He reaches a pudgy hand toward the plate and helps himself to another honey cake.
“Put that back, you greedy thing.—And don’t give me that look.” His mother Maria slaps his hand. “Look how he stuffs himself.” She rolls her eyes, appeals to her brothers.
“Oh, let the boy have another one,” Uncle Constantine smiles. “We want a happy boy today, we’re going to ask much of him.” He gives Calaphates a wink. The boy likes Uncle Constantine.
They are in the dining room in Uncle John’s villa on the Horn. His mother has dragged him here this morning from their house in the city. And here is the whole family gathered together. And they are all looking at him. It makes him nervous. What has he done now? What is it all about? There’s some secret here—the way they exchange glances and have sent all the servants out of the room. Calaphates is getting bored again. His eyes wander, he squirms in his chair. He scratches at a pimple on his chin, draws a spot of blood.
He doesn’t understand much but he understands how important his uncles are: Uncle Constantine, rich and generous with his money, always buying him things and taking him places, playing the role of indulgent father in Stephen’s absence; Uncle George, the Master of the Wardrobe, an important position with many duties; and Uncle John in his plain monk’s robe, who claims to be nothing more than a humble guardian of orphans. (Calaphates was taken to see the orphanage once by his uncle; it gave him nightmares for a week).
All of them eunuchs. What would it feel like to be castrated? he wonders. He knows vaguely that their father did something to them when they were small to make them this way. He is fascinated by eunuchs. He has grown up among them, of course; the palace is filled with them, glossy skin, voices like flutes. Not like his skin, his honking voice. And all of them so very powerful. When he was a little boy he’d thought he might like to be one. Not any more, though. He has felt the stirrings of desire for a woman. He hasn’t had one yet, but soon he will.
John seems to notice him for the first time. “Now, Calaphates, pay attention please.” There is a parchment on the table between them, he pushes it toward the boy—edged with gilt, covered with writing in purple ink. “Read it, if you like, and then put your signature on it. Take your time.”
They know he can hardly read. He feels all their eyes on him as he traces the words with his finger and moves his lips. His tutor has given up on him. And the other palace boys, the sons of high officials and officers, make fun of him, of his walk, his laugh, how bad he is at games, how sometimes, when he’s nervous, he falls down in a faint. Though his given name is Michael, they call him Calaphates, Caulker, ridiculing his father’s low birth; and now even his own family calls him by the nickname. He hates it.
“Adoption? The Empress Zoe?”
“Just sign it,” says his mother. “You can do that much can’t you?”
“It means,” says Constantine coming to his aid, “that the Empress will adopt you as her son.”
He screws up his eyes with the effort of thinking what this means. Then takes the pen that Uncle John presses into his hand and scrawls a large M followed by a few squiggles. “Must I call her Mum now?”
Maria pinches him hard on the cheek and hisses, “Just don’t ever forget who your real mother is.” Christ, he hates her, the witch. All red lips and nails, dead white skin and heavy jewelry so that she clanks when she walks. And never in his life a kind word for him.
“You do understand what this means?” Uncle John frowns at him. “You will have the title of Caesar and when Uncle Michael goes to heaven”—he crosses himself hastily and turns his eyes upward—“you will become our Emperor.”
“But I don’t want to be the Emperor. It’s boring, you have to sit there for hours with nothing to do. People stare at you, I don’t like it when people stare at me.”
“But,” Uncle Constantine cajoles, “you’d like to go up in the flying throne, wouldn’t you? Up and down, as often as you please?”
“Is it really magic?”
“Of course, it is.”
“And I could go up and down whenever?”
“As much as you like.”
The boy is doubtful. “So what’s the magic word, then?”
His uncle smiles. “Abramasax.”
“I want to try it now.”
But Constantine pushes him back in his chair. “I’m just teasing you, boy. You’ll learn the word when the time comes.”
“Constantine, stop it.” John shoots his brother a pained look. “Stop filling the boy’s head with nonsense. He has little enough brain as it is.”
Then Uncle George, who hasn’t seemed to be paying attention at all, says, “Will the Empress agree to this?”
“She will,” John answers. “I will have her signature on this tonight.”
“And does the Emperor consent?”
“Naturally.”
The Emperor. His other uncle—Michael the Fourth, the invisible presence in this room—who had been kind to him when he was little but now ignores him, too sick to care about anything except his own soul. They are already talking of their brother as though he were dead. And he, young Calaphates, will be Michael the Fifth? Why him? Why not Stephen, his father? Which reminds him … “When’s my father coming home?” It has been two years. He has trouble remembering the man now, except that he had broad shoulders and rough hands and would take him sailing sometimes and didn’t laugh at him.
There is a long moment of silence in the room. He sees their eyes dart back and forth. Then Uncle John says, “I’ve had a letter from your father recently, he’s not with the fleet anymore, he’s in Italy, he says he likes it there very much.”
“Why isn’t he with the fleet?”
“Never mind about that. I expect we’ll be seeing him soon.”
Calaphates sinks back in his chair and pouts. They’re always telling him to mind his own business, that things he overhears aren’t meant for his ears. But he isn’t as stupid as they think he is. And when he does become Emperor, that will change. Oh yes, he’ll show them who is master.