my silence or my tears in the confusion of the banquet. Servants constantly moved among the tables,pouring red wine into the goblets. The company grew louder and louder, singing bridal songs. Some of them were in such ancient language that I could not comprehend all the words. But I understood enough to make me blush. I thought my mother would be scandalized, but she was singing with the rest of them. Her cheeks were flushed, and she laughed long and loud at some of the songs.
A servant refilled my goblet and I drank thirstily. My appetite made a weak return. The company feasted for hours. Occasionally I glanced over at Nicephorus Bryennius, who ate and drank eagerly. I knew he had recently returned from the war with my father and had probably been on short rations, but still I was scornful that he did not show the restraint one would expect of a scholar.
When the banquet drew to a close, diners leaned back from the table, faces greasy, belts loosened. A few had to be led from the room, as they were overcome by wine and heat. Everyone must have been eager to lie down, and I expected to hear my father dismiss the company, when I saw the priest approaching.
Father Agathos’ long robes were rumpled, and his beard seemed to have caught a little of everything he had eaten. My mother stood and motioned Bryennius and me to follow suit. I wished I had managed to slip away, but there was nothing for it now; I had to stay. I knelt on a cushion next to Bryennius and resigned myself to a long wait.
The priest started a prayer. We repeated the responses at the proper time—at least those of us who were not overcome by feasting. Father Agathos finished one prayer, and to my despair started another.
“… and for the return of His Majesty’s servants, and for the destruction of hordes of infidel Turks …” Sophia’s words came back to me: “I lived with my mother and father and brothers and little sister in a village far from Constantinople.” These were some of the infidel Turks Father Agathos was referring to. I pushed the thought from my mind.
Finally the priest reached the end of the blessing, sprinkled us with holy water, and after making a deep bow, withdrew. But escape was still not possible, for now Bryennius rose from his seat. All eyes turned in our direction. Bryennius took from a servant a richly decorated cedar box, its smell reminding me of the throne room. He opened the jeweled lid and pulled out a long belt, made of heavy links of gold, hammered flat and joined in such a way that the belt looked as though it were made of liquid fire. Holding it stretched between his two palms, he turned to me and bowed, saying, “With this girdle I make you my affianced bride,” and before I knew what he was doing, he had passed it around my waist and was fastening the clasp. I shrank from his touch, despite my efforts not to.
Next he reached back into the box and pulled out two rings, one encrusted with gems and the other in the shape of a snake biting its own tail. He slipped them on my fingers, his hands warm and dry as they held mine. All eyes were still on us, and I knew everyone expected me to say something. My head swam as I searched for words. Then I saw my grandmother’s slanted eyes looking at me, with a glint of what had to be satisfaction. So she thought I would freeze, did she? The thought gave me steel and I turned to face Bryennius.
“My lord,” I said. My voice sounded clear and strong, and could be heard through the room. “I, the firstborn of the emperor Alexius Comnenus, carry the blood of Digenis Akritas, the great hero who was ancestor of my mother’s Ducas family, and the blood of the Comneni, who have fought to redeem the holy city of Jerusalem from the infidels. The emperor has decreed that our family’s blood be further enriched by alliance with a great scholar and soldier. In this, as in all other matters, I obey the will of the emperor. What the emperor has once decreed may not be changed.”
My grandmother’s expression had altered. Instead of holding a glint of triumph, her eyes were veiled, their heavy lids half-closed as she looked at me appraisingly. I knew she had understood me: The emperor had once decreed that I, not John, should rule. This was the decree that I would not permit to be changed. I wondered if the little monkey had understood as well.
I continued. “Nicephorus Bryennius, I am honored by your gifts. By accepting them, I accept your proposal of marriage, as decreed by His Imperial Majesty, Alexius Comnenus.” I bowed to Bryennius, who bowed in return. Together we faced the emperor, and both of us knelt. He bade us rise, and dismissed the company.
The b
anquet was over.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
s was customary, Bryennius and I saw little of each other. Not that I would have wanted it otherwise; my betrothed was a pleasant enough person, but so dull that I had no desire to spend more time in his company than was demanded by our social duties.
My father had given me a wing of Balchernae Palace, my favorite of the residences in the imperial compound. I was able to put into practice the household arts I had been learning for several years. After all, I wearily reminded myself as day followed day in tedious sameness, my mother says that a palace is just a large house. I was mistress of the house, and was responsible for all its inhabitants, princess or no.
I had a small consolation when I found that of all the domestic arts I was now called upon to practice, I most enjoyed my skill in medicine. I treated the fevers people came down with in the summer, and children came to me with all their scrapes and bruises for me to anoint.
One afternoon all my tasks had been completed. The servants were sleeping, and I was too restless to lie down. Simon was working in the library, and I wandered through the room, looking for something to read. I pulled a book off the shelf and read the title. To my annoyance, it was a collection of hymns. I was about to find something more suited to my taste, when Simon spoke behind me.
“You might learn something from that book, Little Beetle,” he said.
“Why?” I asked, pausing with the book in midair. “Those are the hymns of Kassia. Do you not remember her?” he asked.
“Kassia?” I remembered the name, but little else. “A little nun who wrote pious verses, was she not?”
“I thought you knew better than to judge without seeing for yourself,” he said. “A fine historian you are. Read one and then tell me what you think.”
I opened the book at random to a hymn to St. Barbara. I read the opening lines aloud:
“The evil one has been dishonored,
defeated by a woman,
Anna of Byzantium Page 11
