Up the Line

by Robert Silverberg

  53.

  Metaxas, who had not spoken for fifteen minutes, said finally, “If those of you who are going are ready to go, I’ll get a chariot to take you into town.”

  Kolettis shook his head. “We haven’t allotted eras yet. But it’ll take only a minute.”

  There was a buzzing consultation over the chart. It was decided that Kolettis would cover 700–725, Plastiras 1150–1175, and I would inspect 725–745. Pappas had brought a plague suit with him and was going to make a survey of the plague years 745–747, just in case Sauerabend had looped into that proscribed period by accident.

  I was surprised that they trusted me to make a time-jump all by myself, considering what they obviously thought of me. But I suppose they figured I couldn’t get into any worse trouble. Off we went to town in one of Metaxas’ chariots. Each of us carried a small but remarkably accurate portrait of Conrad Sauerabend, painted on a varnished wooden plaque by a contemporary Byzantine artist hired by Metaxas. The artist had worked from a holophoto; I wonder what he’d made of that.

  When we reached Constantinople proper, we split up and, one by one, timed off to the eras we were supposed to search. I materialized up the line in 725 and realized the little joke that had been played on me.

  This was the beginning of the era of iconoclasm, when Emperor Leo III had first denounced the worship of painted images. At that time, most of the Byzantines were fervent iconodules—image-worshippers—and Leo set out to smash the cult of icons, first by speaking and preaching against them, then by destroying an image of Christ in the chapel of the Chalke, or Brazen House, in front of the Great Palace. After that things got worse; images and image-makers were persecuted, and Leo’s son issued a proclamation declaring, “There shall be rejected, removed and cursed out of the Christian Church every likeness which is made out of any material whatever by the evil art of painters.”

  And in such an era I was supposed to walk around town holding a little painting of Conrad Sauerabend, asking people, “Have you seen this man anywhere?”

  My painting wasn’t exactly an icon. Nobody who looked at it was likely to mistake Sauerabend for a saint. Even so, it caused a lot of trouble for me.

  “Have you seen this man anywhere?” I asked, and took out the painting.

  In the marketplace.

  In the bathhouses.

  On the steps of Haghia Sophia.

  Outside the Great Palace.

  “Have you seen this man anywhere?”

  In the Hippodrome during a polo match.

  At the annual distribution of free bread and fish to the poor on May 11, celebrating the anniversary of the founding of the city.

  In front of the Church of Saints Sergius and Bacchus.

  “I’m looking for this man whose portrait I have here.”

  Half the time, I didn’t even manage to get the painting fully into the open. They’d see a man pulling an icon from his tunic, and they’d run away, screaming, “Iconodule dog! Worshipper of images!”

  “But this isn’t—I’m only looking for—you mustn’t mistake this painting for—won’t you come back?”

  I got pushed and shoved and expectorated upon. I got bullied by imperial guards and glowered at by iconoclastic priests. Several times I was invited to attend underground ceremonies of secret iconodules.

  I didn’t get much information about Conrad Sauerabend.

  Still, despite all the difficulties, there were always some people who looked at the painting. None of them had seen Sauerabend, although a few “thought” they had noticed someone resembling the man in the picture. I wasted two days tracking one of the supposed resemblers, and found no resemblance at all.

  I kept on, jumping from year to year. I lurked at the fringes of tourist groups, thinking that Sauerabend might prefer to stick close to people of his own era.

  Nothing. No clue.

  Finally, footsore and discouraged, I hopped back down to 1105. At Metaxas’ place I found only Pappas, who looked even more weary and bedraggled than I did.

  “It’s useless,” I said. “We aren’t going to find him. It’s like looking for—looking for—”

  “A needle in a timestack,” Pappas said helpfully.

  54.

  I had earned a little rest before I returned to that long night in 1204 and sent my alter ego here to continue the search. I bathed, slept, banged a garlicky slavegirl two or three times, and brooded. Kolettis returned: no luck. Plastiras came back: no luck. They went down the line to resume their Courier jobs. Gompers, Herschel, and Melamed, donating time from their current layoffs, appeared and immediately set out on the quest for Sauerabend. The more Couriers who volunteered to help me in my time of need, the worse I felt.

  I decided to console myself in Pulcheria’s arms.

  I mean, as long as I happened to be in the right era, and as long as Jud B had neglected to stop in to see her, it seemed only proper. We had had some sort of date. Just about the last thing Pulcheria had said to me after that night of nights was, “We’ll meet again two days hence, yes? I’ll arrange everything.”

  How long ago had that been?

  At least two weeks on the 1105 now-time basis, I figured. Maybe three.

  She was supposed to have sent a message to me at Metaxas’, telling me where and how we could have our second meeting. In my concern with Sauerabend I had forgotten about that. Now I raced all around the villa, asking Metaxas’ butlers and his major domo if any messages had arrived from town for me.

  “No,” they said. “No messages.”

  “Think carefully. I’m expecting an important message from the Ducas palace. From Pulcheria Ducas.”

  “From whom?”

  “Pulcheria Ducas.”

  “No messages, sir.”

  I clothed myself in my finest finery and clipclopped into Constantinople. Did I dare present myself at the Ducas place uninvited? I did dare. My country-bumpkin cover identity would justify my possible breach of etiquette.

  At the gate of the Ducas palace I rang for the servants, and an old groom came out, the one who had shown me to the chamber that night where Pulcheria had given herself to me. I smiled in a friendly way; the groom peered blankly back. Forgotten me, I thought.

  I said, “My compliments to Lord Leo and Lady Pulcheria, and would you kindly tell them that George Markezinis of Epirus is here to call upon them?”

  “To Lord Leo and Lady—” the groom repeated.

  “Pulcheria,” I said. “They know me. I’m cousin to Themistoklis Metaxas, and—” I hesitated, feeling even more foolish than usual at giving my pedigree to a groom. “Get me the major-domo,” I snapped.

  The groom scuttled within.

  After a long delay, an imperious-looking individual in the Byzantine equivalent of livery emerged and surveyed me.

  “Yes?”

  “My compliments to Lord Leo and Lady Pulcheria, and would you kindly tell them—”

  “Lady who?”

  “Lady Pulcheria, wife to Leo Ducas. I am George Markezinis of Epirus, cousin to Themistoklis Metaxas, who only several weeks ago attended the party given by—”

  “The wife to Leo Ducas,” said the major-domo frostily, “is named Euprepia.”

  “Euprepia?”

  “Euprepia Ducas, the lady of this household. Man, what do you want here? If you come drunken in the middle of the day to trouble Lord Leo, I—”

  “Wait,” I said. “Euprepia? Not Pulcheria?” A golden bezant flickered into my hand and fluttered swiftly across to the waiting palm of the major-domo. “I’m not drunk, and this is important. When did Leo marry this—this Euprepia?”

  “Four years ago.”

  “Four—years—ago. No, that’s impossible. Five years ago he married Pulcheria, who—”

  “You must be mistaken. The Lord Leo has been married only once, to Euprepia Macrembolitissa, the mother of his son Basil and of his daughter Zoe.”

  The hand came forth. I dropped another bezant into it.

  Dizzily I m
urmured, “His eldest son is Nicetas, who isn’t even born yet, and he isn’t supposed to have a son named Basil at all, and—my God, are you playing a game with me?”

  “I swear before Christ Pantocrator that I have said no word but the truth,” declared the major-domo resonantly.

  Tapping my pouch of bezants, I said, desperate now, “Would it be possible for me to have an audience with the Lady Euprepia?”

  “Perhaps so, yes. But she is not here. For three months now she has rested at the Ducas palace on the coast at Trebizond, where she awaits her next child.”

  “Three months. Then there was no party here a few weeks ago?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The Emperor Alexius wasn’t here? Nor Themistoklis Metaxas? Nor George Markezinis of Epirus? Nor—”

  “None of those, sir. Can I help you further?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, and went staggering from the gate of the Ducas palace like unto one who has been smitten by the wrath of the gods.

  55.

  Dismally I wandered in a southeasterly way along the Golden Horn until I came to the maze of shops, marketplaces, and taverns near the place where there would one day be the Galata Bridge, and where today there is still a maze of shops, marketplaces, and taverns. Through those narrow, interweaving, chaotic streets I marched like a zombie, having no destination. I saw not, neither did I think; I just put one foot ahead of the other one and kept going until, early in the afternoon, kismet once more seized me by the privates.

  I stumbled randomly into a tavern, a two-story structure of unpainted boards. A few merchants were downing their midday wine. I dropped down heavily at a warped and wobbly table in an unoccupied corner of the room and sat staring at the wall, thinking about Leo Ducas’ pregnant wife Euprepia.

  A comely tavern-slut appeared and said, “Some wine?”

  “Yes. The stronger the better.”

  “A little roast lamb too?”

  “I’m not hungry, thanks.”

  “We make very good lamb here.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said. I stared somberly at her ankles. They were very good ankles. I looked up at her calves, and then her legs vanished within the folds of her simple cloth wrap. She strode away and came back with a flask of wine. As she set it before me, the front of her wrap fell away at her throat, and I peered in at the two pale, full, rosy-tipped breasts that swung freely there. Then at last I looked at her face.

  She could have been Pulcheria’s twin sister.

  Same dark, mischievous eyes. Same flawless olive skin. Same full lips and aquiline nose. Same age, about seventeen. The differences between this girl and my Pulcheria were differences of dress, of posture, and of expression. This girl was coarsely clad; she lacked Pulcheria’s aristocratic elegance of bearing; and there was a certain pouting sullenness about her, the look of a girl who is living below her station in life and is angry about it.

  I said, “You could almost be Pulcheria!”

  She laughed harshly. “What kind of nonsensical talk is that?”

  “A girl I know, who resembles you closely—Pulcheria, her name is—”

  “Are you insane, or only drunk? I am Pulcheria. Your little game isn’t pleasing to me, stranger.”

  “You—Pulcheria?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Pulcheria Ducas?”

  She cackled in my face. “Ducas, you say? Now I know you’re crazy. Pulcheria Photis, wife of Heracles Photis the innkeeper!”

  “Pulcheria—Photis—” I repeated numbly. “Pulcheria—Photis—wife—of—Heracles—Photis—”

  She leaned close over me, giving me a second view of her miraculous breasts. Not haughty now but worried, she said in a low voice, “I can tell by your clothes that you’re someone important. What do you want here? Has Heracles done something wrong?”

  “I’m here just for wine,” I said. “But listen, tell me this one thing: are you the Pulcheria who was born Botaniates?”

  She looked stunned. “You know that!”

  “It’s true?”

  “Yes,” said my adored Pulcheria, and sank down next to me on the bench. “But I am a Botaniates no longer. For five years now—ever since Heracles—the filthy Heracles—ever since he—” She took some of my wine in her agitation. “Who are you, stranger?”

  “George Markezinis of Epirus.”

  The name meant nothing to her.

  “Cousin to Themistoklis Metaxas.”

  She gasped. “I knew you were someone important! I knew!” Trembling prettily, she said, “What do you want with me?”

  The other patrons in the tavern were beginning to stare at us. I said, “Can we go somewhere to talk? Someplace private?”

  Her eyes took on a cool, knowing look. “Just a moment,” she said, and went out of the tavern. I heard her calling to someone, shouting like any fishwife, and after a moment a ragged girl of about fifteen came into the room. Pulcheria said, “Look after things, Anna. I’m going to be busy.” To me she said, “We can go upstairs.”

  She led me to a bedchamber on the second floor of the building and carefully bolted the door behind us.

  “My husband,” she said, “has gone to Galata to buy meat, and will not be back for two hours. While the loathsome pig is away, I don’t mind earning a bezant or two from a handsome stranger.”

  Her clothing fell away and she stood incandescently nude before me. Her smile was a defiant one, a smile that said that she retained her inner self no matter what stains of degration others inflicted on her. Her eyes flashed with lusty zeal.

  I stood dazzled before those high, heavy breasts, whose nipples were visibly hardening, and before that flat, taut belly with its dark, mounded bush, and before those firm muscular thighs and before those outstretched, beckoning arms.

  She tumbled down onto the rough cot. She flexed her knees and drew her legs apart.

  “Two bezants?” she suggested.

  Pulcheria transformed into a tavern whore? My goddess? My adored one?

  “Why do you hesitate?” she asked. “Come, climb aboard, give the fat dog Heracles another pair of horns. What’s wrong? Do I seem ugly to you?”

  “Pulcheria—Pulcheria—I love you, Pulcheria—”

  She giggled, shrill in her delight. She waved her heels at me.

  “Come on, then!”

  “You were Leo Ducas’ wife,” I murmured. “You lived in a marble palace, and wore silk robes, and went about the city escorted by a watchful duenna. And the emperor was at your party, and just before dawn you came to me, and gave yourself to me, and it was all a dream, Pulcheria, all a dream, eh?”

  “You are a madman,” she said. “But a handsome madman, and I yearn to have you between my legs, and I yearn also for your bezants. Come close. Are you shy? Look, put your hand here, feel how hot Pulcheria grows, how she throbs—”

  I was rigid with desire, but I knew I couldn’t touch her. Not this Pulcheria, this coarse, shameless, wanton, sluttish wench, this gorgeous creature who capered and pumped and writhed impatiently on the cot before me.

  I pulled out my pouch and emptied it over her nakedness, dumping golden bezants into her navel, her loins, spilling them across her breasts. Pulcheria shrieked in astonishment. She sat up, clutching at the money, scrambling for it, her breasts heaving and swaying, her eyes bright.

  I fled.

  56.

  At the villa I found Metaxas and said, “What’s the name of Leo Ducas’ wife?”

  “Pulcheria.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Three weeks ago, when we went to that party.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re suffering from Transit Displacement, and so am I. Leo Ducas is married to someone named Euprepia, and has two children by her, and a third on the way. And Pulcheria is the wife of a tavern-keeper named Heracles Photis.”

  “Have you gone spotty potty?” Metaxas asked.

  “The past has been changed. I don’t know how it happened, but there’s been a chang
e, right in my own ancestry, don’t you see, and Pulcheria’s no longer my ancestress, and God knows if I even exist any more. If I’m not descended from Leo Ducas and Pulcheria, then who am I descended from, and—”

  “When did you find all this out?”

  “Just now. I went to look for Pulcheria, and—Christ, Metaxas, what am I going to do?”

  “Maybe there’s been a mistake,” he said calmly.

  “No. No. Ask your own servants. They don’t undergo Transit Displacement. Ask them if they’ve ever heard of a Pulcheria Ducas. They haven’t. Ask them the name of Leo Ducas’ wife. Or go into town and see for yourself. There’s been a change in the past, don’t you see, and everything’s different, and—Christ, Metaxas! Christ!”

  He took hold of my wrists and said in a very quiet tone, “Tell me all about this from the beginning, Jud.”

  But I had no chance to. For just then big black Sam came rushing into the hall, whooping and screaming.

  “We found him! God damn, but we found him!”

  “Who?” Metaxas said.

  “Who?” I said simultaneously.

  “Who?” Sam repeated. “Who the hell do you think? Sauerabend. Conrad F. X. Sauerabend himself!”

  “You found him?” I said, limp with relief. “Where? When? How?”

  “Right here in 1105,” said Sam. “This morning, Melamed and I were in the marketplace, just checking around a little, and we showed the picture, and sure enough, some peddler of pig’s feet recognized him. Sauerabend’s been living in Constantinople for the past five or six years, running a tavern down near the water. He goes under the name of Heracles Photis—”

  “No!” I bellowed. “No, you black nigger bastard, no, no, no, no, no! It isn’t true!”