And then, because he had always been shrewd, he understood. And astonishment came, even before she spoke.
“If you wish to speak with the Eldest Daughter, I am afraid you will have to address me, father. I did say sit down. Captain, please seat him.”
He was shaken, no denying it. But a man, any man at all, he could deal with. He turned to the sea captain. “If you try to make me do anything against my will, you’ll have to kill me. Because I will not do her bidding. Do you want murder set against your name before the Patriarch and the god?”
The captain did hesitate. But, to his distress, Erigio Valeri realized the pause was only tactical. The man slid his sword out and swung it expertly, flat and hard, to the back of Erigio’s knees. He knew that manoeuvre himself.
You could not remain standing when you were struck that way by someone who knew what he was doing. Valeri was driven to his knees.
“My lady, is it acceptable that he kneel?”
The captain was addressing Erigio’s daughter, who was, somehow, Eldest Daughter here, the authority in this room, and who now said, with poise, “I am content to have him kneel before me. Thank you, Captain.”
There was a stirring in the shadows. Forward from the gloom came an old woman, using a stick for support. She was tall, white-haired under a reddish-purple velvet cap. She had red paint on her cheeks, wore a heavy gold necklace and rings on many fingers—in some vain attempt at sophistication, Valeri thought. There were brothel-keepers in Mylasia and Rhodias who looked like this.
She stopped beside his daughter. “I take it,” she said, a clear, cold voice, “you wish me to sit in judgment on this one?”
“I do,” Leonora said. “I would be grateful.”
“You? Judge me?” Erigio cried. He was losing his temper. It happened. It tended to frighten people. He rose to his feet, ignoring pain (he was good at that). “Is this a mockery of Jad? An old hag dressed up and brought—”
He pitched forward to his knees again, gasping, for the flat-bladed blow was harder this time, and in exactly the same place.
Behind him, the man with the sword said, “Whatever you might be, whatever rank you claim, it is nothing next to hers. Touch your head to the floor.”
“What? Never! Why?”
It was his daughter who answered. “Because you are in the presence of the Empress Eudoxia of Sarantium, widow of an emperor and mother of one. And your judge this morning,” Leonora said. “Given that last, it might be wise to pay homage, father.”
Count Erigio Valeri began, just about then, to deeply regret having come to Dubrava.
—
EVERYTHING HAD MOVED SO SWIFTLY, Drago Ostaja thought. That same day, towards sunset, he found himself headed back to the isle, handling their smallest boat alone. He wasn’t sure why he was returning, but it was a pull he chose not to resist. He was trying hard to recall the sequence of events, understand what had happened today.
The empress-mother of Sarantium had sentenced an aristocrat of Mylasia to death. He retained a shocking clarity about that.
Her role as judge had been offered and accepted, given that the Eldest Daughter was apparently required to give testimony in the matter at hand. This was, it emerged, the murder of a Mylasian named Paulo Canavli who had been her lover and the father of her child. He had been, evidently, very young, as she had been. It wasn’t a new story in the world. The man had apparently been gelded before he was killed by the Valeri sons and retainers.
But before any testimony had been given or read out (there were letters from the Canavlis, sworn before clerics in Mylasia, and from others, who had witnessed the boy’s abduction), someone else arrived. With astonishment, Drago Ostaja had seen his employer escorted into the room.
Andrij Djivo, dressed expensively in brown and black, bowed to Leonora, then knelt before the empress. She extended a hand, he kissed one of her rings. His presence, Drago thought, explained the boat he’d seen leaving for the city as they waited on the dock. This had been, it was emerging, a carefully managed sequence of events.
Without speaking to the aristocrat in the room (Valeri had taken the chair assigned to him by then), Djivo sat down to one side. He was here to bear witness, it seemed, and his family had paid Leonora’s ransom.
A shockingly swift legal process had ensued.
It was swift because Erigio Valeri, clearly not a coward, whatever else he was, said, “I would be shamed to deny anything of this matter and I will not. The Canavli whelp despoiled my daughter and dishonoured our family. He was dealt with in a fashion that has a long history, as everyone in this room will know.”
“Indeed. The justice meted out for such dealing has a long history also,” the empress murmured. She added, “If the allegations are not denied, we need hear nothing more, and, to be honest, listening to long letters from somewhere in Batiara would be tedious. Keep them for the sanctuary records, send copies when you write the Patriarch, but there is guilt admitted here.”
She was looking at Erigio Valeri. “Some believe it is proper to allow an accused person to speak at this time. We see no reason or cause. We never did that in Sarantium. We affirm that the sentence for murder done in this fashion is death. Eldest Daughter of Jad, the means of administering this execution lie with you, and we trust that Gospodar Djivo will consent to witness our judgment and decree.”
Andrij Djivo, very grave, stood and bowed. “At your request, your grace,” he said. “If need be, and in this holy place.”
“There is nothing holy about this!” the man in the chair snapped. “Touch me and there will be consequences that cross the sea.”
Still no sign of fear. It was impressive, Drago thought. It suddenly occurred to him that he might be asked to perform the execution.
It hadn’t happened that way. One reason he found himself sailing back to the isle at the end of the day.
—
THEY LEFT DUBRAVA the next morning with the tide. Count Erigio Valeri stood at the prow looking west—not back at that accursed city. He found himself roiled by emotions that included rage and a shameful relief. And something else he couldn’t name. He had not slept the night before, here on the ship. He had been politely invited to dine in the city with the rector. He had pleaded indisposition.
Earlier, he had signed what they gave him to sign in that room where—impossibly—his daughter appeared to rule, with people bowing to her. Even the old woman, the empress, had deferred to Leonora.
The empress. He had seen the last empress of Sarantium. He had called her a hag. He winced at the memory. But how was he to have known?
She had sentenced him to die. He doubted that he was the first man she’d ordered executed. There had been someone in the room, the ship’s captain, a man he was certain knew how to kill efficiently—and would do so when Leonora asked.
She had not. She had let him live.
She’d had the power to decide if he lived, which was its own appalling truth. He looked at the waves in front of the ship, blue-green, bright in morning light. He hated the sea.
The merchant, Djivo, had witnessed the documents. In them, Count Erigio Valeri of Mylasia acknowledged that the city-state of Dubrava had done him and his family honourable service in saving his daughter from raiders at sea. Sums had been advanced by the Djivo family. They had been recompensed by the Rector’s Council and now, in turn, Valeri undertook to repay this sum, plus an amount (substantial), in gratitude and thanksgiving.
He wasn’t carrying nearly so much, of course. This was understood. What man carried that much in coin to sea? There were raiders! No, the necessary sums would be derived from the transfer—without payment from Dubrava—of the goods on the ship upon which he had arrived.
Since these goods were not Valeri’s, his steward, present with him, would calculate with Dubravae customs officers what their proper values were. Valeri would sign, in the customs
house, witnessed under seal, further documents affirming his debt to the merchants of his own city and of Rhodias who owned those goods, to be discharged when the ship returned to Mylasia. The owners would not be paid by Dubrava. They would be paid by Erigio Valeri.
He also undertook, in his daughter’s presence, to build a retreat outside Mylasia to honour the name of Paulo Canavli. And to endow it with funds to shelter and protect thirty Daughters of Jad, in perpetuity.
His steward had been instructed to confer immediately with Gospodar Andrij Djivo as to the sum this generosity demanded. Trust a Dubravae merchant, Erigio remembered thinking, to be able to do such ridiculous tradesman’s calculations.
He had signed this, too. Three copies. One would go to Rhodias, to the High Patriarch. It was a retreat and sanctuary being built, after all.
“This act of piety and contrition will,” his daughter had said serenely, “undoubtedly endear you to the Patriarch. Not a bad thing. Unless you fail to proceed with it. You might want to note that the document you have signed surrenders to the Canavli family our hunting lodge, and the lands and vineyards adjacent to it, if the sanctuary is not completed within two years. You would do well to build it. I believe that is all we need of you. You may go.”
—
IT GAVE DRAGO PLEASURE that they knew and trusted him on the isle. Arriving again later in the day he was waved on at the dock by the two servants there. He saw three of the younger Daughters in the garden, with baskets, and they smiled at him, one of them quite warmly, actually. His mother, he thought, would be pleased that he was welcome and known in a holy retreat.
He wondered what Sinan Isle would become under Leonora Valeri. She was very young, and she wasn’t, evidently, the most pious woman, Drago thought.
He also thought she was wonderful. He would have killed her father for her today, had she asked.
She was on the terrace now, he saw, approaching along the path from the water. His employer, Marin’s father, was still with her. They were drinking wine. The empress was not present. Leonora saw Drago and lifted a hand, gesturing for him to come up. He did, stepping onto the terrace and bowing to both of them. She motioned to a chair. He shook his head. He couldn’t sit and drink wine with Andrij Djivo. Too intimidating, not their proper roles at all. The son, yes, not the father. He removed his red cap, smoothed his hair.
“I thought you might come back,” Leonora Valeri said.
“My lady,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say.
“You are uncertain about what happened here, and would like to understand. Perhaps write Marin about it? To Asharias.”
He had thought he might do that.
“If he is there,” Andrij Djivo said. He looked thoughtful, but he usually did. He was a good man, Drago had always felt, but not a forthcoming or an expressive one. “We can’t know. They may outpace any letters home, depending on how long he stays.”
“Well, Signore Villani has a portrait to paint,” the woman beside him said. “Would your son leave him there?”
“If he purchased certain goods, and the artist’s commission was to take some time, I’d expect him to. They are only travelling companions.”
“Indeed,” Leonora Valeri said. You couldn’t tell what she thought about that. Or, Drago couldn’t.
“I did have a letter this week concerning them. To my surprise.”
“Your surprise?” Leonora smiled, encouragingly.
It occurred to Drago that women were often expected to say things like this, helping men along with their stories. She poured more wine for her guest.
“From Rasca Tripon, as it happens. Men know him as Skandir.”
Drago’s eyes widened. He was less skilled by far than either of these two at concealing reactions. It would be good to get better at that, he thought. It was probably too late in his life.
“They do,” Leonora agreed. “The party encountered Skandir? How interesting.”
“It seems they did. He attacked a good-sized company of Osmanli soldiers. Killed them all. He reports that Marin assisted courageously, as did our Senjani guard. He says he parted with our group the next day, and that Danica Gradek left my employ and went with him. He apologizes for that, and commends my son for integrity and bravery.” Andrij Djivo drank. “It wasn’t a prudent thing for Marin to do, getting involved with Skandir in a battle.”
“You fear for him?” Leonora asked gently.
“Well . . .” Her guest shook his head. “This will have happened some time ago. It is late now to fear.”
“A parent who loves his children must always be a little afraid for them, I suppose.”
And even Drago Ostaja, not the most subtle of men, as he’d have been the first to declare, could see the line that ran, straight as windbreak trees along the edge of a field, between those quiet words and what had happened here today—and in Mylasia some time ago.
They heard a tapping sound, approaching. All three of them turned. The empress came to the edge of the terrace. She seemed to be leaning on her stick more heavily now. Drago bowed again. Djivo rose and did the same.
Drago thought, How often does one bow? And then answered himself: Every time. The shame of Sarantium lay upon them. He felt it as a stone.
The old woman was looking at Leonora. Her expression was impatient. “A mistake. You ought to have had him executed,” she said. “It would have been better for your power if he died here.”
“I don’t name that as my highest goal,” Leonora said. Her eyes, Drago saw, met the empress’s.
“And we have told you it should be. A woman cannot afford otherwise.”
“We’ll have to see. I did consider your counsel, my lady empress.”
“I did consider your counsel,” the old woman mocked, savagely.
Andrij Djivo was still standing, a hand on the back of his chair. He looked uneasy. Not a clash he’d wish to be observing, Drago thought. His own feelings were simpler: he would protect Leonora Valeri against anyone, including a woman who’d worn porphyry in Sarantium.
“I am happier this way,” Leonora said mildly. “The ransom paid for me is redressed. A retreat will be built in Paulo’s name. And I don’t know how useful it would have been to become known as a woman who killed her father.”
“Not killed. Executed, with authority. For a crime. You had the law with you.”
“Perhaps. The law is slippery, and so are the men at the Patriarch’s court. We didn’t need further notoriety after Filipa di Lucaro. Or so I decided. Forgive me if you disagree.”
“You were afraid,” Eudoxia said bluntly. She lifted her head. “Women tend to be.”
Leonora shrugged, looked away and then back. “Will you take a glass of wine, your grace?”
The empress stared at her. “You would put us off like that?”
Leonora’s expression changed. “I am not putting you off, nor will I ever. I was not fearful. I believe I found a better course. I am grateful for guidance but I will not abdicate from thinking. Would you have me do so? What power would I have then?”
Drago looked from one woman to the other. The breeze was cool from the west but it was still mild on the terrace.
The empress drew a breath. “We are tired,” she said. “He called us a hag.”
Leonora actually smiled. “He did, didn’t he? A terribly foolish man. You do prefer to surprise people with your presence. That sort of thing will happen. The west is not familiar with empresses of Sarantium.”
“Sarantium is lost,” the older woman said.
“To our shame,” Andrij Djivo said, gravely.
The empress stared at him. “Shame? Really? You deal with its conqueror every day, merchant. Your son is there now, trading with him.”
Djivo inclined his head. “The world comes to us as it does, your grace. We can die in folly or in courage, or live as well as ordinary men ca
n. We were not all born to be heroes, and peace is better than war for most of us.”
Another silence. Into it, Leonora said, as if to change the mood, “I spoke of empresses, and have had a thought. My lady, do you know the mosaics of Varena? There are two empresses of Sarantium in a sanctuary there, across from each other. They are said to be a thousand years old. I saw them once. My . . . my father took me with him there. We could go together one day, you and I, if you had any—”
“Really? Why would we want to see images of a whore and a barbarian woman presented to the world as deserving the purple?”
The words were a weapon. Drago bit his lip. He saw that his employer looked shaken again. Leonora did not. She said (and Drago Ostaja never forgot the moment), “Forgive me, empress, but it is known that the founder of your husband’s line was an army officer from eastern lands, and also not the son of his father’s wife. Your husband, may Jad shelter him, was famously ill-prepared for Osmanli incursions, and your son, who is surely with the god in light, was brave on the walls and reckless of death, but that recklessness included an indifference to the fate of half a million people in his city. I will never question your anger, my lady, but need it be extended to everyone? Even women dead long ago? I only ask, and I do know you are fatigued. As am I.”
It was as if, Drago thought, a cannon had just gone off. One ship hitting another broadside, wreaking devastation. And with words only, spoken quietly, even gently.
Leonora Valeri, he decided in that moment, was unlikely to need his protection, except in ways she requested herself.
He waited for the counterblast. It never came. Instead, to his astonishment, the one who had been an empress smiled faintly at the younger woman. “Interesting,” she whispered. “We were wrong. You weren’t afraid. Not all of us are fearful.”
“Not in all things,” Leonora replied. “I have many fears. I would like you by my side for a long time yet.”
The empress nodded her head, did so with grace. “We are not leaving you. The length of time is with the god, as all things are. We will retire now, and perform the evening rites and eat in our own chambers tonight.” She paused. “In the morning, Eldest Daughter of Jad.”