1065 to 1067
Life was like a chessboard, and I watched as the pawns, knights and kings moved into formation for the next generation. Weddings followed Epiphany and into the Paschal season that year for the younger generation, but there was one sad death.
The first wedding was for Manuel and Thea. In the weeks preceding the wedding, our twins, Donya and Theodora, often traveled to the Diogenes house to assist their future sister-in-law with preparations. I doubted that two twelve-year-old girls would be much help, but they begged so persistently that I agreed. Thea had no sisters with whom to share her excitement and her mother’s health was not robust. It went well until a week or so before the wedding when the two girls returned, Theodora rushing to her room in tears.
I soon pried the story of what happened from Donya.
“We were sitting with Thea and her mother, embroidering her gown, when Theodora said something about us doing the same thing for her when she marries Costas,” said Donya.
My eyes went wide at that comment. Theodora had been fond of Romanus’s son, Costas, since childhood, always wanting to play with him when they were in the palace’s nursery. I had not realized the affection still lingered.
“Then what happened?”
“Well,” said Donya, wrapping a strand of her blond hair around a finger the way she did when nervous, “Thea’s mother said that she would be happy to help with embroidering Theodora’s dress, but she probably would not be marrying Costas. Theodora asked why not, and Lady Anya said that the Church forbids marriages where two siblings marry two other siblings.”
I let out a long sigh. I had not realized the strength of Theodora’s affections. She was now of marriageable age but still only twelve.
“Thank you, Donya. Lady Anya is correct about that. Sometimes the patriarch will approve such marriages, but not often. I will explain that to Theodora.”
Later that day I did speak with Theodora. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her hair tousled.
I smoothed her hair, taking hold of her hand before speaking.
“Theodora, tell me about this idea of marrying Thea’s brother.”
The child burst into tears and sobbed, “I know I can never marry him.”
I wrapped my arms around my young daughter, trying to calm her.
“My dear child, you are still too young for us to decide on whom you should marry. I know many fine young men who would make you a good . . .” I started.
“No, you don’t understand, I only want Costas. No one else.” She spoke with sniffles and youthful defiance. “If I can’t marry him, I will become a nun.”
Theodora didn’t have the best temperament to become a nun, so I suggested an alternative.
“You’re awfully young to make up your mind this way. As I was saying, there are many fine men you could marry, men you would be happy with. How do you know you would be happy with Costas? He may not even want to marry you, and he’s only thirteen, awfully young for a boy to be married.”
“I’m sure he wants to marry me,” she said, her chin set with youthful determination.
“Has he said that?” I was skeptical that a thirteen-year-old would have said that.
“No, but I know he does.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes with a massive effort. I looked down at my strong-willed girl, trying to think of some way to calm her.
“I’ll tell you what I can do. When you’re both a bit older, if you’re still sure you want to marry him, we’ll speak to his parents and see if they would be willing to make such a request to the patriarch for his consent. Your father and I would also have to request it. If that doesn’t work out, you will also have to be willing to consider other young men. If we can find no one else you might consider, then when you’re twenty you can be tonsured and enter a monastery.” I again smoothed the beautiful red hair that would be cut off if she did that. “Can you agree with that?”
Her teary blue eyes looked up at me, and she nodded.
A few weeks after Manuel and Thea’s wedding, John and I attended the wedding of Marie of Bulgaria and John Ducas’s oldest son, Andronikos. John Ducas had amassed a great deal of wealth since his brother became emperor, and Marie was a great heiress, so the festivities were some of the most lavish I had seen since Romanus wed his Anya, also a wealthy heiress. My cousin and his wife had been invited, but Anya’s health declined after their daughter’s wedding, so they were not there.
John Ducas’s mansion was not far from the Great Palace, with the women’s celebration in one wing of the building and the men’s in the other wing. I congratulated Marie on her wedding, and praised her to her new mother-in-law, Irene, who stood beside her. Marie was a lovely and happy bride at fifteen. Irene had always been thin and wan, but now she was more haggard, although she looked happy at her son’s match.
“Marie, I’m so pleased for you. Irene, your son was fortunate in his choice. Marie was always such a help when we lived in the Great Palace. I know you’ll have a wonderful daughter-in-law.”
Irene gave a weak smile. “Yes, I think so too. I’m looking forward to having another woman in the family.”
The reception line moved on, and I found myself alone, looking for someone to talk to. Swarms of women clustered around Augusta Eudokia, and of course the bride. I was not so important anymore, but I knew who my friends were. I picked up a plate of food and began chatting with General Nikephoros Botaneiates’ wife, Vevdene. I admired the beautifully embroidered maphorion that covered her hair, which had to be gray since her creased face testified to her advanced years. She was at least sixty but still made lively conversation and shared what her husband had written her about the situation in Bulgaria, where Romanus and Manuel would soon return.
“The general settled things down in Bulgaria since that terrible barbarian invasion. He doesn’t expect them to return for years, if ever, given how many died in their retreat.”
“That’s good news,” I said, grateful to hear that.
Vevdene inched closer to me, whispering, “Between us, I think the general is expecting a promotion, a better title and new assignment elsewhere. A real crown for his last years.” She stopped then, winking at me. “You know what that might mean for your cousin?”
I blinked at her unexpected news. So Romanus would likely be promoted to strategos of Bulgaria. “Oh, that is wonderful,” I said. “Be sure to give my congratulations to the general when the announcement comes.”
She gave me a conspiratorial wink, and we drifted into other conversations.
I gazed around the room and saw a group of young women circling Maria of Alania, soon to be wed to the emperor’s son. She had grown into a beautiful young woman, even prettier than Eudokia had been at her age. One of the girls, Maria’s cousin Irene, saw me and broke away from their cluster.
“Lady Anna, it’s good to see you here today.” The accent Irene and Maria had brought with them from distant Alania had lessened over the years to a soft lilt.
“You too, Irene. How are the preparations coming for your cousin’s wedding? After Pascha, isn’t it?”
She gave a brief glance at lovely Maria of Alania, surrounded by the excited chirping of a flock of young girls. “They’re coming along well. The emperor is sparing no expense for it.”
I sipped from my wine while a servant offered us food from a tray of olives, cheeses, and pastirma.
“And how are your children? Did any of them accompany you today?” Irene asked.
“The children are well, but none of them were invited to these festivities.”
“Oh,” she said, looking disappointed. “I had heard that Manuel was sent with General Diogenes to Bulgaria. What of the other boys?”
Interestingly, she asked only about the boys, not the girls.
“Well, my son Isaac is starting his training with the Excubitors soon, but the other boys still have a few more years.”
“Is he? I remember Isaac very well.” Irene’s half smile and sudden alertness told me her memories were fond ones. “Please be sure to tell him I asked after him.”
We parted then. I glanced back at Irene as she returned to her cousin’s side, recalling how even as a child she had been so much more determined than Maria. Any desire she had for Isaac would do her little good if the emperor would not agree to it, though.
When the time came to depart, I waited in the central hall of the house for John, who was still making his farewells. He emerged from the reception room with someone I hadn’t seen in years, Michael Maurex. We’d first met him when my family returned to Constantinople over twenty years earlier. The young man had filled out, strong and full of energy and now wore the uniform of an admiral. He had the polish and confidence that only success brings.
“Lady Anna, it’s so good to see you again,” he said, brushing back hair still as thick and black as it had been when we first met.
“Michael, I’m glad as well. We haven’t seen you, but we do hear news of your many promotions.”
“Yes, you’re a real rising star in the navy these days,” said John. “Isaac certainly knew what he was doing when he sent you to the Droungarios all those years ago. Now, here you are, invited to the wedding of the emperor’s nephew.”
John left to see to our ride home. Turning back to Michael, I recalled the promise I’d made to Marika.
“Michael,” I began hesitantly, wondering if mentioning Marika’s request was stupid or foolish, but I plunged in. “Do you recall Isaac’s daughter, Marika?”
His face took on a serious look, somber even. He looked away briefly before looking again directly at me.
“Yes, of course I do. I think of her all the time, always. How could I forget her, even if she is a nun?”
“She isn’t,” I said. “A nun, I mean. She was never tonsured and said no vows, so she isn’t a nun, even though she still lives at Myrelion.”
His eyebrows rose at that, mouth agape.
“She wanted you to know that she still thinks of you fondly. I promised her I would tell you if I saw you again.” I remembered that years ago Isaac had brought Michael Dokieanos to Myrelion with him on his visits to his sister when she lived there, spurring a marriage proposal. “I doubt you would be allowed to visit her alone, but I’d be happy to accompany you there if you’re interested.”
Michael’s face was blank, as though he did not understand the words he was hearing.
“Would you like to visit her?” I asked, wondering if this conversation was a mistake. If he said no, how would I explain that to Marika?
He grinned at me then, grasping my hand.
“Lady Anna, I would be delighted—no, beyond delighted—to accompany you to Myrelion.”
It was a blessing that Manuel and Thea’s wedding occurred when it did. Anya’s delicate health took a turn for the worse in a chilly spell during Lent and she developed a fever. The poor woman soon began coughing, which grew worse until she could hardly breathe. Romanus, and his children Thea and Costas, as well as Manuel, were at her bedside, praying for a recovery, but the physicians could do little to help. She slipped away into eternity two weeks before Pascha. John and Manuel kept watch over her body with the bereaved Romanus the night before her funeral, trying to comfort him. Romanus wept as the priest intoned the final blessing on his wife’s body.
The wedding of the emperor’s oldest son, Michael, to Maria of Alania a few weeks later was the extravagant affair Irene had led me to expect. As the daughter of a king, the bride was allowed the privilege of wearing red slippers, but her gown was blue, symbolizing her lower status than her new husband’s. The sheerest of silk veils covered her heart-shaped face and red-gold hair. People were already starting to say she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Michael stood stiffly at his betrothed’s side during the service, head bent but sometimes looking up nervously at her. He had the barest hint of a beard on his chin, occasionally reaching up to scratch it. He was handsomely attired in imperial purple embroidered in gold, but it did little to improve his gawky physique. I chided myself for the coarse thought that the marriage might not be consummated that night.
The entertainment opened with jugglers prancing and tumbling around the hall before the banquet started. Soon dozens of dancers with jingling cymbals on their fingers and musicians with their harps, flutes, and drums began their performance. Venison, lamb and boar, geese and shellfish, cheeses, olives, nuts, and fruits imported from Africa where they had already ripened covered the tables. Wines imported from Macedonia and Crete filled our cups. There was so much of it left over that the beggars outside the palace’s gates would have feasted almost as well as we did. After so many years managing a household, as well as in my time in the palace when Isaac was emperor, I could estimate the wedding’s tremendous cost. Romanus would have been enraged that the emperor spent more on this celebration than he spent in a year on the army for the soldiers guarding the empire his son would someday rule.
My thoughts turned to Isaac’s daughter, Marika, still ensconced in the Myrelion monastery. I had accompanied Michael Maurex on visits there before he sailed with the navy to the Adriatic to fend off the Normans in Italy. The two of them had time alone together while I paid my respects at Catherine’s tomb in the monastery’s church. Catherine might not have appreciated the assignations her daughter was having with the naval commander, but the joy on their faces said it was the right thing to do. The issue was how to extricate Marika from this confinement in Myrelion’s walls without raising the emperor’s suspicions.
Manuel surprised us shortly before he and Romanus left for Bulgaria with the happy announcement that Thea was expecting their first child, who was due in the winter. It was welcome news for my cousin, Romanus, still melancholic since his wife’s passing.
I made plans for our annual summer trip to the farm, this time with only five of our children. I told John of a change to our plans a few days before we left. We sat on the terrace talking, and in the bright sunlight I noticed how his hair had faded almost to white. He was over fifty now, slowing down, but still as eager as ever to depart for our holiday. He cocked an eyebrow at me at the alteration I suggested and shook his head.
“Anna, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
The day before we left, I stopped by Myrelion to bring Marika to our house to be ready for our departure early the next morning.
“The hegoumena did not object to your joining us on holiday?” I asked.
“No, I’m not sure she realizes that the emperor would want to know if I left. He hasn’t bothered to check on me in a couple of years. She’s the third one we’ve had in charge since my father abdicated and Mama and I came here. And that instruction may have been mislaid.”
“Really?” I wondered about that.
“Yes, it definitely was misplaced,” Marika said, sure of herself. “Possibly even burned.”
I decided it was best I did not know how that might have happened. “Did you bring the necklace?”
Marika pulled out a small wrapped package, unfolding the cloth to show me the jeweled and enameled cross with its thick gold chain that her mother had worn as a nun.
“Excellent,” I said, pleased at the success of the first part of my plan.
We left at dawn. Nine-year-old Alexios was thrilled since this would be his first time on horseback for the entire journey, while his younger brothers could only take turns riding up front with the driver. Donya and Theodora were in the litter with Marika and me, chattering and excited to be with their cousin. As always, we traveled the old and busy Via Egnatia for the first two days before turning north onto less traveled roads.
Toward the end of our second day’s travels we stopped as we always did at an inn in Heraklea Thracia for the night. This harbor town perched on a hillside next to the Sea of Marmara, its narrow roads leading down to the sea, where the water sparkled summer blue in the late afternoon light. The friendly townspeople knew we stayed with them each year, so the stop would excite no particular interest. The inn held a collection of sturdy if plain buildings, overseen by an attentive innkeeper whose discretion could be trusted. As we emerged from the wagon, sore from the jostling road, Michael Maurex emerged from the shadows and pulled Marika to him.
“Good to see you made it on time,” said John. “All went well in the Adriatic?”
“Yes, very well. Been here two days already. Couldn’t take a chance and miss you,” said Michael. “The priest’s in the church just down the road from here. He’ll need you to approve the marriage as Marika’s oldest male relative, but that’s all.”
I looked at Marika. “You don’t want to wait until tomorrow? Get a bath and some rest before your wedding?”
She shook her head, smiling at her sailor. “I’ve waited long enough. I’m ready now.”
We left the driver to see to the donkeys and horses, and the whole family walked down to the sea, to the church of St. George overlooking the harbor. There in its shadowy interior, beneath images of St. George killing the evil dragon, Marika and Michael were finally wed so many years after their eyes first met.
Marika pressed the small package containing her mother’s gold cross and chain into my hands before she and Michael parted from us. She would live the rest of her life in his Marmara estate another day’s journey west, far from the city.
“I’ll get this back to you as soon as I can,” I promised, elated at the joy I saw on their faces.
“No, you must keep it if the emperor ever asks for proof of my death. I’m leaving Constantinople’s palaces and politics behind. I’ll never need it again.” She embraced me. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. We are so grateful.”
I enjoyed our holiday month on the farm more that year than I had in many years. I felt great satisfaction at helping Marika and Michael finally wed despite all the odds against that happening. If Ducas had had his way, she would have only left Myrelion in a coffin.
Damien and his family had adjusted to farming in the drier climate of Thrace and produced an abundant crop that year.
One night, Damien sat down with John and me, in the glow of a lantern with fireflies flitting in the air around us.
“I wanted to speak to you about this farm. I want you to know that if you ever considered selling it, my sons and I would be interested in buying it,” he said.
John smiled but shook his head. The farm may have been my inheritance, but he loved it more. “We could never think of selling. It’s been in Anna’s family since before she was born. Of course, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
Damien nodded. “I thought that would be your answer, but let us know if you change your mind.” He paused and took a sip of his wine. “On another subject, you’ll recall my grandson, Alexander’s boy, Constantine, wanted to be a soldier? He turns fifteen in the spring, wants to start training, but he decided he wants to be in the navy. Hard to believe, but he fell in love with the sea on our journey to the city. Could you take him back with you? Stay with you until he can start next year?”
John and I glanced at each other. We would be happy to take in this young Constantine Dalassenus. The emperor had no fondness for that name, but Michael Maurex should be willing to take him on.
“We can,” said John. “We have tutors and training for our boys. He can join them. We might know someone willing to take him on.”
“Alexander will like that. The lad’s impatient and not suited to farming.” Damien winked and said, “Reminds me of my father.”
I laughed at the recollection of my dear Uncle Costas.
We returned home in September, and I made my way to Myrelion the next day to tell my tale.
“Hegoumena, I must tell you that we lost my niece during our holiday,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye.
“Oh my,” she said. “What happened to Lady Marika?”
“It was so short; we were so sad to lose her,” I murmured with a catch in my voice, implying a brief illness. “She said she felt blessed to be leaving behind the city and its palaces for a better place. She left me this.”
I opened the package I carried, removing the gold cross and chain that Catherine had worn as a nun. “It was her greatest treasure. She said she wanted me to have it.”
The nun’s face softened at the sight of the jewelry. I could tell she recalled how precious this had been for Marika after her mother died.
“My dear, you have my deepest sympathy for your loss. I’m glad she was with family when it happened. I only hope a priest was there to bless her?”
“Yes, Hegoumena. Yes, I was there when she received the priest’s blessing. Her body rests now in Thrace.”
I managed to leave soon after, grateful I avoided any outright lie. I also did not mention that the emperor might want to know about this. Better that he should not be reminded of her existence.
Early 1066
Manuel returned home in time for the birth of his first child, a daughter they named Anna after both of her grandmothers, giving her Thea’s mother’s nickname of Anya. Romanus returned at the same time and looked pleased with his first grandchild, a small blessing for him in a year with too many other concerns.
“Every year it’s the same thing. I plead with the emperor for money; he gives me a miserly amount. I tell him that the soldiers are owed more than that; he says they’ll have to wait. I scurry around the city, hunting up whatever supplies I can scrounge for the army. Never enough, but something. How long does he think we can do this?”
John shrugged. “He’s been doing it for six years; probably not changing now.”
I kept my head bent over the mending I was doing. It was February, and chilblains left my hands reddened and sore. I had little choice about it since our seamstress had recently died.
“Let me know what you need,” John said, “and I’ll see what I can do. But you’re fortunate to be in Bulgaria. I think it’s much worse in the east. After Ani, the Turks have grown much bolder, attacking cities and towns. Carting off people to the slave markets, the cattle and horses gone, monasteries stripped of every chalice and icon.”
That was a sore subject with Romanus. His father’s family came from Cappadocia, and he’d inherited lands there. Those raids were not far from where he’d lived as a child.
“And what is the emperor doing about it? Isn’t he supposed to be the protector of his people? If he doesn’t start hitting back, he won’t have much of an empire left,” Romanus said, red with anger. He stood and walked to the brazier to warm his hands.
“The people in the city know about it, there’s talk in the street about it a lot. The emperor must realize people know but he does nothing,” I said. “You’d think he at least cared about the taxes the people can’t pay because they’re dead or gone. Or maybe noticed the beggars drifting here from the eastern themes, seeking refuge. But he doesn’t leave the palace often, just for liturgy at Hagia Sophia. I think he’s afraid of the people rioting.”
It was a relief to say what I thought about the emperor to Romanus. And it was the truth, even if John thought I shouldn’t talk so much about Ducas. Bringing up Ducas only irritated him, reminding him of the consequences of his choice.
“Bad enough he’s left me in charge in Bulgaria, but without the promotion and title Botaneiates had. Said I still needed to prove myself,” said Romanus. “Cheap as he is, the delay is just to save money.”
John looked troubled at this rehashing of all that was happening. He tried not to be confronted with the shambles Ducas had made of the empire, but it could be avoided no longer. He stood and placed a hand on Romanus’s shoulder.
“We’ll go out in the morning. Manuel can join us. We’ll get you resupplied.”
September 1066
Our house was in the northern Blachernae part of the city, tucked near its walls. The endless hum of traffic from the Mese and the busier streets and markets never reached us in this quiet section. As my grandmother taught me, we never turned away a beggar knocking at our gates looking for bread, but few of them ventured into this corner of Byzantium.
I sat in the courtyard one hot early September day, hoping for a cooling breeze while I again addressed the mending of clothes. I had hired first one seamstress and then another after the death of the one I’d had for many years, but sent both away. One had carelessly broken my expensive needles, and the other drank her wine without water before falling asleep during the few days I had employed her. A knock on the gate alerted old Demetrios, our gatekeeper, while I was repairing a seam that had ripped. He spoke briefly through the grille before shoving back the bolt to let the visitor in.
A shabby woman with two thin children, maybe about eight and ten, huddled nervously just inside our walls. Demetrios came to me, explaining they were begging for food.
“The woman speaks almost like an Armenian,” he observed before going to the kitchen to find something for them.
Curious, I walked over to them.
“Good morning, I’m Lady Anna. My gatekeeper will bring you something to eat, but please come sit in the shade while you wait. It’s much too hot to stand in the sun.”
The woman murmured a few words of gratitude and guided the children to the bench where I’d been sitting.
“What are your names?” I asked.
“I am called Martina,” the woman said, “and my children are George and Thekla.” Her accent was not quite like Gagik’s Armenian, but similar, from the eastern part of the empire.
“You’re not from here?”
Martina bent her head, eyes down. “No, Lady. We’re from Chaldia.”
“How did you come to Constantinople?”
She began to weep, her mute and hungry children staring at her with large brown eyes.
“The Turks. They attacked our town. The children and I were outside the walls when they attacked. We hid in a cave for two days until they were gone. When we came out. . .” Her weeping grew louder, and I put an arm around her, trying to console the poor woman.
Finally she calmed, wiped her face with her dusty sleeve, and continued.
“When we came out, the town was empty. My husband dead, along with most of the other men. A few other people were still alive, some like us who had been away.”
“What happened then?” I asked in a whisper, horrified at the poor woman’s plight.
Demetrios arrived with water and a plate of bread, cheese, and olives for the destitute travelers.
“I couldn’t stay there. I knew where my husband had buried a box with the coins he’d saved. Dug them up with my own fingers since the Turks had taken everything, and we left. I was too afraid to even stay long enough to bury him.” She bowed her head, rubbing her face as though ashamed. “We walked to Amisos and got passage. My husband has family here, and I thought they could help. But the city is so large. I thought we could just ask for someone who knew him but Byzantium has so many people, no one knew of him. We’ve been here a month and have nothing left.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, thinking frantically about what I could do to help. “We have a room above the stable you all could stay in. Then we’ll see what can be done.”
Martina’s gaunt face teared up again as she pressed my hands in thanks. I had Demetrios show them to the now empty room where I housed any of the traveling monks who found their way to our gate looking for charity. I picked up my sewing again, shaking my head at the poor woman’s tragedy. Pricking my finger as I sewed, I began to wonder if Martina might have seamstress skills.
I paid a visit to the palace for the first time in months when the cool winds blew into the city in October, turning the air crisp. The emperor had taken his family to a seaside villa on the Bosphoros for the summer, trying to escape jeering from the increasingly unhappy people of Constantinople, but they were now back. Eudokia never complained of the spiteful words hurled at her husband. I doubted she knew much about what was going on in the eastern themes. Perhaps she hoped they were only foolish rumors. My new seamstress, Martina, and my cousin Damien could have explained the truth of them to her.
She greeted me in the Boukoleon Palace in the perfumed rooms of the nursery. It held only a few children now, many fewer than when Isaac had ruled. Most of the ones who had been there six years earlier had grown up and were having children of their own. Sweet Marie of Bulgaria, married only in January, was due to have her first child within the next month. Eudokia sat on the floor playing dolls with her youngest, Zoe, a three-year old copy of her mother’s blond good looks.
“I’m glad to see a friendly face. Everyone seems out of sorts these days. Constantine complains about his back hurting him; the servants look angry. Psellus says I can’t leave the palace—too dangerous. I feel like I’m in prison here.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you sooner. I’ve been spending time with our new grandchild. With her own mother gone, Thea is by herself with the baby, no husband or father around, just her little brother, who is no help.” I paused and then became curious about what she’d said.
“How long has the emperor’s back been hurting him?”
“Most of the summer, but it’s worse recently. He complains as though no one has ever suffered so. I think we’d still be at the villa if he weren’t in so much pain. He wanted to consult the physicians at the Hospital of Sampson.” She stopped and rolled her eyes. “Michael Psellus likes to say he’s a physician, but he’s useless.”
“I’m sure the physicians at Sampson will be of some help,” I said, full of politeness, before changing the subject. “How are Michael and his new wife? Any sign of a grandchild for you?”
She shrugged and looked down. “No, Michael is fond of Maria, but nothing yet.”
Being fond of Maria was one thing, bedding her was another. Most seventeen-year-old boys, with as beautiful a wife as Maria, would have been so eager that a child would be on its way by now.
“Why does Psellus say you can’t leave the palace?” I asked.
“He said the people in the city were upset about fighting in Italy, or maybe someplace else. He was vague about that. He said people were making the problems into something bigger than they really are, so it’s just some troublemakers.” Eudokia stopped and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t agree?”
I took in a deep breath and proceeded to recount the stories of Damien and Martina. I also hinted at Romanus’s complaints about the lack of money and supplies in Bulgaria and that soldiers’ gossip I’d heard said Anatolia received even less.
The empress hardly moved as I spoke.
“I guess the emperor doesn’t tell you about this?” I asked.
“No, he doesn’t, nothing at all,” she said, shaking her head. She looked thoughtful for a minute, then said, “This could be a problem for Michael when he inherits the throne, couldn’t it?”
I nodded.
Just then a eunuch entered the room. “Augusta, the emperor is asking for you.”
Eudokia handed Zoe to her nurse. “You’ll have to excuse me. Constantine asks for me often since he’s been having his back problems.”
We parted, and I went to visit Thomas. He was at his desk in a corner of the Daphne Palace.
“Lady Anna,” he exclaimed, a broad smile on his face. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. Welcome back to the palace.”
“Thank you, Thomas. It’s good to see you. How has everything been here? Any changes?” I shooed a gray cat off the stool and sat across from my old friend.
He gave me a long look and then moved to shut the door, something he rarely did on my visits. The only light in the room came from a small window.
“You’ve heard the emperor is not well?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes, the empress told me. Just back pain, she said.”
“Yes, it would be painful, I expect. I don’t think the physicians have told him yet, but I overheard them talking yesterday. They all agree there’s a tumor, a cancer, that’s causing the pain, but no one wants to give him the bad news.”
“Oh,” I said, my mind churning. “Anything they can do for him?”
“They don’t know, but they didn’t seem optimistic. Probably only poppy juice. They don’t think he has much time.”
Constantine Ducas deserved a painful death, but the empire could not manage with a boy emperor like Michael and the Turks on the frontier.
“I appreciate you letting me know. I’m not sure young Michael is ready for the responsibility of ruling.”
Thomas snorted at that. “He’s not ready for much of anything, not even marriage.”
“What do you mean?”
“They haven’t done it. Not yet.” Thomas gave a knowing wink. “They haven’t consummated the marriage.” He had a disgusted look on his face. As someone whose ability to marry and have a family had been cut away, he found this ridiculous.
“What? How can you know?” I asked. “Has someone been spying on them?”
“No blood on the sheets. That’s what the servants cleaning their rooms say. Besides that, he never touches her, looks scared of her.”
“Scared of Maria? She’s not exactly an Amazon; she wouldn’t frighten a mouse.”
“If you ever see them together and she touches him, which she will do sometimes, ever so gently, he practically jumps out of his skin. No, they haven’t done it, I’m sure of it.”
“I doubt he’s ready to deal with the Turks if he can’t manage to bed his own wife,” I said. I recalled Eudokia’s expression and short answer that said she had to suspect her son’s timidity in the bedroom.
Thomas waved his hands as if to ward off the Turks. “That’s another thing. A lot of the eunuchs and servants in the palace came from the east—Paphlagonia, Chaldia, Armeniakon. We hear from family members about what’s going on out there. And what do we see the emperor doing about it? Nothing. The people in the city are getting upset and it’s obvious why Ducas is avoiding the city. Why else stay away for the whole summer?”
That explained the angry looks Eudokia had noticed.
I left the palace that day feeling that I’d gotten the official story from Eudokia, but the true story from Thomas.
1067
Manuel and Romanus returned for the winter a month later, exhausted but glad to be home. Donya and Theodora, just turned fourteen, had gotten into the habit of joining my visits to help Thea with the baby. Even when the men of the house were home, though, we found excuses to come and spend time with little baby Anya.
Romanus welcomed many of his Excubitor soldiers to his house during the winter months, building their loyalty to him and a sense of camaraderie among them. One of them was Nikephoros Melissenus, a striking young man about Manuel’s age. He immediately caught Donya’s eye, and after a few swishes of her skirts and bold smiles in his direction, she caught his eye as well. His family was Anatolian dynatoi, with many generals so it was a good match. My growing experience with betrothal negotiations meant they went smoothly, and their wedding was in February.
I worried that Theodora might be disappointed to see her twin wed with nothing yet for her. She saw Costas on most of our visits. He was cordial and friendly, but I could tell most of the affection between them was on her side.
“Do you still have your heart set on Costas?” I asked her a few days before the wedding.
She looked at me as though I had lost my mind. “Of course. Nothing’s changed. You had to wait a long time to marry Papa. I can wait too.”
The emperor’s health declined slowly over the months following the physicians’ diagnosis. He was not even able to attend the Divine Liturgy at Pascha, sending his wife and heir in his place. Eudokia said there was little aside from poppy juice that alleviated his pain, and even then he was miserable. She was often at his side, as were Caesar John, and, of course, Michael Psellus.
After Pascha in mid-April, Ducas was clearly in his last days. I visited Eudokia at the palace to offer her my support. She looked exhausted.
“He has me at his side night and day. Only when he’s sleeping, as he is now, can I leave him. The physicians give him more and more poppy juice for the pain, so he sleeps a great deal.”
“I’m sorry. This is a difficult time. Is there something I can help with?” I asked.
“I can’t think of anything,” she said, pushing back a loose strand of hair.
“Have you thought about what will happen after he’s gone? Will there be a regent for Michael? I know he’s of age to rule on his own. . .” I trailed off, reluctant to voice what everyone knew.
“We haven’t discussed it, but he’s probably spoken with John and Psellus about it. I know,” she said hesitantly, “Michael needs more time to mature, needs my help, guidance for a few more years.”
I was silent for a moment before asking, “Do you want to be regent and rule the empire? Or do you want John to take that responsibility?”
She looked at me and shuddered. “John? As regent? He’d probably send me and my daughters to a monastery to die the way Isaac’s wife and daughter did. No, I want to rule as Michael’s regent.”
“Ruling is a great responsibility, but if you want it, you must act quickly. You’ll have to convince your husband to designate you as regent for Michael, otherwise you’ll be in Catherine’s old rooms at Myrelion before summer.”
Thomas sent word in May that the physicians said the emperor would likely die that day. John and I left immediately for the palace for the deathwatch. Half the senate was there when we arrived, gossiping and eager to witness the transition. Finally, Caesar John, Eudokia, and her son entered the hall where we all waited, accompanied by the patriarch and Michael Psellus. Caesar John made the announcement.
“I have the sad responsibility to announce that my dearest brother, Emperor Constantine, today left this world for a world of eternal life. Let us all pray for his soul.” He turned away, wiping tears from his face.
The patriarch then led the prayers for the dead, reminding us all of our own mortality. The crowd tamped down their curiosity about the succession for the few minutes as he spoke.
Psellus then moved to the front.
“Before he died, Emperor Constantine designated his wife, Empress Eudokia, as regent for their son, Michael, for as long as he requires her steady guidance. He has the utmost confidence in her judgment and wisdom. To that end, he had her swear an oath before the patriarch and others not to remarry but to faithfully guide his children and to allow no other claimants onto the throne than his own descendants.”
Eudokia had succeeded in claiming the regency of her son, but the price Ducas demanded was foreswearing remarriage. No less than an oath sworn before the patriarch to ensure her obedience.
In the past, empresses sometimes remarried, finding new spouses among the empire’s generals willing to fight wars for their stepsons until they came of age. Some would take the throne for themselves. Michael, seventeen and showing no martial inclinations, would never lead an army. My friend would need excellent advisors to stop the Turks and rebuild the Anatolian cities they had destroyed, but it appeared it would not be someone she could wed.
The citizens of Constantinople had no love for Emperor Constantine Ducas. The announcement of his death generated only derision and calls to “bury his filthy bones somewhere else” or worse. I could tell the glee over his death shocked Eudokia to the point that he had no service for the dead at the Hagia Sophia, no carved marble sarcophagus in a magnificent city church. In fact, a few nights after he died, the emperor’s body in an ordinary wooden coffin built for someone else was put on a ship docked outside of the Boukoleon Palace. The ship sailed with it to a monastery dedicated to St. Nicholas some distance from the city, in a small town on the Sea of Marmara. His brother, Caesar John, was the only devoted family member escorting it.
The end of Constantine Ducas’s reign as emperor was not the end of the empire’s problems. By late June came the news that Caesarea, a great and prosperous city over three hundred miles inside the empire’s borders in the Charsianon theme, had been sacked. That city, which hadn’t seen an invasion in hundreds of years, had let its walls deteriorate. There had been no need for them. The Turks seized it with little effort. The city was put to the torch, the monasteries robbed, and any survivors enslaved.
Gagik was the dux of the Charsianon theme, and Caesarea had been its capital. He had taken his soldiers to another town where he’d expected an attack, and so had not been there to defend it. The emperor had not sent enough money to pay for as many soldiers needed to ensure the safety of the entire theme.
I knew Eudokia would be desperate to get insight on how to deal with the situation. She wouldn’t get it from Caesar John or Psellus; their advice had only worsened the situation.
“John, what would you think about coming with me to the palace and speak with Eudokia about what’s going on in the east? I know she could use solid ideas from someone with military experience,” I asked one evening as I poured us both some wine.
He looked up at me, a look of irritation on his face. He looked tired. His hair was almost white now. He’d gotten heavier over the past few years, moving slower, not as quick to wrestle with our youngest sons.
“Anna, don’t be so quick to volunteer me. The empress has many soldiers she can call on, why should I—” he stopped abruptly.
I looked at him, ready to hand him his cup. His face colored from a blotchy red into purple. His eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the side with one arm twitching.
“John, John!” I called, rushing to him before he fell to the floor. “Help! I need help!”