‘My brother,’ she said. ‘Lecanus. He has taken his revenge for our father. He sent word to me this morning that he was coming here. Had obviously bribed his guards on the island, and through them the Excubitors at the doors here.’
‘And you came?’
‘Of course I came. Too late to stop it. The Emperor was dead, and the two soldiers. And the Calysian had already killed Lecanus.’
The lies, so effortless, so necessary. The words that might make this work, for all of them.
She said, ‘My brother is dead.’
‘Rot his evil soul,’ said her husband flatly. ‘What was the Calysian doing here?’
‘A good question to ask him,’ Styliane said. The left side of her face was red where he’d hit her. ‘We might have an answer had someone not blundered in waving a sword.’
‘Careful, wife. I still have the sword. You are a Daleinus, and by your own statement your family has just murdered our holy Emperor.’
‘Yes, husband,’ she said. ‘They have. Will you kill me now, my dear?’
Leontes was silent. Looked back, for the first time. Saw Pertennius watching. His expression did not change. He turned to his wife again. ‘We are on the very eve of war. Today. It was to be announced today. And now there are tidings that the Bassanids are across the border in the north, breaking the peace. And the Emperor is dead. We have no Emperor, Styliane.’
Styliane Daleina smiled then. Pertennius saw it. A woman so beautiful it could stop your breath. ‘We will,’ she said. ‘We will very soon. My lord.’
And she knelt, exquisite and golden among the blackened bodies of the dead, before her husband.
Pertennius stepped away from the wall and went forward a few steps and did the same, falling to both knees, lowering his head to the floor. There was a long silence in the tunnel.
‘Pertennius,’ said Leontes, at length, ‘there is much to be done. The Senate will have to be called into session. Go to the kathisma in the Hippodrome. Immediately. Tell Bonosus to come back here with you. Do not tell him why but make it clear he must come.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Styliane looked at him. She was still on her knees. ‘Do you understand? Tell no one what has happened here, or about the Bassanid attack. We must have order in the City tonight, to control this.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
Leontes looked at her. ‘The army is here. It will not be the same as . . . the last time there was no heir.’
His wife looked back at him, and then at her brother, beside her on the ground.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not the same.’ And then she said it again, ‘Not the same.’
Pertennius saw the Strategos reach out then and help her to rise. His hand went to her bruised cheek, gently this time. She did not move, but her eyes were on his. They were so golden, the two of them, Pertennius thought, so tall. His heart was swelling.
He stood and turned and went. He had orders to obey.
He entirely forgot there was blood on his dagger, neglected to clean it all that day, but no one paid any attention to him so it didn’t matter.
He was so seldom noticed; an historian, a recorder of events, hovering and grey, present everywhere, but not ever someone who ever played any kind of role in events.
Going up the stairs swiftly, then hurrying through the palace towards an upper staircase and the enclosed walkway that led to the rear of the kathisma, he was already casting his mind after phrasings, a way to begin. The proper tone of detachment and reflection at the outset of a chronicle was so important. Even the most perfunctory study of past events teaches that Jad’s just retribution for the godless and evil may be long in coming but . . .
He stopped abruptly, forcing one of the eunuchs in a corridor to sidestep him quickly. He was wondering where the whore was. She was unlikely—surely—to be in the kathisma, though that would have been something to observe. Was she still in her bath in the other palace, naked and slippery with a soldier? He smoothed his tunic. Styliane would deal with her, he thought.
We must have order in the City tonight, she had said.
He knew what she meant. How could he not? The last death of an Emperor without a named heir had been Apius’s, and in the violence that followed that—in the Hippodrome and the streets and even the Imperial Senate chamber—an ignorant Trakesian peasant had been lifted on a shield, acclaimed by the rabble, robed in porphyry. Order was hugely important now, and calm among the eighty thousand in the Hippodrome.
It crossed his mind that if all went as it should, by the end of this day his own status might rise a great deal. He thought of another woman, then, and smoothed his tunic again.
He was very happy, a rare, almost an unprecedented state for him, as he carried enormous, world-shaking tidings to the kathisma, with blood on the blade in his belt.
The sun was high above the City, past its peak, going down, but that day—and night—had a long way yet to go in Sarantium.
In the tunnel, among the dead, two golden figures stood looking at each other in silence, and then walked slowly out and up the wide stairs, not touching, but side by side.
On the stones behind them, on the mosaic stones under a blue cloak, lay Valerius of Sarantium, the second of that name. His body. What was left of it. His soul was gone, to dolphins, to the god, to wherever souls go.
SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD, just then, a longed-for child was born and somewhere a labourer died, leaving a farm grievously undermanned with the spring fields still to be ploughed and the crops all to be planted. A calamity beyond words.
CHAPTER XII
The Imperial boat tacked across the straits—no dolphins to be seen this time—and was docked with flawless expertise by a worried crew. Crispin was not the only one watching the port anxiously during their approach.
Men had been killed on the isle. At least two of the Excubitors’ own number were traitors. Daleinus had escaped. The Empress had left them to row back with one man only. Danger was in the brightness of the air.
No one new was waiting for them, however. No enemies, no friends, no one at all. They came into the slip and the dock crew moored them with the ropes and then stood by, waiting for the Empress to descend.
Whatever the shape of the plot unfolding today, Crispin thought, on the isle, in the Imperial Precinct, it had not been so precisely devised as to include the possibility that the Empress might be taking a pleasure cruise with a visiting artisan, to look at dolphins—and visit a prisoner on an island.
Alixana, he thought, could have stayed with them after all to sail home. But then what? Have herself carried in the litter back to the Attenine Palace or the Traversite to inquire if her husband had been attacked or killed yet by Lecanus Daleinus and the suborned Excubitors, and did they have any immediate plans for her?
It was the Excubitors in the plot, he realized, that had made her certain there was a large scheme unfolding here.If the Imperial Guard were being turned, any of them, something deadly and immediate was at work. This was not simply an escape by a prisoner, a flight to freedom.
No, he knew why she’d left her robe on the strand to make her way back in secrecy. He wondered if he’d ever see her again. Or the Emperor. And then he wondered— for he had to—what would happen to him when it was learned, as it surely would be, that he’d made this morning’s journey with the Empress across the water. They would ask him what he knew. He didn’t know what he would say. He didn’t know, yet, who would be asking.
He thought about Styliane then. Remembering what she’d said to him before he’d left her in the night, through a window into the courtyard. Some events must happen now. I will not say I am sorry. Remember this room, though, Rhodian. Whatever else I do.
He was not so innocent as to believe that the ruined brother on the isle, even with his bird-soul, had shaped his escape alone. Crispin wondered where his anger was: it had defined him for two years. Anger, he thought, was a luxury of sorts. It offered simplicity. There was nothing simple here. A thing wa
s done once, she had said, and all else follows upon it.
All else. An empire, a world, all who lived within that world. The shape of the past defining the shape of the present. I will not say I am sorry.
He remembered going up the dark stairs, desire running in him like a river. The bitter complexity of her. Remembered it as he would always now remember Alixana, too. Images begetting images. The Empress on the stony beach. The whore, Pertennius had called her in his secret papers. Vile things, such hatred. Anger was easier, Crispin thought.
He looked down. The crew on the dock were standing in order, still expecting the Empress to descend. The Excubitors and sailors aboard looked uncertainly at each other and then—it might have been amusing had there been any space for laughter in the world—at Crispin, for guidance. Their leader had gone with the Empress.
Crispin shook his head. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘Go to your posts. Report, I suppose. Whatever you do when . . . this sort of thing happens.’ This sort of thing. He felt like an idiot. Linon would have told him as much.
Carullus would have known what to say to them. But Crispin was not a soldier. Nor had his father been. Though that hadn’t stopped Horius Crispus from dying in battle, had it? Styliane’s father had burned. That abomination on the isle had been handsome once, and proud. Crispin thought of the god’s image on the dome in Sauradia, his face grey, his fingers broken in the struggle against evil.
And he was falling, piece by piece.
They lowered the wide plank to the dock. They didn’t unroll the carpet. The Empress was not here. Crispin went down and away from all of them amid the bustle of a harbour preparing for war, and no one stopped him, no one even noted his passing.
In the distance as he walked from the sea he could hear a roaring sound. The Hippodrome. Men and women watching horses run for their delight. There was a sickness within him, a black foreboding in the day. Some events must happen now.
He had no idea where to go, what to do. The taverns would be quiet, with so many at the Hippodrome, but he didn’t want to sit somewhere and get drunk. Yet. With the chariots running, Carullus wouldn’t be at home, he thought, nor would Shirin. Artibasos would be in the Sanctuary, and so would Pardos and Vargos, almost certainly. He could go to work. He could always do that. He had been working this morning when she’d come for him. He’d been trying to summon the distance and the clarity to render his daughters on the dome, that they might be there for as near to forever as an artisan could dream of achieving.
He didn’t have any of it now. Not the girls, or distance or clarity. Not even the simplicity of anger any more. For the first time Crispin could remember, the thought of going up and absorbing himself in craft repelled him. He had seen men die this morning, had struck a blow himself. Going up the ladder now would be . . . a coward’s retreat. And he would badly mar whatever work he tried to do today.
Another huge roar from the Hippodrome. He was walking that way. Entered into the Hippodrome Forum, saw the vast bulk of the building, the Sanctuary across the way, the statue of the first Valerius and the Bronze Gates beyond it, leading into the Imperial Precinct.
Events were happening there now, or had already happened. He looked at those gates, standing very still in a huge space. Imagined walking up and seeking admittance. An urgent need to speak to the Emperor. About some aspect of his dome, colour choices, the angle of tesserae. Could he be announced and presented?
Crispin became aware that his mouth was very dry and his heart was hammering painfully. He was a Rhodian, from a fallen, conquered land, one that Valerius was proposing to visit again with devastating war. He’d sent messages home, to his mother, his friends, knowing they would mean nothing, could achieve nothing.
He ought to hate the man who was readying this fleet, these soldiers. Instead, he was remembering Valerius one night in the Sanctuary, running his hand through the hair of a rumpled architect, like a mother, telling him—ordering him—to go home and sleep.
Were the Antae better than what Sarantium might bring to the peninsula? Especially the Antae as they would be now, civil war savagely portended. There were more deaths coming, whether Valerius’s army sailed or not.
And assassination attempts were not confined to barbarians like the Antae, Crispin thought, looking at the proud glory of those bronze gates. He wondered if Valerius was dead; thought again of Alixana. On the beach just now, the surf-washed stones: When your wife died . . . how did you go on living?
How had she known to ask that?
He ought not to care so much. He ought to still be a stranger here, detached from these glittering, deadly figures and whatever was happening today. These people—women and men—were so far beyond him they moved through an entirely different space in Jad’s creation. He was an artisan. A layer of glass and stone. Whoever ruled, he had told Martinian once, in his anger, there would be work for mosaicists, why should they be concerned with what intrigues happened in palaces?
He was marginal, incidental . . . and burdened with images. He looked at the Bronze Gates, still hesitating, still imagining an approach, but then he turned away.
He went to a chapel. Randomly chosen, the first one he came to along a lane running down and east. Not a street he knew. The chapel was small, quiet, nearly empty, a handful of women, mostly older, shapes in shadow, murmuring, no cleric at this hour. The chariots taking the people away. An old, old battle. Here the sunlight almost disappeared into a pallid half-light filtering through too-small windows ringing a low dome. No decorations. Mosaics were expensive, so were frescoes. It was obvious no wealthy people attended here, salving their souls with gifts to the clerics. There were lamps suspended from overhead in a single line from altar to doors, a handful of others at the side altars, but only a few of them were lit: they would be frugal with oil, at winter’s end.
Crispin stood for a time facing the altar and the disk, and then he knelt—no cushions here—on the hard floor and closed his eyes. Among women at prayer he thought of his mother: small and brave and exquisite, scent of lavender always about her, alone for so long, since his father died. He felt very far away.
Someone rose, signed the disk, and walked out. An old woman, bent with her years. Crispin heard the door open and swing shut behind him. It was very quiet. And then, in that stillness, he heard someone begin to sing.
He looked up. No one else seemed to stir. The voice, delicate and plaintive, was off to his left. He seemed to see a shadowy figure there, at one of the side altars where the lamp was not burning. There were a handful of candles lit by the altar but he couldn’t even tell if the singer was a girl or an older woman, the light was so subdued.
He did realize, after a moment, collecting his meandering thoughts, that the voice was singing in Trakesian, which was entirely strange. The liturgy here was always chanted in Sarantine.
His command of Trakesian—the old tongue of those who had ruled much of the world before Rhodias—was precarious, but as he listened it came to Crispin that what he was hearing was a lament.
No one else moved. No one entered. He knelt among praying women in a dim, holy place and listened to a voice sing of sorrow in an ancient tongue, and it occurred to him that music was one of the things that had not been in his life since Ilandra died. Her night songs for the girls had been for him, as well, listening in the house.
Who knows love?
Who says he knows love?
This singer, a shape and barely that, a voice without a body, was not singing a Kindath lullaby. She was offering— Crispin finally understood—an entirely pagan sorrow: the corn maiden and the antlered god, the Sacrifice and the Hunted One. In a chapel of Jad. Images that had already been ancient when Trakesia was great.
Crispin shivered, kneeling on stone. Looked again to his left, eyes straining to pierce the gloom. Only a shadow. Candles. Only a voice. No one moved.
And it came to him then, feeling unseen spirits hovering in the dimness, that Valerius the Emperor had been Petrus of Trakesia be
fore he came south to his uncle from the northern fields, and that he would have known this song.
And with that, there came another thought and Crispin closed his eyes again and named himself a fool. For if this were true—and of course it was—then Valerius would also have known exactly what the bison in Crispin’s sketches for the Sanctuary was. He was from northern Trakesia, the forests and grainlands, places where pagan roots had been in the soil for centuries.
Valerius would have recognized the zubir as soon as he’d seen it in the drawings.
And he had said nothing. Had given the sketches to the Eastern Patriarch, had approved them for the dome of his own legacy, his Sanctuary of Jad’s Holy Wisdom. Awareness entered Crispin like a wind. Overwhelmed, he pushed his hands through his hair.
What man dared try to reconcile so many things in the span of a single life, he thought. East and west brought together again, north coming down to south, a faction dancer becoming an Empress. The daughter of one’s enemy and . . . victim, married to one’s own friend and Strategos. The zubir of the Aldwood, huge and wild—the essence of the wild—on a dome consecrated to Jad in the heart of the triple-walled City.
Valerius. Valerius had tried. There was . . . a pattern here. Crispin felt he could nearly see it, almost understand. He was a maker of patterns himself, working in tesserae and light. The Emperor had worked with human souls and the world.
There was a voice here, mourning.
Shall the maiden never walk the bright
fields again,
Her hair as yellow as the grain?
The horns of the god can hold the blue moon.
When the Huntress shoots him he dies.
How can we, the children of time, ever live
If these two must die?
How can we, the children of loss, ever learn
What we may leave behind?