18

“You’ve been to Baghdad,” ibn-Ziad was saying, surprise in his voice.

“As a young man,” Nicephoros said. He bowed his head to avoid an overhanging palm frond. They were walking through the palm garden, near the Phiale of the Greens. “I studied at al-Ghazi’s school of arithmetic for a few months, before I took up the belt of Imperial service.”

“I was under the impression that the rest of the cosmos had nothing of value for Constantinople.”

Behind these two, the Parakoimomenos walked with his arms folded, listening; at the sarcasm in the Arab’s voice, he smiled. Nicephoros of course, took no amusement from the envy disguised in the remark.

“I learned much at the school of al-Ghazi.”

“Then you must also have learned that we Arabs keep our word to friend and enemy alike. The tribute due us from the Basileus must be paid.”

“Ah,” said Nicephoros.

They were walking along the foot of the palm garden now. It was the full of the day, the day after the earthquake, and the intense humid heat characteristic of such phenomena pressed down upon them like a lid. All around them, in pots and jars and wooden boxes, stood a hundred different kinds of palm—some tall, some small, some bushy—some full of fruit, their shadows like black daggers sharp on the ground.

“If you people are having some difficulty with your finances, we can arrange payment in separate allotments, but we must have what is due us, or we give offense to God.”

“I understand your position perfectly,” said Nicephoros.

Ibn-Ziad was a large, jocose man, his habits of mood betrayed by the great webs of laugh lines spread around the corners of his eyes and the deep marks at the corners of his mouth when he smiled—an optimist, over all, the Parakoimomenos suspected, one easily induced to believe that what he wished for would befall him, because of his special place in the love of God.

They were slowly climbing down the palace grounds, toward the Pharos, where in the little Chapel of the Virgin that stood next door they were supposed to view the sacred relics. From the palm garden a short flight of steps fell to the next level; beside the steps stood a statue of Venus, and ibn-Ziad paused to admire the figure. Beside him, Nicephoros allowed himself one of his rare smiles.

“Lovely,” said ibn-Ziad, and sighed, his hand moving toward the statue, which was three-quarter size, the goddess standing with her head turned over her shoulder, her pert little breasts coyly shielded by one curved forearm.

“You people deny yourselves much grace and pleasure when you will not allow your artisans to form figures,” Nicephoros said. “It is a gift from God, to gaze on something lovely; it directs the soul outward, and gives it rest from its constant labor of self-examination.”

“We believe it blasphemy,” said the Arab. “Yet such objects as I have seen of the works of the pagans stir my heart.”

“Perhaps,” said the Parakoimomenos, moving up beside the others, “our friend prefers women of less impermeability.”

“That, too,” said ibn-Ziad, and released a hearty laugh that shook his handsome clothes.

Nicephoros scratched his nose. “Our guest surely will have no difficulty in cultivating the females of his choice. We should be going in.”

They moved on, descending the steps. On this level, in the curve of the pavement, their attendants awaited them; the heavy sun-drenched air seemed to stir sluggishly around them, making walking a labor against nature. Beyond the cypresses along the edge of the terrace, the lighthouse rose, its fire transparent in the sun. They made their way toward the chapel, with its sets of fluted columns all around, and its dome of silver.

The Parakoimomenos fell back to walk beside Nicephoros. “Are we not giving a dinner party for our guest this evening? Some companion could be found for him. That woman of the Empress’s, Theophano—”

“I think,” said Nicephoros, between his teeth, “he should be allowed to secure such companionship for himself.”

“Excuse me,” said ibn-Ziad, and moved on, out of earshot of the two men and their argument.

“A man needs a woman,” said the Parakoimomenos, and bowed.

“How would you know?” Nicephoros said. “He does not need a pander. Nor does he need a heavy-handed effort at seduction, by you, by Theophano, by anyone.”

Turning on his heel, he walked on after their guest, now the center of a sedate crowd, moving in through the double doors of the chapel. The Parakoimomenos stayed where he was. In spite of the rage in his heart, he smiled; he promised himself that when the day came of Nicephoros’s downfall, he would know who had arranged it. Drawing himself up to his full height, his face smoothed free of any expression, the Parakoimomenos went after the others at a pace designed to keep a distance between them.

Ibn-Ziad loved Constantinople. He had been coming here now since his boyhood, when he had accompanied his father on an informal embassy to the court of the Emperor Leo. Every time he came here he felt more at home.

Certainly he was at home in the Chapel of the Virgin. Several other foreigners had joined their little group, and a guide in the clothes of a Christian priest was supposed to be escorting them about, but before they had set eyes on the first of the wonderful objects in the Treasure Room, ibn-Ziad had begun his own discourse.

He could not help it. He knew these relics, now, as well as any Greek, and he loved showing off to his hosts and lording it over his fellow barbarians. The looks of amazement and wonder on the faces of the Romans spurred him on. He would show them they had no monopoly on knowledge.

“Ah,” he said. “The rib of Saint Paul. The reliquary”—he paused, to allow those in the mob around him unfortunate enough not to recognize this word to grasp its meaning—“was designed in the time of Justinian, was it not?”

The guide bowed with a flourish. “The most excellent Lord Ambassador flatters us with his knowledge.”

Ibn-Ziad bowed; around him with a rustle and a hiss of silk the others bowed too. They moved on through the magnificent room. After the blasting heat of the day, the cool stone of the chapel made this space a blessed sanctuary. The marbles of the floor and the walls were wonderful in themselves, dark brown veined with white and gold in the exuberant patterns of nature; God’s paintings, ibn-Ziad thought, sentimentally. In cases of glass and polished wood, set around this room, the relics of the Imperial collection were displayed, chips of bone and wood surrounded by goldwork and enamel, little vials of crystal clasped in filigree, all set off on cushions of velvet and subtly lit by lamps whose direct glare, shielded off by screens of perforated gold, was reduced to a reverent glow.

It was this that was most Roman, to ibn-Ziad: these small masterpieces, this attention to detail, this elegance. They went from one case to the next; sometimes he let the guide talk, but usually he pushed himself forward, delighted with what he knew, and expounded at length on the finding of the True Cross by the mother of Constantine the Great, and on the miracles wrought by the little bottle of the Virgin’s Tears, stoppered by a huge diamond. The others listened with such attention that he felt himself released from all inhibitions; he knew himself the most assured of orators, and when he was done, they burst into applause, and he felt the heat rising into his face, and could not restrain his smiles.

But when they had seen everything, and the others were gathering at the doorway, ready to be whisked off to another gathering, ibn-Ziad went back by himself, and stood looking through the glass at the wonderful reliquary of the True Cross: a tiny replica of the chapel itself, with doors that really opened, and goldwork so ornate and finely done he had to squint to make out the details.

While he stood there, Prince Constantine came up to him, and stood waiting, a little to one side, to be noticed. Ibn-Ziad turned to him, smiling.

“Good afternoon to you, sir. I trust you have some happy news for me?”

Constantine’s mouth curved into a grin, and he winked. “I have the girls, the room, and the wine. When will your official duties be over?”

“Ask the Parakoimomenononono.”

Constantine laughed outright; the two men shared another knowing smile. Ibn-Ziad straightened, putting his shoulders back, his head high; it soothed the lingering bruises in his pride to make fun of the Parakoimomenos, and he turned to look for the tall eunuch in the crowd that still filled the far end of the chapel. Suddenly something else, something much more vital and amusing, leapt into his mind.

He turned to Constantine again. “That race—remember? You told me—some Arab team is coming to race in the Hippodrome?”

“‘Some Arab team.’ I did not tell you.”

“One of you did.” Ibn-Ziad plumped out his chest and bounced on his heels. “From Caesarea, it is.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I have engaged the Augustus in a wager. That ought to make the moments with her more compelling, don’t you think?”

Constantine grunted. “You’ve bet on the Caesareans? How much?”

“Unimportant. I gather I shall not lose, in any case?”

But Constantine did not smile reassurances at him; Constantine was frowning.

“I’m sorry?” Ibn-Ziad said stiffly. “I’ve erred, in some way?”

Constantine shook his head. “No, of course not. A wager is a wager, isn’t it? Gambling’s a matter of taking risks.”

“I was under the impression that this Arab team would sweep all before it.”

Constantine’s eyebrows jerked up and down over his nose. “The Caesarean team is in the race with Ishmael—Mauros-Ishmael, you saw him, yesterday, do you remember? In the Hippodrome, the blacks and greys.”

“Ah?” Ibn-Ziad said, alarmed. Who had told him of this race? He could not remember; someone had told him that the Caesarean team would surely win.

“Of course, everybody has a chance,” said Constantine. “And the Caesareans are supposed to be very good.”

Ibn-Ziad stared at the Prince with a hostile look. Now he saw the pitfalls beneath the velvet cushions and honeyed words and the instant fulfilling of his pleasures. Somehow he had been lured into this wager, and now it seemed that he would lose.

He pulled up his chest again, thrusting out his chin. He did not mean to lose.

“My dear Prince,” he said. “Surely some way could be found to assure that my team reaches the finish line ahead of all the others.”

“Aaah.”

Now Constantine’s smile began again, slow as flowing oil, and his gaze met the Arab’s. With a wave of one hand, he bowed deeply in ibn-Ziad’s direction.

“Whatever you wish, my lord.”

“See that it is done,” said ibn-Ziad loftily.

Nicephoros had walked through the chapel with the others, looking at the relics; he enjoyed the displays, and he always hoped that the mere proximity of so many sacred objects would work some small miracle in his heart and give him peace.

He had no peace. The confrontation with the City Prefect in the baths of Zeuxippus had left him sore and low of mind. He liked Peter and knew the other man liked him, and it disturbed him that the Basileus should put this friendship in jeopardy by making Nicephoros into the Prefect’s harpy. Beyond the simple fact of having to deal with his friend’s crimes against his office there was the undeniable truth in Peter’s own argument that Nicephoros could loan him the money to make all right.

Nicephoros could not phrase in words his reluctance to do this; it was a black pressure in his mind that nagged at him, the thought that he ought to rescue his friend, the suspicion that the Basileus rather expected him to do just that, beneath those sentiments the hard ugly unwillingness to do it.

All this soured everything he did. He could find no solace in his numbers anymore, no pleasure in the simple performance of his duties, no joy in Christ. Besides, he knew that the Parakoimomenos was plotting against him.

Now the eunuch was talking to ibn-Ziad, on the far side of the Treasure Room. Beside him stood Prince Constantine. Nicephoros’s eyes rested on this trio, and almost against his will the upwelling suspicions and fears of a lifetime spent at court swelled up through the dank distempered depths of his mind and flooded all his thoughts.

They were plotting against him. The Basileus was behind it. She wanted his disgrace. Why did he go on? Nothing he did worked out properly anymore. He turned away, his heart sick.

Nearby him, also waiting for this part of the tour to end, was one of the other foreign visitors; this was a monk, clearly, by his tonsure, his cassock of some coarsely woven grey stuff, his hands, folded before him, innocent of any ornament. Above the cowled neck of his garment his head was close-cropped where the hair grew; his face was leanly made, the skin weatherbeaten, the eyes wide-spaced and clear as an animal’s, as if he had no thoughts to veil.

The severe and simple aspect of this person was so at variance with the others that Nicephoros on an impulse drew near and with a gesture and a bow said, “Allow me, Father, the honor and privilege of making myself known to you—I am Nicephoros, the Imperial Treasurer.”

The monk faced him gravely, with no change of expression. His eyes were pale as water. It seemed as if nothing could surprise him. But when he spoke it was in Latin.

Nicephoros gritted his teeth. He knew no Latin. With a few more gestures and another bow, he expressed this sad fact to his new companion, and the monk, by his look, was not inclined to mourn the loss of conversation. Nicephoros would have ended it there.

Unfortunately the guide had seen him attempt to speak to the barbarian monk, and the guide, his functions usurped by ibn-Ziad’s extraordinary exercise in self-expression, was eager to be of use. He rushed up to the two men and pattered out a string of Latin to the monk.

The barbarian responded in a low voice, which the guide translated.

“He is a monk of Eire, my lord—Hibernia, that is, at the edge of the world.”

“Hibernia,” Nicephoros said. That had never even been part of the Empire; it was so far away the waters of Ocean totally surrounded it, as if God, having made the world and drawn back to observe His craftsmanship, had let drop a bit of the leftover clay into the sea. “What in God’s Sacred Name is he doing here?”

Another exchange between the guide and the monk, during which Nicephoros heard his name spoken. The monk faced him and bowed once and lifted his hand and made the Sign of the Cross over him— made the barbarian way, left to right, with three fingers.

“He says,” the guide told him, “that his monastery was destroyed by an assault of the Northmen. He is here to ask the Basileus to give his order a place to build a new monastery.”

“Here? Why not Rome? Who are these Northmen?”

The guide and the monk spoke together a moment.

“He says that his order had some dealings with Rome in the past that left them unwilling to discuss matters of faith with those people. He says that this being the center of the world, we shall be safe from the Northmen for a long time yet.”

Nicephoros searched the barbarian monk’s face, curious against his will: this seemed the sort of man who would live at the edge of the world, the wind from the abyss tearing at him, the darkness ever ready to overcome him; surely there was no room in that gaunt implacable face for any ease or pleasure in life. He said, “Who are these Northmen?”

“He says,” the guide said, after some more gabble with the monk, “that they are wolves from the sea. They come from the fogs, from the night, and from the storm, and set upon all things in their path, and all things in their path they devastate utterly. They are God’s chosen instruments for the destruction of the world, and surely, he says”—the guide smiled, his teeth gapped—“they will come upon us one day, at the end of things.”

“Hunh,” said Nicephoros.

He faced the room again. Somehow the simple words of the monk had transported him. The room was oddly strange now, as if he had just been somewhere else. The splendid marble walls, the glass cases glowing in the diverted luminescence of the covered lamps, the low ripple of conversation—all seemed so safe, so ordinary, so cultivated, and so fragile; abruptly he shivered all over. In his imagination he saw these walls burst apart, this whole place shaken to the roots, while through every yawning crack rushed a wild ravening pack of wolves.

The vision made him sick to his stomach; he turned away. A few words to the guide transferred his best wishes and hopes to the Irish monk, whose cool pale gaze remained on him. Nicephoros thought, He will never reach the Basileus. Even if he did, what use would they be to each other?

Nicephoros turned around slowly again toward the Treasure Room. Marvelous, splendid, unbroken, unbreached, it surrounded these people caught up in their mundane conversations, preserving them from the greater all-encompassing truth. Was life possible only by insulating men from reality?

What reality? It was his low mood that brought him to such cankered daydreams. Nicephoros turned on his heel and walked out of the room, out on to the terrace, into the blasting sunlight of the day.

“He wants me to fix the race for him,” said Constantine.

They were standing on the edge of the rose garden, just outside the Daphne; from behind the Parakoimomenos came the boisterous laughter of a good party. Ibn-Ziad’s voice was clearly audible through the open doors, shouting exuberantly to another celebrant. They had already seen tumblers and jugglers; in half an hour, there would be women in to dance.

“Can you do it?” the eunuch asked Prince Constantine.

“Ishmael needs money. Probably he could be talked into it, yes.” Constantine smiled at him.

The Parakoimomenos sniffed, disinclined to this little exercise in amending the possible. “I don’t think so, really, my good man, do you?”

Beside him, Constantine moved, a short, fierce gesture swiftly brought under control, and said, between his teeth, “You know, we could all profit a little from this. Why not? I say. I mean—it can’t hurt, really, can it? If she loses a wager—what does that matter?”

The Parakoimomenos raised his hand. He had just thought of a context in which Constantine’s proposal acquired the overtones of an act of God. Even now, from the merry-making behind him, came the voice of the City Prefect, full of good humor, answering ibn-Ziad’s remark.

“Gambling is a sin, my prince. A vile and corrupting sin, as some among us have only too great occasion to know. However—perhaps—in the circumstances, it might be preferable if ibn-Ziad did win his wager. Yes. Do what you can.”

“Excellent,” said Constantine briskly, and strode away, back toward the lights and the music.

The Parakoimomenos stood there a while longer. The evening was very warm and the roses yielded up their perfume in heady vapors, and everywhere in the purple twilight insects whirred and chirruped. Someone else was coming out of the party, out on to the terrace.

This was Nicephoros. Tall and angular, the Syrian came up to the edge of the terrace, reached in through the opening in his coat, drew out the arbor vitae, and relieved himself into the bushes. He ignored the Parakoimomenos, but the eunuch watched him steadily.

His clothes arranged again, Nicephoros turned, and the rivals faced each other. Nicephoros was looking surly and half-drunken. The Parakoimpmenos remarked that he and the City Prefect, always friends before, were avoiding each other now. The Treasurer grunted.

“What is wrong—have you forgotten your quill?”

The eunuch’s head snapped up at the insult. Nicephoros walked heavily back toward the party again. A cold hand closed around the heart of the Parakoimomenos. He had been a fool, before, when with a method of success at hand, he had held back from it. The City Prefect would fall, and Nicephoros with him. The eunuch swore it to himself, on the testicles he had lost in infancy, when his family determined on a career for him in the civil service. It was the holiest oath he knew. He did not go into the party again; instead, he went away by himself.