Chapter 80

  One Dark Morning

  The predawn light found Andronikos praying on the marble floor of his palace bedchamber. The concubine reposed on the mattress beside him, but insomnia had plagued the Emperor all night. His knees and elbows ached, as they had when he crawled north through the brambles, to escape the Vlach shepherds twenty years ago.

  Yaroslav the Eight Minded earned his nickname for speaking eight languages, but when his guards presented him with a disheveled Roman prince, he was of at least half a dozen minds about what to do with him.

  He could kill him and claim he had never seen him - the easiest option.

  He could return him to Constantinople as a ‘political favor’- an intriguing idea.

  Or for the reward - money is money.

  Then again he could ransom Andronikos to his own supporters - possibly they would provide more coin than the reward itself?

  Perhaps simply forward him to the Czar of the Kievan Rus - let the fugitive be his problem.

  In the end, Andronikos was put to use. Cuman horsemen were summoned. They would need a general. Everyone liked to fight for a famous name and Andronikos had a reputation which preceded him.

  For his part, having finally reached his destination Andronikos wondered why he had bothered risking his life at all. Belgrade, where he had once been dux, and spurned as the arse end of nowhere, was a shining city on a hill compared to Galitza.

  Here there was nothing. What little wine there was stretched out with fermented mare’s milk, egad the taste.

  The food - goat. The stench - horse.

  Reduced to living in a camp tent for the winter, his days spent shivering and nodding approval as Scythians fired their bows at full gallop into condemned criminals tied to posts.

  This was never going to work.

  And yet… When Emperor Manuel took to the field against the Hungarians in the spring of 1665, he was concerned enough about leaving an uncertain czar harboring a nefarious relative to his rear, that he savvily sought to patch things up.

  Why cause concern on the flank? For a share of loot and the gift of a few minor relics and bejeweled icons to adorn the churches in his lands - would Yaroslav like to join a coalition?

  For Andronikos the messenger brought an offer of a position at the Emperor’s side - general of a siege at Semlin - a stone’s throw from his old dux of Belgrad.

  Enough. Return home. Bend the knee. Kiss the ring. Accept the Emperor’s magnanimous forgiveness.

  Andronikos submitted, was restored to favor, and rode into Semlin at his cousin’s side when it fell.

  Manuel’s fucking forgiveness. Lick my purple boot for it, dog.

  * * *

  Andronikos lurched stiffly to his feet from the marble floor, and bellowed for his page. Mariapitkee, startled by the sudden outburst, retreated to the far side of the mattress. There was a dagger under the pillow. Could she grasp it unseen? Had he finally gone mad?

  The strator emerged from an adjoining alcove. The dutiful lad was already preparing for the Emperor's morning needs.

  “I care not if it is early, bring me my attendants. No - wait. Have the barber attend anon, there is much to do. Send for the Master of the Inkstand… and which Varangian officer stands without?”

  “‘Tis Captain Brian.”

  “Aaah… Captain Brian.” he said more quietly. Did another smile play about Androniko’s lips, half hidden by his moustache? “Summon him.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Mariapitkee realized the blade was not necessary. Andronikos was not in ‘a mood.’ The handsome guard entered. She melded with the bed coverings, watching and listening.

  “Captain, so good of you to come.” As if the man were a courtier, invited to take a cup of wine on a summer afternoon’s picnic, not summoned from the hall at daybreak.

  “I have something for you.” Andronikos glanced around the chamber and rummaged through the robes he had discarded the previous evening.

  “Yes, this aspron is the first of its pressing. I want you to have it.”

  He gave the guard the coin from the previous day.

  “Above all I want to thank you. I remember you… and your faithful service. You have grown so tall. Take a few days leave. Starting immediately. As reward for your valiant service facing the charge before the gates of Nicea. Visit your family. Come back to us when you are rested and refreshed. Escort us to Mass on Sunday next. You have our leave to depart, good soldier.”

  Mariapitkee watched the man’s expression flow from open eyed surprise, to brow furrowed confusion, and into a low bow of gratitude. The officer departed.

  Andronikos looked at the nail beneath his chin, peeking out from his beard. He stuck the sharp tip into the pad of his thumb and drew a drop of blood. He tasted it, salty and metallic, rolling it on his tongue.

  “Horrible. Awful. But it has to be done.”

  Mariapitkee tried to evaporate, so still had she become.

  The Keeper of the inkstand entered and began to assemble his portable writing desk with its dog-shaped stand.

  Andronicus issued further summons to his strator. “Find me Stephen Hagiocharistophrites, and the other captain of the varangians - the Rus - Istvan. Yes, he will be more pliable.”

  Prepared, the secretary clipped a fresh sheet of sheepskin parchment to the surface of the desk to prevent it from furling. He dipped his quill and made his accustomed, “Ahem, Imperial Majesty…” to indicate to the pacing Emperor his readiness.

  “Draw up a diatheke.”

  “A will? I hope Your Majesty is not unwell?”

  “Oh no, Gregory, you mistake me.” He clapped the Keeper of the inkstand on the back with unaccustomed familiarity.

  “Ha ha. No, it will not be a will for myself. We shall draw up the last will and testament of Emperor Alexios. In the event of his early demise, the declaration of succession must be worded precisely. Begin scribbling the usual preamble while I consult with the seer.”

  He paused.

  “Little bird, I had forgotten you were here.” Mariapitkee remained as still as the marble nymphs in the gardens.

  The Emperor crossed over to the bed, bent over and gently kissed her shoulder, “Or should I call you ‘Sleepy kitty.’ You have been so quiet.”

  She did not want him to think that she had been eavesdropping, so she slipped into the feline role he expected. She yawned, and stretched, arching her back. “You wake me so early, mighty Basileus. Won’t you let poor pussy cat snooze?”

  “Off with you lazy kitty there is the work of state and of men to be done. Go sleep. I want you to rest so you are fresh for… tonight.”

  Tenderly the Emperor kissed her lips. “Do you remember our delight when our dark servant, Stephen, whispered of the death of the Empress Regent.”

  Mariapitkee froze. She remembered the choking, the fear. The violation. The room began to spin. The night of terror returned. The skull-like face, lacking a nose, boasted of how Maria of Antioch, widow of Manuel had met her ghastly fate. She could not breathe.

  “I imagine an adventure. Here in the palace. Merely one level below where we are now. This pleasure will be similar to when Stephen whispered to us. Only this will not be described. It will occur within earshot. Separated by a curtain, a thousandfold more… arousing and depraved. And not merely a regent will strangle this time.”

  “Basileus?” Horror welled inside. She longed to flee. Half frantically she blurted, “I will not be ‘fresh’ later. The cycle of the moon…”

  She had to be at Pandarus’ Pleasure Emporium - tonight.

  She told the waifs at the fountain she would be there.

  If her Lord still lived.

  If the girls conveyed word to him.

  If there was any hope to end the madness at all - she had to be at rendezvous.

  “Of course, I understand.” Andronikos nodded. “Your sister will suffice. Indeed she is even better suited. She can utter no noise to give our hiding spot away. Later she will never be able to tell of the things she has seen and heard.”

  Eyrinee. No. What cruel torture would her sister face in her place? She stared at the floor to hide the anguish on her face.

  “Do not feel jealous of your sister. I have a special job for you Sweetling. You pleasure me like no other. Before you return to your owner, the brothel keeper, I want you to pass your skills and techniques on to princess Anna. Instruct her. Teach her to be a dutiful and pleasing wife to her husband.”

  “The French princess? Betrothed to Emperor Alexios? She is… very young.”

  “She is a royal woman. You are delightful Mariaptikee, but you lack a certain … quality. You are not… quality. You are not royal. Princess Anna is royal and it is the duty of a royal woman to provide heirs. And she should be of a pleasing disposition on her wedding night.”

  “Pleasing to Emperor Alexios?”

  “Pleasing - to her future husband. Teach her to play the flute. I like that.”