Anna of Byzantium Read online

  The brother of Constantine X was the great-grandfather of my mother, Irene Ducas. As I worked it out, making ever more elaborate charts and lists, Constantine Ducas, my betrothed, was my third cousin. When he reached manhood and was crowned Constantine XI, he would marry me, his distant relation. Thus his right to rule would be assured, since he was not only a descendant of the old imperial line but would also be the son-in-law of the conquering emperor.

  For we Comneni had conquered the Ducas emperors, thus restoring the throne to our family, which had already held it before the Ducases. My great-uncle Isaac Comnenus had briefly been emperor, only to be turned out of the palace by a Ducas. Isaac’s sister-in-law, my grandmother Anna Dalassena, had burned (so she later told me, over and over again) at the insult, and when her favorite son, my father, Alexius, grew to manhood, she helped him regain the throne that had rightfully belonged to us. Ever after she hated the Ducases.

  But this had all happened before I was born. As far as I knew, we had always lived in the palace. My beautiful, gentle mother had always been empress, and my powerful father had always been emperor.

  My earliest memory is of a day when I was only five years old. Simon had dismissed the students and was following us out of the classroom. I caught sight of myself in one of the polished corridor mirrors. I was wearing a new robe of bright green silk, and I turned slowly, admiring myself. Simon, seeing me, said, “What are you doing, Princess?”

  “Just looking,” I answered, continuing to turn. The color made my eyes look like emeralds, I thought. “I am more beautiful than Aphrodite!” I exclaimed, then stopped short as Simon clapped his hand over my mouth.

  “Hush!” he said. “Don’t ever say such a thing! Don’t you know what happens to those who try to outshine the gods? Don’t you remember Niobe, who bragged that she had more children than Leto, the mother of Apollo and Artemis?”

  “Yes,” I said, proud to show off how attentively I had listened to his lessons. “Apollo and Artemis came down and shot her children with arrows to punish their mother’s pride.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Do you want the same to happen to you?”

  “That’s nonsense,” I told him. “Father Agathos says that when Christ was born all the old gods died.”

  “That may be, and it may not,” he said. “But it doesn’t pay to take chances.” I knew my mother disapproved of such heathen talk, but Simon spoke with the authority of one who knew about such things. I wondered if he knew something my mother and Father Agathos didn’t.

  My cousins had by now disappeared outside, and I ran after them. The nurse caught me as I tried to slip out to the playing field.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded, and not waiting for my answer, started pulling me out of the women’s quarters. “We have been looking for you. There is a delegation of foreign ambassadors here to meet the emperor’s family.”

  Normally I would have objected to the idea of an audience with old men who did not even speak Greek, but this day I was pleased to show off my new dress. They would praise my beauty, my royal bearing, my intelligence, as they always did. I was too young to know that this was mere courtier’s flattery, meant to please my father, so I followed my nurse to the throne room without protest.

  I arrived at the great hall and peeked in the door. Under the high dome, glittering with mosaics, my parents sat on their thrones, my modest mother with a hood drawn over her face, as always when strange men were present. I had not seen her in several days, and if it had not been for the formal-looking crowd nearby, I would have run to her embrace. As it was, I walked slowly and precisely, as I had been taught, through the dark room. I kept my hands folded in front of me and my eyes fixed on the floor. I watched my feet in their green slippers pass over different-colored blocks of marble: gray with white flecks, green serpentine, rich black, and the blood-red porphyry that only the emperor’s family was allowed to use. When I saw the feet of my father’s throne, I moved into my position at his right hand, between the two tall thrones covered with gold leaf and smelling faintly of the cedar wood of which they were made. Only then did I look up.

  My father sat upright. As always, he was at his best when seated; you could not see that he was short, and his dark hair and beard looked especially impressive with the gold and bright jewels of his crown. He glanced down at me and frowned, but since the foreign ambassadors were already there, and indeed appeared to be concluding their business, he did not chide me for my tardiness. I moved closer to my mother’s side, where I saw our nurse holding my sister, Maria, who was then two years old. Behind my father, as always, stood his mother, my grandmother Anna Dalassena. Above the veil covering her mouth and chin, her large dark eyes slanted up toward her temples. She did not say anything, but her eyes flickered sideways in my direction. Her right hand rested lightly on the back of my father’s throne, and he seemed to lean slightly into it as he sat.

  My father stood to indicate that the formal part of the audience was over. He and the ambassadors were smiling, so I assumed all had gone well with their business, which meant that my father would be in a good mood that evening.

  “Tell our guests that I wish to present the imperial children to them,” my father said, turning to the interpreter. “This is my firstborn, the Princess Anna Porphyrogenita.” He smiled a secret smile at me, and instantly I felt better. He might act stern in front of visitors, but I knew my father loved me more than he loved anyone else.

  I stepped forward and bowed to the ambassadors, then stepped back.

  “My second-born, Princess Maria Porphyrogenita,” he went on, and Maria’s nurse moved forward one step and bowed, while Maria bent her head with its cap of red-gold hair.

  “Lastly, my youngest child, Prince John Porphyrogenitus.”

  John? Who was John Porphyrogenitus? Then I saw the cradle next to my mother’s throne. Had we had a baby? Is that where my mother had been? Forgetting that I was not to move until the barbarians had left, I drew nearer to the cradle but could not see inside for the crowd of men bending over it. They finally withdrew and one of them spoke to the interpreter, who addressed my father:

  “Your Majesty must be warmly congratulated on the birth of so lovely a son, the heir to your throne.”

  The room spun around me. What were they talking about? I was my father’s firstborn, and my betrothed, Constantine Ducas, was to inherit the throne. I had known this all my life. I felt a wail of protest rising up in me, but I caught my grandmother’s glittering eye fixed on me with such ferocity that I fought it down fiercely.

  But I need not have worried; my father was speaking. “Tell the ministers that they are mistaken. The heir is my daughter, Anna. She is betrothed to my wife’s young cousin, Constantine Ducas. When they wed, they will unite the Ducas and Comnenus families, ending any dispute over which family has the right to rule.”

  The ambassadors reacted to this news by turning to each other and babbling in their strange tongue (Venetian, I later found out). The interpreter listened, then turned to my father.

  “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” he said, “but they have never before heard of the custom of a woman inheriting when there is a son. Nor have they heard of the ruler choosing his heir. In their part of the world, either the people elect the ruler, or the oldest son of the king becomes heir—”

  “Leading to the degeneracy of their countries,” interrupted my grandmother. “Even if the firstborn son is an idiot or a criminal, he must inherit. No wonder the petty lordlings of the West are continually arguing with each other, unable to agree among themselves.”

  “Do not translate that,” my father said hastily to his interpreter. “Merely tell them that it is our custom that the emperor choose the one he feels most suited to rule after him, man or woman, relative or no.”

  The interpreter spoke. The ambassadors smiled, nodding. But their eyes looked puzzled.

  The business seemed to be over, so I waited for the ambassadors to turn their attention to me, as
they always did. I knew that they had never seen such a beautiful green dress, and that they would exclaim over my royal bearing, my gravity beyond my years, and my strong resemblance to my father. But instead they merely thanked my father for their audience, and finally bowed themselves out, without glancing at me or Maria, or even paying their respects to our mother. One of them did shoot a curious look at my grandmother as she stood rock-still behind the throne.

  My family, which I supposed must now include the cradle and its occupant, was left alone. I drew near the cradle and finally was able to see into it.

  Had a monkey escaped from my father’s zoo? I saw a tiny, wrinkled face; black fur over most of the head and face; little, beady eyes; yellow skin. This was the beauty they were all exclaiming over? My grandmother’s words returned to me: “if the firstborn son is an idiot or a criminal.” Which one was this baby? And if he was one or the other, why were we keeping him?

  “Mother—” I started to say, but she was already rising from her throne. She had let the hood fall back from her head, showing her face and her red-gold hair. She looked thinner than I remembered, and she was pale.

  “Anna, I must get some rest. I should not even have been out of bed today, but this audience was important. I will speak to you tomorrow.”

  “But, Mother—” I started again. And again she silenced me with a look, and followed by the nurse carrying Maria, and a new nurse carrying the baby, she walked out the door with my father. My grandmother followed.

  Later, the afternoon turned hot and the buzzing of the flies was even louder than the chatter of the servants. Everyone had retired to their bedchambers to sleep away the hottest part of the day. I lay in my bed, remembering the events of the audience. It was unfair. I was always the one visitors paid attention to. No one had ever wondered over my right to the throne, as these barbarians had. Could they have planted a seed of doubt in my father’s mind? He was always telling us that we had to be kind to our enemies—would that include making them like him more if he followed their ways?

  And my mother’s refusal to stay with me, after I had not seen her for so long, burned me. I knew that women who had just had babies were tired. My aunts usually did not even leave their rooms for weeks after childbirth. It was all that stupid baby’s fault, I thought, as I buried my face in my hot pillow, willing myself not to sleep, to stay awake and figure out how to win my mother back to me. If there were no baby, she would be here now, turning my pillow over to the cool side, ordering a slave to fan me, stroking my hair until I fell asleep. She would be singing to Maria, who still needed a lullaby. But instead, she was with him. I suddenly realized that even if she couldn’t come to me, I could go to her. I could convince her that we were much happier before the baby had been born, that Maria and I were surely enough for her.

  Maria’s nurse was occupied in trying to get her to sleep, in the bed she was sharing with me. Now I understood why she was not in her cradle anymore. Since no one was paying much attention to what I did, I slipped out of our bedroom and ran down the hall to my mother’s room. To my disappointment, I saw she was asleep, her face looking worn, and older than I remembered. Maria’s old cradle was next to her bed, with the drowsy new nurse nodding on a stool nearby. The nurse roused herself and looked up at the sound of my footsteps, and held her finger to her lips. I nodded, to show I understood.

  I crept up to the cradle. The baby was asleep, his furry head black against the pillow. We don’t need him, I thought. If he were gone, everything would be the way it was before. The ambassadors would not ignore me, and they would never again think someone else was my father’s heir. Mother wouldn’t be so tired, and she would be spending her time with me and Maria, instead of with this ugly little thing.

  I had a thought that made my heart beat with excitement.

  “Look how beautiful he is,” I said in as loud a tone as I dared. I looked up to see if any heavenly arrows were falling. Nothing. The nurse smiled, nodding her approval that I was admiring the baby.

  “He is as beautiful as a little god,” I declared in a louder voice. “More beautiful even than Apollo.” I looked out the window. Still nothing but serene blue sky.

  Simon was wrong. There were no gods anymore to punish injustice. I would have to do it myself.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  t is not strange for me to live here now, in this community of women. Unlike some of the degenerate western countries of which I have read, and whose representatives I met during the Crusade, the women of Byzantium do not mix with men. We have our own palaces, or at least our own apartments in a larger palace. The little boys stay with the women until they reach the age when they need training in arms, and then they move to the men’s quarters.

  My mother fell ill shortly after John was born, and passed on much of his care to the nurse, who happily took complete charge of him. She kept him somewhat apart from the rest of us, to give my mother a rest.And when my mother recovered, John was more used to his nurse and was so spoiled that my mother’s strictness provoked screams and tantrums from him. So the nurse took over his care even more than she had for Maria and me.

  This situation was entirely to my liking; I was used to babies and usually enjoyed playing with them, but this little boy irritated me. He was a whiny child, who screamed for what he wanted until the indulgent nurse gave in. His sharp eyes never missed anything, and we soon learned to hide toys and sweets away when he was present, for we would be forced to hand them over to him if he caught sight of them.

  So I was more familiar with my sister and cousins than with my brother. There were many cousins, some close to my age, and we played ball, ran races, and had make-believe games of Byzantine knights conquering hordes of infidel Turks. When it was cold or rainy, we stayed indoors, playing dice and hiding from each other in the palace’s many rooms. We also had lessons together. I had started studying with Simon when I was four years old, learning the rudiments of reading, mathematics, logic, and other studies suitable for imperial children. Simon set us difficult lessons, but he was a kind master, and those of us who applied ourselves received our share of praise.

  I enjoyed all these pursuits, especially my letters, but was not pleased on those occasions when my father’s mother, Anna Dalassena, appeared in the schoolroom to inspect us. Since we were all children except for the harmless Simon, she would come with her face unveiled. Her long lips always curved into a satisfied smile when we stood up from our benches and bowed deeply to her. She asked us many questions, and her manner was so severe that the answers to even the easiest questions would flee our minds under her interrogation. Even worse than a wrong answer was none at all, and I heard my cousins in their desperation give ridiculous answers, such as “seven,” when asked how many popes there had been up to the present, or “air, fire, water, and wine” when queried as to the four elements, rather than show their ignorance.

  One day, two years after I had first met my brother, we older imperial children were engrossed in the study of astronomy when our grandmother appeared. We had our backs to the door and knew of her arrival only when Simon stopped speaking in midsentence and prostrated himself on the floor. We all knew what that meant, and without looking around, leaped to our feet and bowed our heads as low as we could.

  Grandmother walked slowly into the room, her long robes swishing and her shoes clicking on the hard floor. We all stood still, scarcely daring to breathe. As she passed me, I glanced up under my eyelashes, expecting to see her back as she continued her inspection. Instead, I found that she had turned and was looking at me. My face burned when I realized that she had caught me acting less than respectful, and I was thankful that I had not inherited my mother’s pearly skin, as Maria had. Perhaps in the shadows she could not see how red I was turning. But I knew that punishment was sure to follow. I was the oldest, and was expected to set a good example for the younger children. And my grandmother often seemed to turn her wrath on me more than on the others. What would it be this time? A caning? Fasting
on bread and water? Please, I prayed inwardly, do not make me kneel on the stone floor of the chapel during the afternoon rest. My knees ached as I remembered the cold roughness pressing into my bare skin just the month before, when I had been punished for not knowing the names of my paternal ancestors for seven generations back.

  “Why do you look at me?” she demanded, her voice even.

  I knew that my grandmother admired boldness and that hesitation was a sin in her eyes, so I answered promptly, even though I hardly knew what I was saying.

  “I was hoping you had passed me and would find someone else to criticize,” I said.

  She let out a snort that might have been laughter, except that her face did not change into a smile, as my father’s would have done.

  “Do you think I criticize too much?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. “You let pass faults in others that you punish in me.”

  “And why do you think that is?” she persisted.

  Although I knew it would be better to answer immediately, I was afraid to tell the truth.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  Reluctantly, I spoke. “I think you don’t like me very much.”

  Silence. My eyes were fixed on the floor once more, and this time I did not dare to look up. The silence grew longer and more uncomfortable. I heard my sister and cousins shift their weight as they grew tired of standing still. I wondered where Simon was, and if, like the rest of us, he had his face turned downward, or if he had the courage to watch what was happening. I resigned myself to at least a few hours on my knees, and perhaps no real food for a few days.