LOYALTY
by S.N. Lewitt
“I need to know who is trying to poison me.” I tried to keep the anger out of my face. This sorceress, a street magician I did not quite trust even if she did come with a recommendation from Brother Michael, was not responsible. I knew that for a fact, since Brother Michael was my usual healer and he had found the traces of poison.
“I cannot tell you who is doing it or why, Commander,” Brother Michael said when I visited him this morning. “I can only tell from your condition, from what I can see in your organs, that it has been going on for many days. Some substance that is being fed to you in very small bits daily, so that you will eventually store enough in your body that you die. It will look slow and natural, like a disease, but there is no doubt that this is poison.”
Brother Michael is the best there is. He has consulted for the Emperor and his father-in-law, the general, several times and still has his head. If his hands holding steady over my body for so long that I fell asleep revealed poison, then indeed there was no doubt in my mind.
Besides, Brother Michael was once the head of the medical faculty of the Lyceum Magus before he took orders. There are rumors that he might even be a saint, though all of his cures can be ascribed to meticulously performed spells and good diagnoses. Besides, a saint wouldn’t see someone like me, a commander of the Varangian Guard, unannounced in the middle of morning prayers. Which Brother Michael has done more than once.
And saints rarely attend emperors and rulers regularly, or keep their old friends and acquaintances from the days before they took orders. Brother Michael was holy and quite brilliant, and he had lost none of the worldly shrewdness that had made him the terror of the court before he had retired to the monastery, from where he still held invisible strings of quiet influence.
“Well, can you do anything about it?” I had asked when he gave his diagnosis. I assumed it would be very easy, a few incantations, some incense, and the cramps would leave my belly and the whole thing would be over.
But Brother Michael only shook his shaggy head and waved his hands in the air uselessly. “Lucius Arsenius, there is nothing I can do. You have to find the poisoner. And very soon indeed. The poison has entered your system and I am surprised you are alive even now. But be careful of activity. Too much activity will speed the evil in your body and give you less time to track down the poisoner.” He seemed distraught by it all, having such a thing walk through the monastery door.
As if it were his problem. As if he were the one who had moaned all day in bed and had passed blood and felt as if his insides were on fire. As if there were nothing at all he could do about it and he wished he didn’t have to be reminded of the nastiness of the world he left behind.
“Fine,” I said through clenched teeth. “But can you give me any relief? Can someone help me until I can see justice done?”
That seemed to confuse the poor brother even more. He blinked his watery eyes and looked out the window, as if awaiting inspiration. “Perhaps I can give you the name of someone who can help,” he said hesitantly. “I am not certain, you understand. She is only a witch, a street sorceress. Probably half her income comes from the crimson mantle. But she has some knowledge of poisons and the like, and has a good reputation, for someone who never studied properly.”
I snatched the name up and read it over seven times, though that didn’t change the facts. I did not like the idea of leaving my fate, my life, and the protection of the Empire, in the hands of some street witch who used her talent merely to supplement that other one.
But I could not risk a proper licensed magician from the Lyceum. They are all too politically connected, owing favors to this noble or that minor prince. It is a wonder anyone can trust a proper magician at all. Even the most innocent love potion could have political consequences.
Everyone knows the story of Irene Herekonos, who was married to John Mylos of the not-quite-noble Arsenius family only to consolidate lands and to take over her fortune. Poor Irene was an orphan, after all, and without brothers. And all of sixteen years old and very lovely besides. But John had never been moved by a woman’s youth or beauty and he was far more interested in Irene’s fortune than in Irene herself.
So Irene bought a love potion and slipped it to her new husband the third day after their marriage. Within weeks, Irene not only controlled the family finances, but had gotten the ear of the old empress as well. She became a serious influence on Imperial policy while John was off fighting the Rus and the Huns at the borders, though even with all her power at court her husband continued on the battlefield.
John died when Irene was twenty-five. She was considered the most beautiful woman in the Empire at the time, and on her husband’s death became the wealthiest as well. And the most important. Rumors are that she was the Emperor’s mistress for a while, though the stories became vague and I have never been sure which emperor it was. Or whether my branch of the family is descended from one of her legitimate children or from an Imperial bastard. It was a very long time ago, and she always claimed that all of her children were her third husband’s.
Though of course we know this is not true. Even today, four generations later, my cousins and brothers and I all bear some resemblance to the old royal family. Enough that many of the older officers in the Guard remarked on it when I began my career. And, of course, they had all heard of Irene. Who hadn’t?
Ah, but that isn’t the point. The point is that I dared not approach someone who might be in the pay of one of the Helios or the Teklos, or who might have heard a bit of gossip whispered or who knew that this daughter had purchased thus and such a spell. No, I had to go to someone without connections, a minor streetwalker who picked up something on the side with her healing talents.
I had been afraid to send for her at first. Afraid that she would be toothless and ugly, that she would be incompetent as well. Brother Michael may be quite reliable, and being in the Church, at least his agenda is clear, but he does have this undeniable tendency to help out those he considers worthy. Which means that he could easily send me a second-rate witch who had children at home to feed or who was generous to the quarter or who had come to him to discuss the matter of her vocation among the sisters.
So I was at least pleasantly surprised when she arrived. Christa was not a common streetwalker with a few midwife skills. No, even without the mantle and her rich crimson gown, it is obvious that this woman is a properly trained hetaira, an educated courtesan of the highest rank. She wore the cloak that Theodora once wore, and it folded over her shoulders like it did Justinian’s bride, with the same modesty of drape and subtle ornamentation as the wife of an ancient ruling family might wear. Her sandals were inlaid with tiny yellow stones and her servant followed behind her with a businesslike satchel.
I met her in my study. Her eyes went once around the room, carefully noting all the details. Yes, it is a very old house and built in the Roman style around a garden. All the rooms have beam construction as they did in ancient Rome, before spell-building became an art practiced outside of sacred precincts. And the paintings on the walls are old-fashioned, perhaps, not the currently popular hanging fabrics from the Eastern part of the empire. I knew that she noted all these things carefully before her gaze went to the library. I could almost see the itch in her hands to reach for the oldest scrolls and the bound vellum.
She looked, she sighed, and then she became all business. I had never dealt with a hetaira in any capacity except as entertainers at parties, where they gave opinions like men and conversed like learned doctors. Always very amusing. I had thought them very funny, well trained in imitating their betters.
Facing down Christa, I suddenly realized that she was not merely an imitator. There was something in the set of her eyes, in the way she studied me that reminded me of Brother Michael.
“If you would permit me,” she said, and her voice was low and melodious and carefully groomed.
I nodded and she came to me, touched my wrist lightly and then placed her long fingers on my temples. I felt as if cool water invaded me and I knew she was searching as Brother Michael searched, the way a truly trained healer analyzes the body. Her eyes were closed and she was deep in concentration, with the same look that Brother Michael has when he is deeply involved in some healing work.
“It is poison indeed,” she said. “A slow one, where a little is added each day. Your body cannot rid itself of this evil, and so it builds and builds as you sicken.” She turned away and her expression filled with disgust. “They use this to make death look natural, as if any child with a wild talent for healcraft couldn’t detect it! I suppose the idea is to prevent the victim from seeking a competent healer in time.”
“And for me?” I asked. “What can you do?”
She sat down uninvited and ran her finger along the top of my desk. “You are very close to the critical stages. Another dose or two or heavy physical exertion and you will be dead. There are several possibilities. There is a spell that can protect you from the effects as long as the poison is not increased. Then, when your body is sufficiently recovered, we can begin the treatments to draw out the evil humors and restore you to health. It is not an easy or pleasant course of action, but it is the only thing that is effective. Or you could choose to leave this place entirely. That would probably be most healthful in any event. But if you ingest much more, there is nothing we can do. Magic can only go so far. If a man is intent on killing himself, there is nothing we can do to prevent it.”
I looked at her and wondered where her loyalties lay. “I need to know who is poisoning me,” I said evenly. “Can you discover this?”
Her eyes fluttered. “I am not sure,” she said. “Maybe. I have never tried anything of this nature before.”
To be honest, she did not panic or play the weakling. Hetairae are known for being competent and reliable individuals, but I had always thought it was because such an anomaly was amusing in a woman trained for pleasure. Perhaps I had been wrong. Or maybe this one was more healer than hetaira, who had entered that other sisterhood when the Lyceum Magus was closed to her. Surely enough women had entered convents because there was so little desire for wives who were well versed in Homer and the writings of St. Augustine. There was the great poetess who was also a great beauty and nearly chosen as empress. But as she reached out her hand for the apple, the Emperor said, “It is by women that evil has come into the world.” And she replied, “And it is by woman that that which is greater than evil came into the world.” She became a nun and a mystic and a great writer, though I think the Emperor had little to regret from his choice.
“Well, we must try it now,” I said. “I have to know. It is important to the General.”
She arched one eyebrow, but did not ask the obvious question. Why the General and not the Emperor? The one with the crown or the one with the power.
We of the Guard have never abandoned our general. We made him and he made us and together with his wisdom and our might we had expanded and secured the empire. The young Emperor Constantine VII, married to the old man’s daughter, was no more than a figurehead. He had never campaigned, never led the Guard to the borders to fight even the barbarian tribes or the sea pirates who lurked in the Mediterranean. No, there was in truth only one ruler, and it seemed that this healer-witch-hetaira was astute enough to know that.
“Lucius Arsenius, there are things you are not saying,” she said softly. “Things that I may well need to know to find out who is poisoning you. Can you go away for a few weeks for your health’s sake, perhaps to the mountains for the cooler air?”
I shook my head. “Whoever is behind this cannot know that I suspect,” I insisted. “If I leave on whatever pretense, it will become obvious. No, do whatever is needful to keep me alive for a few more days until we find this poisoner, and then you and Brother Michael will be able to draw out the evil and I will be able to recover in peace.”
She cocked her head as if thinking about something distant. “You might want to be careful of Brother Michael,” she said, and her words were as silent as spring rain in the garden. “He is an abbot, but that does not remove him from the ranks of advisors.”
I snorted. Everyone knows that he’s one of the General’s advisors. It is why I feel more comfortable with him in any event. “And what about you?” I asked. “What faction or interest do you favor? You’re not without politics yourself.”
She smiled, and her whole face filled with sparkle and promise. I could see well why any man could want her when she was in this frame of mind. Though she was pretty enough while serious, the conflict between face and thought was difficult to digest and I found myself seeing her as a man as I listened to her speak. Now she was all seduction again.
“I am completely without politics,” she said, her perfect teeth flashing. “I have never had dealings with the Imperial family or the Guard or any of the higher nobility. Mostly I have attended to merchants, foreigners who ply the silk road. I know more about Samarkand than about the Palace. And I despise the entire thing and everyone who deals in politics.”
I nodded as if I accepted this, though it was obviously a lie. No one of her training and intelligence could be without politics and opinion in Byzantium. But I did not think that, whatever her leanings, she was any threat to me.
One does not grow gray hair in this city without some instinct. Mine, which I had always trusted, told me now that I could trust the healer. Or at least, I would come to no harm from her. For the time being, in any case.
“How shall we begin the investigation?” I thought aloud.
The witch thought the question was directed at her. “I have a young apprentice,” she said slowly. “She could be introduced to your kitchens as a maid, or maybe a serving girl. She is very pretty. I have taught her already to use her talent to detect this poison in its raw form and in food. This is not difficult to do if an apprentice knows what she is looking for. The real problem is when one doesn’t know and thinks that the belly cramps and bleeding bowels are the result of disease. Which is the natural assumption. It is very well done, this poisoning.”
So the girl will be introduced to the serving staff. That was a good place to start. I liked that and told her so.
“Now,” she said, “first we have to take care of you. The spell will not be very pleasant, but there is no help for it. It will bolster your body until we can begin a proper cure.”
“Yes, indeed,” I agreed.
She had me lie on a couch facing east, just as Brother Michael always does. She spotted my brazier immediately and threw some herbs on it. The smell was sharp but agreeable. And she started with a prayer that I had learned for my first communion and bade me join in, so I knew she was decent in her devotion to the Church. Not that I thought Brother Michael would send me to less, but it was reassuring.
I do not really like magic. It is the opposite of soldiering. Magic is akin to politics, everything moving unseen beneath the surface, nothing plain to the eye. I am a plain enough man and like to see my enemies and know my friends. People may say that in this city that is impossible, but among the Guard it is still commonplace. We are still Roman soldiers who protect our general. And we make him if he leads us well and unmake him if he ignores our good.
But magic is something else again, and even though the Church permits its practice, I still do not quite trust that which I cannot see. Saving the mysteries of the Incarnation and the Resurrection and the Mass, of course. And my own hope of salvation, which I trust is far off in the future, though clearly someone wishes it much closer.
The hetaira witch began to chant in a language I thought was Aramaic, though I was not certain. I didn’t like the foreignness of it. The words sounded harsh and cruel and had neither the fluidity nor the beauty of our native Greek.
I closed my eyes. I did not wish to look as she did her work. I heard her hard leather soles against the mosaic floor as she circled the couch and I felt . . . something.
All imagination, I thought. Just a trick because I was trying too hard not to think of it. But as she chanted again I could not ignore the energy that poured into me. The pains in my belly, which had been constant for several days, lessened. At first I thought I imagined that, too, but as she came to the end of her last wail the pain abated completely.
Then a hand touched my shoulder. “It is done,” she said. But she shook her head and sighed, and her carefully disarranged black curls shook all down the front of her robe.
“I feel wonderful,” I reassured her. “The pain is all gone. I feel like I could ride all day and drink all night and wench all week. You’ve done very well.”
But she kept her eyes on the floor. “It is only an illusion,” she said. “I cannot repair any damage to your body until we leach the poison out of you, and we cannot do that here. It will be a hard working.” Then she looked up and her eyes met mine. And I have seen such determination in the eyes of an enemy with a sword in his hand. “You are not healed. And remember, this only gives you a little time of health to evade your enemies. In the end the poison is still lodged in your organs, eating them away. It will kill you whether you feel fine or not, if you do not leave here and come under the care of a master healer. Immediately.”
I nodded. “You explained that all very clearly,” I reassured her. “But I cannot afford to leave until I have the poisoner in hand and his employer dead. I don’t like it, but it is necessary.”
She looked down at the mosaic as if the old piece of a dove with an olive branch were the most fascinating piece of art in the world. “I will send the girl Alexa to you today,” Christa replied. “To watch over the kitchen and find out where the poison is. And please, if you can, avoid that food. The less damage the more likely it can be healed, though I do not like this at all. A sick man should not play well and walk around with all the symptoms masked. It only makes for bad times later.”
She gathered up her satchel and gave it to the servant who had followed her. Before she closed the case, I had noticed several dark herbs and strange symbols within. Then, with barely a nod, she left.
“Ummm,” I cleared my throat to remind her of unfinished business.
She hesitated and turned. “Yes?”
“Your fee,” I said, feeling stupid. “We have never discussed your fee for this work.”
She shuddered delicately, as if even the mention of money were abhorrent to her. “I will send my servant to your majordomo,” she said. “I assume that you have sufficient funds.” That was not a question and she did not wait for an answer as she left my house.
The girl arrived not two hours later. The porter was amazed that she arrived in a sedan chair like her mistress, but this was merely a kitchen wench. Not much to look at with a round face and unkempt hair, she would go unnoticed among the pots and vegetables. Still, there was something frighteningly calm and assured in her eyes, as if under the serving girl’s shift and plain features there was all of Holy Wisdom veiled and waiting.
She was uncanny and disturbed me. Everything disturbed me. Even feeling healthy again and knowing that the poison still ate at my bowels made the bright daylight seem unreal.
It could not possibly be late afternoon of the same day. Eternities had come and gone between now and when the sun had risen. And yet this seemed unlike the sun. The brightness was a mockery of my murder.
My murder. I had not thought of it that way before. I did not want to use the word so plainly. But there was no other word that was correct. And there was no doubt in my mind that the young Constantine or one of his supporters was behind it.
He was weak-willed and as weak of mind as of character. If he ruled, all Byzantium would break apart. The great gathering of nations under the single throne would fragment and dissolve. Like Alexander’s empire before us, all the civilization and culture, all the learning and elegance we have achieved would fall back into barbarism.
It takes more than courage to hold together such a strange mixture as occupies our borders. It takes cunning and diplomacy, understanding mixed with firmness, clear vision and singular good luck. And the blessing of God, of course, though as His instrument to spread His Holy Church we hope we deserve Divine Favor.
The old general, who has never been able to retire, has all these qualities and more. His son-in-law is a figurehead who wishes to be more. It would make good sense for the younger to destroy the loyal officers who brought his father-in-law to power in the first place. And it was among his entourage I intended to look.
After all, Constantine keeps his elderly father-in-law in the field, fighting barbarian Rus, instead of at home. And the Emperor had never taken the field himself, a thing for which no solider will forgive him.
The sun was still in the sky. I would have to act quickly. Surprise is an old tactic but it is still useful.
Full of energy, I sat at my desk, an old Roman-style desk that belonged to my great-grandfather when he was an officer in the Guard, and began to write. I could have had a secretary do this chore. There are three in this house who are capable. But I do not trust them. I do not trust anyone. And so I wrote out the invitations myself.
The guest list was perfect. Seven is the correct number for an old-style formal dinner, but I only really suspected two. And I needed no more to test my plan. It was late enough that dinner would be under way, and while the cooks would be worried about adding the necessities for a formal dinner, some could be bought from a cookshop and they could surely handle the rest. Adding two to the evening meal would be no strain on them.
But I had to get to them after whatever poison had already been cooked into the food or added to the wine. And so I had to tell them late, so that nothing could be changed. Of course, I do not have to tell the kitchen the identity of the guests, though at times I have done so to impress the servants to get the very best from them. This time I deemed it unpolitic.
I asked the porter where my wife was. She would not be present at a political dinner in any event. Only a hetaira was considered a proper dinner companion in such discussion.
My wife, the servant told me, was exactly where I expected her to be. Waiting on the young empress. As she should be. The girl is able to influence both her husband and her father, and I am fortunate enough that my wife was among her ladies. Not that the girl wanted proper wives for companions. She would rather have surrounded herself with her girlhood friends and other inappropriate associates. No, I was quite honored that my wife was among those women entrusted with keeping the girl in line.
She was not expected home for dinner. I wondered who she planned to dine with. And as the only appropriate feminine dinner companion anyway, I suddenly thought to ask Christa.
Of course I would have to pay for her services as an entertainer tonight. But with her special skills and observation, she might well be able to gather enough information that we could find the culprit by sunrise and I could be properly purged of the poison. And live.
So I wrote another invitation, this one to the hetaira witch. I hoped she had no appointment this evening. Even if she did, I was prepared to pay handsomely for her to break her engagement.
How much easier it is to plan and think when the body is not in pain, when the mind is freed from constant thoughts of lingering agony. I actually enjoyed planning this little dinner. The thought of my enemy delivered on a platter, so to speak, filled me with unspeakable pleasure. I whistled as I strolled past the courtyard garden to the kitchen, to tell the cooks that there would be guests to dine.
* * *
“What in St. Helen’s name do you mean by this?” Christa demanded, fuming. “I sent you the girl. I told you to keep away from the kitchen. And I had an important client tonight, a very important client.”
“I mean to find out the murderer tonight,” I said for the second time in the same conversation. “Whoever does not eat of the poisoned dish is the man, that is quite simple. All you have to do is tell me which dish is poisoned.”
The hetaira’s face went red with rage. “That is the stupidest plan I have ever heard,” she finally exploded. “Do you want to know why it is stupid? Let me tell you. First of all, the kind of poison that is being used can be ingested in small quantities. As you have done over a period of weeks. It would be no trouble at all for the poisoner to eat whatever dish it is without ill effect. And where is your vaunted plan then?
“Then there is the matter of needing me in this plan. My apprentice was sent here to identify poisoned food. She is capable of doing this. She cannot cure or give the illusion of health, but she can certainly identify something tainted. Which is why I sent her here in the first place.
“Then there is the matter of your guest fist. Five people, only two of whom are actually suspect. Why on earth you invited Brother Michael I cannot fathom.”
“Because he’s a good dinner guest,” I said firmly. “And because I didn’t want to just invite from one faction. And you must stay and be a proper hetaira and make conversation with my guests.”
Her eyes widened. “Absolutely not. I am not about to break an appointment with this particular client in any event.”
She stood in my study with her satchel and her robes drawn close around her. Unlike this morning, her curls were perfectly arranged and her face was elaborately made up. Under the deep red robe I was certain was a gown of the finest fabric cut to the empress’s style of the month. But Christa was not about to let me see it.
“So if this plan is so bad, you tell me one that’s better,” I shot back at her, just as I would to a junior officer in training.
Christa closed her eyes as if she were very tired. “Oh, all right,” she relented. “If you will ask Alexa in here. Have her come in and I’ll see if something can be done to salvage this whole thing. What a fiasco. Indeed, Lucius Arsenius, you are a soldier. You think like a soldier, you plan like a soldier. And you have all the subtlety of a steel sword and a legion.”
I sighed and snapped my fingers. The porter arrived, and I told him to fetch the new girl from the kitchen. He seemed surprised, but left without a word.
Two minutes later Alexa arrived. She barely spared me a look and went directly to her mistress. They conferred in voices so low that I could not hear them even in the same room. I looked out across the old-fashioned atrium garden. It was so peaceful and lush as the last bright rays of the afternoon sun illuminated the splashing fountain against the flowers. Soon the sun would sink rapidly and the garden would darken like a candle being snuffed. But just now the classical arrangement and the sounds of insects and birds seemed a gruesome contrast to my present state.
Finally I forgot about the women whispering in the corner, about the guests coming to dinner, even about tracking down my would-be murderer. I passed into a state where I thought about death alone, about how all the life around me masked only its own end and how nothing ever escaped Judgment. I became melancholy and serene together, a very odd state, and yet it felt as if I had touched something true.
I wondered if this was true meditation and made a note to ask Brother Michael this evening when he arrived. The old man had asked about the state of my soul so many times that I felt bound to discuss what seemed like the one glimpse of spirit I had had in a year.
“We can do something here,” Christa announced, and suddenly I was thrown back into the study, the world, and my own personal predicament.
“Alexa tells me that there is already a dish made and laced with the poison,” she went on. “She has identified it as the fish, the one in cream sauce that you like so well. Which makes sense, the white sauce would mask the color as well as any flavor. Whoever has done this is cunning. Anyway, I can go and set a spell on the dish, on the dose intended for this evening. As I explained, it is safe for everyone else to eat, as there is only a very small amount in the food. It is you who are in danger because this has been building in your body for a long time.
“Anyway, I shall set a spell that will affect only the person who is behind the plot. This is because they are connected in another way to the food, and so the spell is completely defensive and will only recoil. It cannot touch anyone who is innocent. It will not kill the man; I refuse to do that. I will not use magic to harm. I am a healer, healer trained and healer vowed. The spell will only mark the man, and in such a way as you will know sometime tomorrow. The backlash will hit and you will know.”
She stood proud, her chin jutting forward and her eyes flashing. Even though she is small and fine-boned, in such a mood I would not like to meet her in a fight. There was much about her that made me think of the fiercest Varangians, those who came from the north countries and talked of nothing but their honor and their alcohol.
She was only a hetaira and a street sorceress, but I had to respect her. It was a new feeling. I had never thought of such worthy of anything save use. And yet this street corner witch undoubtedly had her own version of honor. I was impressed.
“Then do whatever you think best,” I said. “I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
She turned to follow Alexa, but at the door stopped and looked at me. “Of course you’ll pay,” she said softly. “But I’m not doing it for money. I’ll do this because we resolve things too easily with death and too little with debate. I’ll do this because I believe that God has given me what power I have to uphold His law, and because murder is against everything holy. And I’ll do it for my honor and for God and my patron saint. But I don’t do this for money, and I don’t do it for you. You’re just another plotter treating lives like chess pieces, not caring about what is right or good or just. Just about your own advantage. I despise you all.”
I wanted to say something, to make her call back those unfair words, but she had already left the room.
She was wrong. Who was she to judge me, anyway? What did she know? Suddenly I wondered if she would make some other spell of her own and hurt us all because she did not like who we were or what we did. Because she could not understand. She was only a hetaira, a courtesan and entertainer. Her opinion meant nothing, except in the theater and at dinner parties.
And I knew I was wrong even as I thought those things. This courtesan was something much greater than she appeared. Otherwise, what would it matter what she thought? Still, far better that she had hated me and for much less reason.
Who was she anyway? And why did I care?
I pressed these matters to the back of my mind. They were not soldier’s questions. They were not important. I had important things to do, a very political dinner to arrange and a death to contemplate. I couldn’t spare the time for one little whore.
So I let her go with Alexa to do whatever magic they had planned while I went to do important things. Like argue with the porter about how to set the couches until my guests arrived.
* * *
Brother Michael was the last to arrive, as befitted a man of his calling and station. Caius Lucianus was the first, an old comrade from my days as a junior officer. He had since become a political creature and I distrusted him. But he was a good dinner guest, full of witty conversation and humor and all the latest gossip. Still, I was distressed to see how heavy he had grown, all those years of eating rich court food and no exercise. Fat and lazy, like the young boy who claims the throne.
Nikolas Patros and Nikolas Helios arrived together. We always called them “the Nikoli” and though they were unalike physically, they were inseparable in every other aspect of life. Patros was a court secretary and was privy to the entire correspondence of the Emperor, as well as much of the diplomatic material with our tribute states. Helios was better positioned with the Navy, who generally go undernoticed because the Guard has more power. But the Navy holds the key to the seas and it is by the seas that we are most vulnerable. Byzantium is surrounded on three sides by water. Salt water. If it were not for Justinian’s great foresight in building the cistern system, we could be cut off by land and brought low by the lack of fresh water. But we have the cisterns.
I had even been to a floating party once, hosted by Emperor Constantine. Down in the main cistern the pillars are old Roman statuary. One has a Medusa head, though in its proper place because such things are unholy. The whole is like the greatest palace chamber, all arches and fine marble, but the whole of the thing is covered in water and we sat in shallow boats with our picnics as the torchlight reflected in the great lake below us.
Decadent, I thought. That was when I decided I could not support him, even if the Church had crowned him and his father-in-law declared him ruler. The drunken boys peeing into what was the city’s supply in case of siege was the last straw. He could not control his courtiers, the pup didn’t even try. I could no more follow a man like him than I could follow a donkey.
These thoughts filled me while I watched my guests.
As I said, Brother Michael arrived last. He was shown to the couch of honor and wine was offered to him before any of the others. Inviting a churchman of his stature always makes entertaining simpler. I do not have to be concerned over who will feel slighted and who will feel his dignity threatened. Only the general, or maybe his son-in-law, would be a better choice for easy etiquette, but Brother Michael is easier to get. Besides, he loves my cook’s fish in white sauce.
Which is properly famous. I could live without honey, without meat, without wine even. I could not live without this fish in white sauce, so rich and complex and satisfying to the tongue that I have it almost every day in Lent and all the rest of the year besides. Two serving girls, very pretty but demure, brought around the platters for the guests to serve themselves. The Nikoli and Caius took generous portions. Brother Michael took very little, which I found curious. He usually eats heartily of the fish and forgoes the meat, as becomes a man who is a walking saint.
I half-listened to my guests’ conversation. About the races again, the Blues and the Whites and who had the better teams and which charioteers were superior. I am partial to the Greens myself, so I listened a little more carefully and served more wine.
The meat came, and the garnishes, and the boiled eggs and the lentils that were a reminder of simple solider fare. I liked having lentils. They are honest food, and I am not ashamed that I have risen in rank and still enjoy the things I was born to enjoy. Lentils, and bread, and wine. Plenty of wine until the honey cakes were served around with yet another large unwatered pitcher.
Talk was freer now. “What do you think of the Cappadocian procession?” Patros asked.
“It was in poor taste,” Caius replied. He is a snob, and out of shape to boot. I wondered through a haze of wine why I had invited him as his voice droned on in the background. “And it held up traffic patterns. They should have been content to go from the Hagia Sofia to the Palace like everyone else, or if they had to march around for an hour it should have been at the Hippodrome. Not through the streets and especially not on a market day. These people just do not have urban sensibilities . . .”
“We should never have accepted the Cappadocians as allies,” Nikolas Helios stated flatly. “They don’t even know how to be decently defeated. They behave like they’re doing you a favor after you’ve broken their necks. Impossible people.”
“They need much more humility, and to be taught decency as well,” Brother Michael added. “There is too much influence from that new religion of Muhammad and the Fatimids are becoming a real danger. And our general cannot supervise two fronts at the same time.”
I shuddered. I had been on campaign to Persia and that had been enough. It had won my loyalty to my General forever, but the scars had never heeded.
“Still,” Caius interrupted, “we should have simply crushed them and treated them as a defeated colony. The Emperor gives them far too much respect as it is.”
I managed a polite smile and nod and then one of the Nikoli, Helios, used mention of the Hippodrome to turn the discussions back to racing again.
If Christa had not intervened, the entire party would have been a dismal failure for my purposes. All my guests ate heartily of every dish, excepting Brother Michael who should provide us worldly creatures with a model of restraint. The hetaira was right; my plan would have discovered nothing. I hoped hers would.
I said goodnight to my guests at the door with old Roman manners instead of permitting the porter to see them out. Brother Michael left after Caius but just before the Nikoli. I thought his parting glance to me was odd. Perhaps he was assessing Christa’s work. I could not tell and I felt a cold chill as he studied me, and relief when he crossed the threshold.
* * *
The next day dawned beautiful, perfect and clear and bright, and not too warm to stand guard outside on the battlements without extra water. I awoke with more energy than I had had in ages, it seemed. There was no pain; there was no weariness. I had not slept so well in what seemed like ages, and now I was bursting with vigor and ready to start on my search.
Hours away still before the spell worked its insidious way through the food, just as it had taken weeks for the poison to accumulate in my body. I wondered for a moment whether Christa had done anything at all, or if she had merely given me a sop so that she could get out of my house.
For a moment I did not trust her. No one should trust anyone in Byzantium. There are too many plots and too many spies and more danger in the dining room than on the field of battle.
But Christa had been recommended to me by a respected churchman. If I could not trust Brother Michael, who left the maelstrom of politics for the monastery, I could not trust my own hands.
And so, for the morning, I went about my duties at the Palace. I made up Guard rosters, I supervised training, I sat down with the commanders of another division and discussed our parade route strategy. I mentioned that there was some displeasure with the route for the Cappadocians, that even the most astute had not realized that we were trying not merely to impress the procession, but wear them out before they arrived at the Palace. We would have to find an alternative tactic.
And after I had done all the interesting and important things, there was the paperwork that had accumulated during my illness. Beloved of bureaucrats, there were so many documents to sign, others to examine, and more than just a few to write. Including a complete report to the Palace security agents about possible threats to our true ruler during negotiations with the Latins. Being crafty and wise was not always enough. The Franks and the representatives of the Pope of Rome were as perfectly capable of a full-out frontal murder attempt as an elegantly prepared and meticulous delivered assassination. It is quite frustrating that they are more deterred by large numbers of men in uniforms and swords than by the knowledge that our Lyceum Magus is superior to any training available in the Latin states. And by the fact that only a very few Frankish and Florentine and Venetian students have ever stayed out the full course there. No other foreigners, to my knowledge, have ever been accepted. Perhaps they think that their crude witchcraft is a match for anything we can teach. In this they are quite wrong, and even I understand how great an error it is to underestimate the enemy.
We are enemies. Though of course we never say so directly. And for which I am just as glad. I would rather openly be their enemy than to have to pretend to be allied to those unwashed, uncouth foreigners. I much prefer dealing with the Arabs. At least they bathe. And their magical academies in Fez and Damascus are worthy rivals to our own (though of course ours is the superior institution, and Christian besides).
I did not spend so long on paperwork as perhaps I ought. I did not finish more than a few pages of the pile my secretary had left on my desk and told me was of the most urgent character. I pushed away from the desk and surveyed the stack. It was only for the bureaucrats after all. And it was already past noon.
Past noon. This time yesterday I had been in conference with Brother Michael. Today I felt hearty and strong, and very soon I would know who was attempting to poison me. Unless it was someone not at my party.
A sudden chill ran over me. Perhaps it was none of the obvious candidates. Perhaps it was some foreign embassy that had been insulted by a parade route, or a cousin I have not seen in years who wanted to inherit, as my wife has never seen fit to have children. There could be so many people, so many reasons, and I had only considered the simple and political.
And it was past noon. Soon, very soon if Christa’s expectations were correct, I would know my murderer. If Christa’s spells worked, if I had invited the right people.
As if I had summoned her with my thoughts, Christa swept into my study, the porter trotting behind her to announce her, or at least keep her from invading my sanctum.
“It’s all right, Theodos.” I waved him away.
Christa did not sit down. She stood stark still in the middle of the floor glowering at me. Her courtesan’s mantle was draped elegantly from the shoulder and fell in rich folds over her feet. Her hair was simply dressed and heavy black curls hung free to her waist.
“So now what?” I asked her. “How do we know who it is, or do I have to sit here and pretend that everything is normal until someone dies?” I’ll admit that my tone held a nasty edge.
She looked at me for a long minute, her eyes snapping. “No,” she said finally. “I put a compulsion on the spell. The person affected will have to come here. Whoever shows up in your study this afternoon is the murderer.”
“Why did you come then?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Why didn’t you just tell me last night and stay home?”
She sighed heavily and the mask of avenging fury dropped from her face. “Because I am honestly curious myself,” she said. “Because as much as I despise the kind of person you are, all your blind loyalties and assumptions, I also do not think that slow poison is admirable. And I admit it, I am curious. Brother Michael told me that there was no reason anyone would want to attack some midranked officer in the Guard. There are too many of you, and you have far too little power to matter.”
She might as well have stuck a knife in my gut. Not enough to matter. But I did matter to someone, enough to risk the killing.
“Well, we may have to wait a while,” I said. “You might as well sit down. Or would that be demeaning to someone in as exalted a position as yourself, to sit in a mere midlevel officer’s chair?” I couldn’t keep the sneer from my tone.
She did have the grace to blush slightly, and seated herself on the couch where she rearranged the folds of her mantle so that they retained their rich shape and flowed over the furniture like water. No matter how infuriating or rude, I had to admit that she was beautiful. And there was something in her venom that added to her attraction.
I sent to the kitchen for some light refreshments, with the order that the new girl Alexa serve. There would be argument, I knew. The more senior girls would grumble that they were not able to escape the heat and the hard work and the critical eyes of the cook. And I would have to hear it later when the cook complained to my wife about me choosing which kitchen wench served, hoping that she would find it in her heart to be angry and jealous. While my wife would not be at all jealous, she would still report the entire thing to me in miserable detail. If she had to suffer the moans of the cook, she would make sure I suffered as well.
Alexa came in with a platter of honey cakes stuffed with pistachios and an ewer of wine. She behaved almost like a real serving girl until she went to kneel at her mistress’s feet. They chatted quietly.
I knew I should return to the paperwork. There was so much to do and I had avoided it far too long. Christa and Alexa were being quiet. I should be able to concentrate. But I would honestly rather do anything than the required reports and signatures, especially not on such a fine and still afternoon. The light shimmered in the garden and I could hear the water in the fountain dancing brightly.
And suddenly I panicked as I had never done in battle. Christa’s spell wouldn’t work. I was wasting time, wasting what little was left of my life. I was terribly afraid. We could sit all afternoon and no one would come. And I would never discover the murderer. And even if I were cured of this poison there would be another, and another. And if those didn’t work there would be a young girl to slip a knife between my ribs in the hours before dawn.
The porter interrupted my morbid musings when he announced Brother Michael had arrived to see me.
I will admit I was startled. Brother Michael has rarely visited, and never uninvited. If he had some message for me he could easily have sent a servant, and had done so on other occasions. So I could not help but wonder to what I owed the honor of his visit.
He swept into the room, his black church robes sweeping the clean mosaic behind him like the Emperor’s train. His high black headdress covered his bald scalp and his white beard shone like bright silver against his priestly garments. His eyes were steady and easy and he smiled as he saw Christa and Alexa and the tray of honey cakes. He took two of the cakes before he sat down in the larger armchair and sighed deeply.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, sir?” I asked, perplexed.
Brother Michael’s eyes sparkled. “I was at St. Luke’s for a christening and on the way home I realized I was very close to your house. And I thought you might not mind an old man resting out of the sun for a minute or two before going on home. It is a long way back to the monastery.”
“After you are rested, I hope you will let me send you the rest of the way in the sedan chair,” I offered. It is pleasantly warm, but a long way back and Brother Michael’s robes are heavy.
He nibbled at the honey cakes avidly and took a third while Christa asked about whose baby had been christened and who had been present, all the gossip that a hetaira was supposed to know. Though the family turned out not to be noble—no surprise. A noble infant would not have been baptized at St. Luke’s, though it was quite impressive that a family of little wealth and less standing could draw the likes of the old abbot.
He took two more cakes, and the platter looked a little empty. I asked Alexa to return to the kitchen and get some more snacks. Obviously Brother Michael was hungry.
She smiled and obeyed. But I did not see her return.
Suddenly, sharply, the pain lanced through my body. My stomach was pierced by a hundred lances. I burned with Greek fire coating my innards. I dropped to the floor and screamed, curled up to try and ease the pain.
But the pain did not ease. It raced through me and doubled itself, worse than it had ever been before. “Help me,” I moaned.
I saw Christa stand over me, her face white and shocked and her mouth drawn. “I can’t,” she said, her tone distressed and amazed together. “I . . . can’t. The magic is gone. Oh dear Lord, it’s gone!”
She started keening and wringing her hands. Brother Michael took a handful of the new cakes and the almond-stuffed dates and then consumed four pieces of toast covered in goat cheese and herbs before he even looked at me.
Or at Christa. I was in too much pain to make it out clearly.
“Help me,” Christa pleaded with him. “My magic is gone. It’s gone.” She still seemed panicked.
I was well beyond caring.
Brother Michael smiled, the warm sincere smile of a saint in Heaven. “I really can’t help you, my dear,” he said, patting her fondly on the shoulder. “I have to be going now.”
“But he’s going to die,” Christa wailed.
And Brother Michael turned and smiled again. This smile was just as warm and just as winning as the earlier one. “Just so,” he said. “It is God’s will. There is nothing you can do.”
And then it was all a jumble that seemed like a dream. Brother Michael eating and eating as if he had never seen food before. Though he had just come from a christening, and he could hardly have failed to stay for the party. Even poor people have parties with the best food they can offer.
“You,” she screamed, and lunged for him. “You’ve taken my magic away.”
Her nails reached his face and he mumbled something, made a pass that even I recognized as a spell. Protecting himself.
But nothing happened. Christa’s long nails reached his nose and tore skin from his cheek.
Brother Michael turned white.
“Stop it,” I yelled in my parade command voice.
And they did stop. Without their magic they were—ordinary. And though their magic was stripped, my years of training and drilling and command were still intact.
Slowly, painfully, I drew myself up. I managed to get to my chair, to sit, to lean back and uncross my arms from my belly. I thought of the great traditions of the Roman legions. We are the new Rome, the center of the universe. All roads lead to Byzantium.
And I knew I was going to die. I could feel the poison eating my insides out. The pain had become so great that I could hardly feel it. It overwhelmed so that I could not acknowledge the greatness of it, and so I could not respond.
All I could think of was to die well. Romans did not succumb to mere agony, did not surrender merely because they were doomed.
Both Christa and Brother Michael looked at me in amazement as I got up from the floor and arranged myself decently in the chair. They did not seem to believe I could do even this much.
I looked at them, one to the other. I knew, it was all so clear, and yet I could not believe it or face the truth. Dying was easier.
“Tell me, please, Brother Michael, why you have had me killed,” I said softly.
The old churchman looked past me, to the icon of the Madonna on the wall behind me. “This blocking of our magic is God’s will,” he started. “Otherwise you might survive until Christa could save you. But I knew that there was no choice. You see, Lucius Arsenius, your Roman loyalty is far too simple. You make up the Guard schedules, you are privy to everything in the Palace.”
“But I am loyal to the General,” I said.
“Yes,” Brother Michael said. “I know. And so does everyone else. And you would still guard the young Emperor and save him from death. You would not join in an assassination plot.”
My eyes widened. “Nor would the General,” I protested. “He would have nothing of it. And there is no need, young Constantine is only a figurehead and a boy anyway.”
Brother Michael waved his hand. “The General would not know. It was perfectly planned. The Cappadocians would take the blame, and they are a treacherous people in the best of times. We cannot trust them as allies in any event. Better to simply beat them thoroughly and teach them to fear the empire. And so we would have no young emperor and a good solid war against the Cappadocians and Milos Kalkaines would be ready to marry the widow when the time came. It was perfect. It was God’s plan. I was only the instrument of Divine will. And it will save the General in any case, because two of young Constantine’s plots against the general have failed due to us in any case.”
He chuckled and glanced around the room. “You invited all the wrong people, Lucius Arsenius. The Nikoli and Caius are all part of my faction to keep the General safe. We are very discreet, you understand. But since you will die soon I can tell you these things safely.”
“And where do I fit into this will of God?” Christa demanded.
Brother Michael looked at her with amazement. “Child, you would not have saved him. You hate his kind, and in the deeper forms of healing there can be no hatred. No, you would have done very well and still it would have done no good. Then he would die and you would learn to be humble about your minor talent as a woman should, and keep it for the amusement of your clients.”
Christa sprang up, ready to attack the old man again. I ordered her to sit. “If anyone is going to kill Brother Michael, it’s me,” I said, perfectly calm and rational. “I am already a dead man, so it makes no difference. You would die for this murder, I would already be dead.”
I did not know how I could do it. I rose and grasped the sword that hung at my side. That sword that had fit into my hand every day since I was a boy now seemed too heavy to lift. And yet I saw myself raise it to my waist and lurch forward. I watched as the short blade thrust into the old abbot’s chest and the blood spurted out as I withdrew the blade.
I smiled at Christa. “We are both avenged,” I told her.
I think I collapsed. I lay on the floor, aware only of the burning running through me again and of Christa standing over me, crying. Trying to say magical words to no avail. Perhaps it was God’s will, I truly do not know. But the exercise was dead. Christa could have been reciting Homer’s catalog of ships for all the good it did.
And then she knelt next to me and took my hand. “I misjudged you, Lucius Arsenius,” she said. “I was wrong. There is much that is admirable in you, and I shall try to remember always.”
“And the Emperor,” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“The plot,” I reminded her. “It must be exposed. I do not like the young Emperor and I do not like the Cappadocians and I have never made a secret of either. But I will not permit them to be smeared unjustly. God knows, there is surely enough good cause.”
The end of the magic for that time surely must have been God’s will, though Brother Michael would not understand. If he had been able to use his great power we never would have known about this plot. And I might have lived, or might not, but that was less important than the truth. And with his magic about him Brother Michael would have been unassailable.
“What shall we do?” she asked. “I have several clients in very high places.”
“Yes,” I encouraged her. “Let them dig out the whole plot.”
Then I shuddered and sighed. The last act of my life, and it was one I hated. “Bring me a parchment and pen,” I said. Paperwork.
My head spun. I could not write much. My hand was not steady and the letters did not look like my own. And yet I forced myself to go on, to put all the words down.
I, Lucius Arsenius, a commander of the Varangian Guard, have this day killed Brother Michael upon his admission of guilt in a plot to destroy our young Emperor and blame the deed upon the Cappadocians. This is a true statement. The hetaira Christa is witness to this. Then I signed my name and sank back to the cool tile.
She took the page from the floor and read it slowly. “I will show this to everyone at the Palace,” she said. And I knew she would. Without magic she was no less intimidating than she had been before.
I had my revenge, I had my victory. And it was enough.