Chapter 74
In the Garden of Woe
Mariapitkee walked alone in the gardens of the Blachernae palace. Lush grass and shady plane trees lined the path which ran parallel to the massive white Theodosian wall with its regularly spaced towers. The path led up the gentle incline of New Rome’s sixth hill to the back of the Chora Church of St. Savior of the Fields, a geometrically proper domed cross of a basilica. Andronikos had recounted how his father Issac had restored the ancient building to its former glory, and then improved on it, to recreate the ornate marvel that stood today. The church's reconsecration had been a memorable childhood event before his father’s failed coup and flight. Currently, the Emperor was camped outside of the city. He wanted a grand entrance, on a chariot in the style of a triumphant general of the old republic, making a procession through the Golden Gates along the great Mesee to the Hippodrome. Mariapitkee had been sent ahead with the other servants. In the afternoon she would be waiting for him in the kasthima, but for now she had the morning to herself.
There was no access between the church and the palace, and walls closed both off from the city, but there were stone seats outside stained glass windows which ran along each narthex and flower bed with bees and butterflies. It was lovely under the leafy canopy, a perfect place she could go to be alone.
She stepped carefully to avoid the fallen cones from the trees and the peacock shit which lay on the lane. The main path broke into a network of narrow trails connecting bowers overhung with branches - perfect for lovers’ trysts. Some afternoons Andronikos would dress as Dionysus and play hide and seek while she and the other concubines, naked as nymphs, sought to evade him. To be caught was to be roughly taken by the god of wine. Fortunately Mariapitkee was good at hiding and Eyrienee was always silent.
Beyond a hedged thicket Mariapitkee heard sobbing. She bent low and peered into the shelter with its marble bench. A man, clad in court robes, held a kerchief to his eyes. After he dabbed and gently blew his nose, she recognised him to be Alexios, the Emperor’s Cupbearer.
Among the attendants and functionaries who trailed the Emperor, the pinkernees was omnipresent. At meal times it was Alexios’ duty to mix water with the Emperor’s wine, and to taste a portion of each dish presented. He was with the Emperor as often as she was. They knew one another by continued presence, yet aside from polite pleasantries, they had not spoken. Mariapitkee was about to withdraw and leave the man to his private anguish, but too late. He had seen her. He brushed a final tear from his eye and returned the handkerchief to the sleeve of his robe.
“Here I sit, besotted in the morning and blubbering in front of the concubines.”
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“I did not mean to intrude, noble one.”
“No come in girl, sit. You may as well have a good cry too. You are just as doomed as the rest of us. He will kill us all, you know.” He slumped and withdrew his kerchief again for renewed tears. “You, some dark night. Me, after the dolphins fall in the Hippodrome.”
Mariapitkee put her hand on his shoulder. “We must pray.”
“He is mad, you know? But his madness has rationale behind it. You have heard his innuendos and jests. You sat beside him at the ‘victory’ banquet last night. He sent for the eunuch who mixes his morning tonic of antitoxin to ask what signs of poisoning I might exhibit - choking, vomiting, the like.” Alexios paused to blow his nose again. “That wretched, bald bootlicker told everyone - all the commanders of the army and all of the bureaucrats who had come out from the city to grovel and greet - how each plant, and each metal, and each animal venom could kill, and how a man would suffer and die. This is after they have eaten. And each man looked ill at ease, you saw. ‘Did the wine taste correct?’ or ‘Was there something off in the seasoning of the chicken?’ You must have noticed how Andronikos smiled at their discomfort, as if he wanted to see each death happen right before his eyes even as the bearer of the chalice of Mithridatium described it.”
“I…” Mariapitkee did not know what to say.
“It will be Emperor Alexios next. You know that, don't you? I overheard Emperor Andronikos with his noseless rat. Emperor Alexios will be dead within a week. Mark my words pretty. He is my younger brother. Half-brother. Then it will be me.”
“Noble one…”, she made to move.
Alexios clasped her hand. “I am next to die, I tell you. Emperor Manuel was also my father. Once the legitimate heir is gone, getting rid of the illegitimate son will be easy. I taste his food for poison. Do you see the joke? ‘What a good servant. He died protecting me from plotters.’ Alas for you pretty girl, he will not waste poison. He will throttle you or beat you to death in a rage should the mood take him. When he grows angry you must flee. Hide in a cupboard, jump out a window, or crawl down a latrine if you have to. Forgive my rudeness, it is morning… and I am drunk.”
The man in his early thirties before her eyes clearly was an older version of the boy Emperor - the very image of him - the resemblance striking. Both were trapped. Both would have to meet the monster who held their lives subject to his unpredictable and murderous whim in a few hours time or be hunted and executed.
A few hours.
Before presenting herself at the kasthima she would stop at the Forum of Arcadius. Her lord had not been among the poor dead foreigners impaled outside of the walls of Nicea. On that day Mariapitkee held her stomach, looked away, and tried to plug her ears to the screams. Andronikos had gleefully overseen each horrific execution and looked with satisfaction into the face of each dead and dying man. The noseless one had raged that her lord’s servant was not among them. He seemed to bear a particular grudge. Perhaps if her lord still lived and was in the city, the waifs would still be begging at the fountain. Perhaps if word could be gotten to him there would be time. Time for what? She did not know, but she knew she would not weep helplessly. Weeping was over. No more fixing the kohl on her eyes. Let the men weep.