Chapter 11

Early One Morning in the Queen of Cities

In his dream Andronikos Comnemnos was shitting himself with fear. The dream was so lucid he seemed to feel the warm stinking flow of diarrhea induced stool trickling down his thigh to his knees. Warm tears burned his eyes and trickled down his nose. He sniveled. His nose was clogged with snot. He could not help it.

Andronikos was terrified. They were going to blind him. They were going to heat long iron needles in a forge until they glowed a bright orange. A giant of a man - the torturer’s assistant - would stand behind Androniks and wrap his arms so tightly around his head it would be completely immovable, no matter how hard he thrashed. And he wouldn’t be thrashing much, not after the guards had gotten through beating him with iron rods. He would barely have enough energy to pitifully endure the punishment. Using tongs to hold the searing needles, the torturer was going to pierce the balls of his eyes.

Better to die. Better to die trying, blade in hand.

But he was not going to go down fighting.

Because his bowels had betrayed him. And hot tears of shame filled his eyes. And his knees had gone weak, collapsing him in the mud behind his cousin’s tent.

Andronikos, dagger in hand, had slipped out into the night to slit his cousin’s throat.

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His cousin. The Emperor. Basilius. Manuel.

Andronikos cried out as he awoke. His eyes flew open and his hand immediately checked to see if he had - in fact - shat himself. He was drenched in perspiration, but the couch he slept on was not soiled. The predawn light gave him enough light to see. Beside him on the bed lay one of his concubines. Had she heard him cry out? Would she spread rumors his sleep was troubled? What would his enemies make of that? But no, the girl slumbered on, unaware of her bedmate’s restless dreams. His cry hadn’t woken her. Or was she truly asleep? Was her perfect young breast gently rising and falling in natural repose? How tightly were her eyes closed? Was she feigning? Andronikos reached under the cushion and withdrew a dagger honed to extraordinary keenness which he kept there as a last line of protection. He held the blade to her delicate, vulnerable throat. The girl made no movement. With the blade below her jaw line, he studied her intently for a moment. No. Definitely sleeping, he decided.

He then began to wonder how the lazy slut managed to sleep so soundly. What if his chamber had been violated? What if his enemies had attacked him in the night? What if - Christ-in-Heaven - his sacred person had been harmed? Would the worthless whore have slept through that too? He drew back the weapon to strike and rid himself of the disloyal slave, but in the end laziness stayed his hand. If he killed the girl, he would have to go directly to the baths to scrub the blood off. The same blood would soak the Egyptian cotton mattress on the sleeping couch and it would have to be dragged away. After five months in the palace he was starting to get used to that mattress. He slipped the knife back under the cushion, called for his body servants, and made his way over the dressing chamber to begin his day.