Anna of Byzantium Read online

  Finally, I could bear it no longer. I raised first my eyes, then my chin, and found that my grandmother was looking me full in the face. Her expression was hard to read—was it pity? Sorrow? And mixed with what—triumph? Joy?

  “There you are wrong,” she said, with an unexpected gentleness that startled me. “I treat you with more strictness because more is expected of you. Come.” She strode back out the door she had entered, forcing me to sidle out from my bench and break into a trot as I went. I glanced back at Simon, knowing that I was breaking his cardinal rule of not cleaning my work space before leaving, but what could I do? And in any case, I feared my grandmother many times more than I feared the little tutor.

  As I entered the corridor, I could see the end of my grandmother’s long gown as she swung around a corner. I ran, hoping no one would see me behaving in such an unseemly manner indoors. Where could she be going?

  I received my answer as I turned the next corner and saw her waiting for me, at the entrance to the throne room. Her hand was on the hanging, holding it open. The guards on either side of the door were standing stiffly erect, although I was sure they must be wondering what was going on. “Come in,” she said impatiently, as though she had been waiting for hours instead of seconds.

  I passed through the hanging and entered the vast hall. The throne room was dark, since the torches were lighted only when the emperor was present. The light that shone in the windows made strange patterns on the multicolored floor. It all looked dead, somehow, without my parents and the attendants that accompanied them wherever they went.

  The two thrones stood side by side on a low platform, my father’s with its ornate carving and rich gold ornamentation, and my mother’s, more simple, but no less beautiful. They looked strange and oddly shaped when empty. Aside from my parents’ seats at the banquet table, these were the only chairs with backs and arms I had ever seen.

  “Come closer,” my grandmother said. Hardly daring to breathe, I took a step forward, then another, expecting at any moment to see my father burst in and demand to know what I was doing there. I almost hoped he would; his anger was easy to bear, and it would free me from whatever it was my grandmother was planning. With an impatient sound, my grandmother reached out a hand and pulled me up the step to the thrones themselves.

  “There,” she said. “There you see what awaits you.”

  Puzzled, I looked more closely at the thrones. The sweet smell of cedar reached my nostrils and made me sneeze. Even in the dimness, the gold glinted, and the ornate carving cast complicated shadows. But I could not see what she meant about what awaited me. There were no words carved into the wood, and the designs were abstract geometric shapes, not scenes of any future life.

  “Sit down,” commanded my grandmother.

  How could I? I was sure that if I so much as touched the wood an earthquake would shake me to the depths of the earth, or lightning would strike through the window and sizzle me where I stood, or a giant eagle would seize me in its talons and bear me to Hell. But as I hesitated, I saw her brows draw together and her face begin to scowl. Eager to do anything to avoid her anger, I walked to my mother’s throne and moved to sit in it.

  “Not there!” she snapped. “That throne is for the follower! It is for the Ducas!” She spat the last word with such venom that I shrank back, terrified. She must have seen how afraid I was, for she softened somewhat, and said in a milder tone, indicating the larger of the thrones, “You must sit here. You must sit where a Comnenus sits, see what a Comnenus sees, think what a Comnenus thinks.”

  My heart raced as I approached the imperial throne. I hesitated, swallowed, then said to myself what I imagined Simon would say to me if he were there, “Come, it is but a chair, and you have sat in many chairs.” I stood on the footstool, grasped the throne’s arms, covered in purple velvet, and pulled myself up, then sat and looked out over the throne room. The seat cushion that discreetly raised my father to nearly my mother’s height was missing, and the hard wood felt cold on my body. I gripped the armrests to keep from slipping to the back.

  Why did it all look different? I had been there hundreds of times, usually mere inches away from where I was sitting. But something had changed. Everything was now below me, including the tall figure, robed in black, that was Anna Dalassena.

  “See,” she said, “see how it will appear to you,” and she walked back to the door, then made a pretense of entering, walking with the small, hesitant steps of a frightened supplicant. I stifled a laugh, but she must have heard, for she looked up quickly and smiled at me as though in complicity. Her footsteps rang hollowly in the empty room as she approached the throne, then bowed low, as a courtier does to his lord.

  After a moment she raised herself up again. “See how they will bow to you, how they will worship you, how they will fear you. A word from you can bring death, or can bring an end to war. Your enemies will tremble, and your friends will tremble too, because they know how quickly the empress’s friendship can turn to enmity.”

  Her voice was lulling me into a trance. I saw myself, looking like my father but for the beard, short and dark, yes, but who saw that when you sat on the imperial throne? I saw the heavy crown glitter on my head, the purple slippers on my feet being kissed by kings and princes. I saw my word starting wars and ending them. I saw great churches rise where I so commanded, and ships depart from port on my order.

  She stopped talking, and with the silence I woke from my reverie. I sat, a seven-year-old girl, on a throne that was so big for me that my feet did not even reach the purple cushion placed in front of it to disguise how short my father’s legs were. How could I ever learn what to do? The hugeness of the task terrified me.

  “But, Grandmother,” I said, my voice croaking. I cleared my throat and started again. “But, Grandmother, I don’t know how to do all those things.”

  She came closer and bent down to me, her nose nearly meeting mine. I willed myself to hold still, to return her gaze without flinching. Suddenly she smiled, not a joyous smile, but one I could surely read as triumphant this time.

  “But I do,” she said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  nd so my real education began. My grandmother had a little room set up for us near the schoolroom, and several times each week she would interrupt my lessons with Simon and take me there. I would rise from my books, feeling the eyes of the others on me, and conscious of my own superiority, would follow my grandmother into our study. I always left my books and papers in disarray, knowing that my grandmother would not permit me to delay long enough to clean them up, and also knowing that no one would dare complain about the extra work of clearing my space.

  My grandmother never referred to books in her tutoring. Rather, she spoke rapidly, telling me about the different countries surrounding our empire, about their rulers, about who was related to whom, about what languages they spoke. She told me about battles, about weapons, about warriors—she had been on so many campaigns with my grandfather and his brother that she knew almost as much about warcraft as any soldier did. My head reeled as I tried to take it all in, frantically scribbling notes that I would consult later in the classroom after the other children had been dismissed to play. It was difficult, but I was proud that it was I, not John, who was learning all this. No one would ever think he was the heir again!

  My training did not stop there. When I was ten, my grandmother convinced my father to allow me to gain some practical knowledge at his side. I learned how difficult it was to govern an empire as vast as ours. My father rose before dawn every morning and started seeing ambassadors, kings, courtiers, and petitioners before the rest of the family had even had breakfast. On the days when he permitted me to attend, I stood behind a screen on my father’s left, so that the eyes of men would not fall on me. When the light was right, I could see through the screen’s fine fabric. I got to know all my father’s advisors by sight, mostly gray-headed old men in long robes who didn’t look very interesting. But my eyes were always drawn
to a tall young man with golden hair who stood close to my father on his right hand. The youth dressed like an athlete in a short tunic and high boots, and he carried himself with grace.

  One day, in the summer when I turned eleven, I had spent the hot afternoon indoors. My father had had no pressing affairs of state, so I had not attended the audiences in the throne room. John had as usual not come to the schoolroom, and my cousins had finished their work the day before while I had been learning statecraft, so I was alone with Simon. He had finally relented when I told him how my head ached over the geometry problems he had set me, and said I might rest while we talked.

  “It’s so hot,” I complained. “Why does the sun have to be so close? If it were farther away we would be cooler.”

  “It’s close indeed,” Simon said, “as Icarus found out. Do you remember that story?”

  “Well enough,” I answered. It was not my favorite story, but anything was better than geometry. “Icarus and his father Daedalus were imprisoned in a tower—I forget why—and his father made them wings out of feathers and wax. They flew away from their prison. Daedalus told Icarus not to fly too high, but he disobeyed, and the sun melted the wax, and his wings came apart. He fell into the ocean and drowned.”

  Simon nodded. He looked thoughtful, although I could see little in the story to think about. Icarus had been a foolish and disobedient boy, and had been punished—what was there to say?

  “May I go outside now?” I asked. I could hear someone playing in the courtyard and burned to join in.

  “In a moment, Little Beetle.” Simon was still looking thoughtful. I hoped he wasn’t going to turn that simple story into a lesson. But of course he did.

  “Why do you think Icarus had to die?” he asked me.

  “He disobeyed his father,” I answered.

  “But his father wasn’t the emperor, merely a common man,” he said. “Wouldn’t death be a harsh punishment for so small a crime?” I shrugged, not really interested.

  Simon kept on. “What is the sun?” he asked.

  This was getting even more tedious. “Heat …” I hazarded, but Simon frowned and shook his head, so I went on. “Light, the source of life, power …” I kept talking, hoping to hit the right answer. I must have found it with my last guess, for he nodded.

  “Exactly. The father saw his son approaching manhood and was jealous of having to share his power. He tried to keep the boy a child too long. Icarus tried to become a man before he was ready, making up his own mind about things better left to his elders. That was his crime, and death was his punishment.”

  I nodded impatiently, trying to see out the window. Simon seemed about to speak again, but instead he sighed and dismissed me. My sister, Maria, was waiting for me faithfully, as she always did, and together with our cousins we ran out to the polo ground.

  We had crossed the compound and entered the field when suddenly a huge brown horse came galloping toward us, so close that I could feel the hoofbeats in my chest. The other children scattered, but I froze. Just as I was sure I was about to be trampled, I felt myself being swooped up and realized I was seated with my father on his great black charger. He held me so tightly that the heavy gold ring on his right hand bruised my upper arm. But I didn’t mind; he had not been holding me on his lap of late and I had missed it. I sat rigidly, wishing I could melt into him the way Maria did. But my long legs hung down the side of the horse, reminding me that I was not a little girl anymore. I looked up at my father, hoping to see his rare smile, but found that he was looking not at me, but at the disappearing brown horse.

  “Constantine!” he shouted. The rider of the brown horse glanced back over his shoulder, then turned his horse in our direction. He slowed to a trot and approached. I saw a handsome young blond man, with a straight back, and freckles. He carried himself with a grace and ease that were familiar. I was puzzled; who was he? I liked his smile, and the way he managed his horse. But there were many Constantines in our palace, and I had no idea which one this man—a boy, really, I saw as he drew nearer—was. Then I realized where I had seen him before.

  “Do you know me, Princess?” the young man asked as he approached. I looked up at my father, and he nodded, giving me permission to speak.

  “I think you are my mother’s cousin who stands next to my father in the throne room,” I answered.

  The young man glanced at my father.

  “An observant one,” he said. “I didn’t know if she would recognize me out of court.” Then to me, “Yes, Princess, I am your cousin Constantine Ducas. I am pleased you recognized me.”

  My father gave a little snort of laughter. “Next time, be more careful when you race over the field where the children are playing,” he said to Constantine, but I could tell he was more amused than angry. “You don’t want to trample your future bride in the dust!” He gave me a kiss, then swung me down off the saddle. I stood in the middle of the field, all alone, ignoring the shouts of my cousins who were calling me to join them.

  Future bride? The thought made me stand still. So this was the man I was to marry. I knew that my father had decided that one of my mother’s cousins was to be my husband. It had something to do with the problem of my father’s right to the throne; some people thought that a Ducas should be in power instead. But it had never occurred to me that the blond young man was my betrothed. I considered my father’s choice, looking after him as he disappeared around a building. Constantine looked like the ideal husband: Evidently he liked to play games, and he was a good horseman. He was also very handsome. I suddenly pictured him on my father’s cedar throne, myself on my mother’s throne next to him. Would he smile at me when he thought no one was looking, the way my father did to my mother? Would he speak to me in a low voice, his face next to mine under our heavy crowns?

  I did not know many young men. I knew that my father had chosen Constantine Ducas for my husband, so he had to be a worthy person. But I knew many worthy people. Would I want to be married to them? My husband had to be a good ruler, an honorable person, and a strong soldier to protect our empire. But I knew I wanted more than that. The young man’s smile stayed with me as I stood still in thought, in the middle of the field.

  My cousins and Maria were calling me. But I ignored them. After all, I would be married within two or three years, to a soldier and a counselor of the emperor. I decided that my days of racing and playing tag were over. I walked slowly back to the compound, suddenly conscious of my bare legs, my loose hair, and the lack of a veil to cover my face. I felt naked, where ten minutes before I had been perfectly comfortable. I needed to seek out my mother and get properly dressed.

  As I stepped through the arched doorway, I thought I had made a mistake and entered the wrong building. Instead of the usual calm, all was confusion. People were bustling around, giving orders, obeying orders, carrying bundles, opening trunks and moving their contents to boxes. I stood with my back to the wall, watching and listening. People were talking, and it was hard to understand any one voice among the many. But soon one word fell on my ears: “War!”

  This was news indeed, but not unexpected. The Seljuk Turks had been attacking the empire with ever-increasing boldness, and the emperor had asked the pope for troops to help subdue them. The pope must have agreed, and my father must be getting ready once more to set off for battle. Within a few hours they were gone—my father, Constantine, and hundreds of soldiers. The palace seemed empty without them, but we were used to the emperor’s frequent absences. He always came back weary, travel-stained, sometimes with a battle wound, but glorious in victory, and bearing presents.

  But what of Constantine? He did not look old enough to have been in any battles yet. Would he know what to do? Would he be able to defend himself, and acquit himself honorably? I knew that my father, despite being emperor, still rode in the first ranks of the soldiers, fighting as hard and as bravely as anyone else. Would he protect Constantine, an unproven soldier? I shuddered as I remembered that my father had been o
nly fourteen when he had fought in his first battle, and Constantine looked older than that.

  I needed to do something to help him. When we were married, I could go along on the campaigns with him, and see to his wounds, and make sure that he was comfortable between battles. But now, I was helpless. The best I could do was to pray to St. Irene, my mother’s patroness and the saint of peace, to stay by him, and to make the war end soon.

  I was not to have much time to worry, however. Diplomatic duties did not end with my father’s absence. Instead, I was required to attend even more of them. My father’s mother, Anna Dalassena, commanded my presence whenever dignitaries were in attendance. My father owed his throne, at least in part, to her intelligence, and he trusted her more than anyone else. My mother never showed any interest in statecraft, so it was to Anna Dalassena that the emperor turned when in need of counsel.

  The war lasted far longer and was more complicated than anyone had thought, and was grandly called a Crusade, or war for the Holy Cross. This Crusade would turn out to be just the first of several, although we did not know that at the time. Foreign soldiers, rulers, ambassadors, and traders of all sorts flooded the city as they prepared to join my father’s troops, and we were forced to deal with them.

  My grandmother sat in my father’s high throne, wearing imperial robes. The differences between them became even more obvious when I saw her in my father’s accustomed place. She was tall where he was short, and she had large, slanted eyes, where his were round and open. His hair was short, and simply dressed, as befitted a soldier, whereas her long black hair was arranged in the most complicated coils and braids I had ever seen. I would spend long minutes during these audiences trying to trace one strand of hair as it wound through a braid, across her head, down a tress, behind her ear. I would always lose the strand and have to start over. This practice would make me so sleepy that I would have to stop and pay attention to the speeches in an attempt to keep awake.