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Authors: Alan Gordon

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“Now, let us talk about the real terms,” said Isaakios. “What do you really want?”
“Milord, your son agreed to this covenant,” said Villehardouin, unrolling a scroll which he placed before the Emperor. “By oath and sealed charters, witnessed by your royal son-in-law, King Philip of Swabia.”
“My son was in no position to agree to anything,” said the Emperor evenly. “He does not sit on the throne.”
“Not yet,” returned Montmorency, with a hint of menace in his voice.
“Nor can the terms be met as things presently stand,” said the Emperor. “My brother fled, it is true. But he took most of the Imperial Treasury with him. Had you intercepted him in his cowardly flight, you would have had ample means of meeting all of your needs. A pity that you let him escape so easily.”
There was a quick huddle among the envoys, with whispers of chagrin floating back to our end of the table. I translated what I could pick up, murmuring in the Emperor's ear.
“Our army is still at your gates,” said Villehardouin finally.
Isaakios shrugged. “But your cause has vanished,” he said. “You vanquished the usurper. If you fight now, it is only for gain, not for honor.”
“And we outnumber you,” said Doukas in a harsh voice that startled everyone.
“You outnumbered us yesterday,” said Montmorency acerbically. “Yet we prevailed. You may have as large an army as you like. It matters not when they flee. And who will lead them? That blind, doddering man?”
“Perhaps I should challenge the Doge personally,” said Isaakios. “A battle of blind, doddering champions. We could sell tickets and use the proceeds to fund your departure.”
The Frenchmen did not know what to make of this statement, but Dandolo's nephew actually chuckled.
“Look, we're both in a hard place,” said Villehardouin, dropping his showy diplomatic manner. “We've been at this for over a year, with precious little to show for it. My fellows must be satisfied. We have your son and heir. Agree to the covenant now, make him co-emperor, as is his due, and meet the terms once things settle down. We've seen the display you've put on. There's plenty of gold left in this city. You're
the Emperor—have your treasurer raise the funds from the people, and we'll be square.”
“Where's my treasurer?” muttered the Emperor.
“Here, sire,” whispered Philoxenites.
“Do we have enough gold to hold them off for a while?”
“We can make an installment or two,” said Philoxenites. “But the full amount would take months to meet. Even years.”
“Then we shall agree, but stall them as long as we can,” said Isaakios. He turned to the envoys. “My friends, our gratitude is boundless, even if our resources are not. We shall accept your terms, on condition that you give us time to persuade our people. The submission of their church will not be taken lightly. We ask that you remove your encampment to Estanor again, and as a token of our good faith, we will send you immediate provision, which should improve the morale of your men greatly.”
“Agreed,” said Villehardouin, so quickly that I knew he would have settled for much less.
“Fetch the Imperial Seal,” ordered Isaakios grandly. An adviser whispered something to him. “Well, find something that will work,” he muttered. “What a shambles this is.”
After a brief delay, something was brought in that looked official. The Emperor's hand was guided to the appropriate space on the covenant. A quill was dipped in the philter containing the ink mixed with the blood of Our Savior, a relic reserved for only the greatest of occasions, and the Emperor proceeded to sign away the Empire.
The seals were affixed. We entered the Imperial Throne Room, and a herald proclaimed the terms to the shocked assemblage.
The gates to the city were thrown open. In the afternoon, Alexios was led in to publicly embrace his father while the crowd cheered uncertainly. The Emperor proclaimed that the boy would be coronated on the first of August, twelve days hence.
“On the Feast of St. Peter in Chains,” Isaakios said to me as he waved to the crowd. “Too appropriate, don't you think, Feste?”
“If I was a fool, I would comment, sire,” I said, shifting uncomfortably in my borrowed bureaucratic habiliments. “But I am only an interpreter.”
“Well, I'd rather you were a fool,” he said. “I'll be needing some entertainment. In fact, we should have some celebratory games at the Hippodrome. Do this affair right. Go, get your motley back on, my friend. We can get another interpreter, but a good fool is hard to find.”
I bowed, grateful and relieved, and left to rejoin my wife.
And so peace was restored to Byzantium.
Lift thy head, unhappy lady, from the ground; thy neck upraise; this is
Troy no more, no longer am I queen in Ilium.
—EURIPIDES,
THE TROJAN WOMEN
 
 
I
chatted with Niketas for a while after Feste left. We strolled out to a balcony, watching Laskaris giving orders in the courtyard. I wasn't certain that the orders were being carried out, but the servants and soldiers scurried about in a semblance of obedience.
I spotted my husband returning with Henry but drew no attention to the fact. Shortly thereafter, Varangians began drifting through the courtyard, quietly passing the word. At a quick signal, Laskaris and his men found themselves inside a ring of axes. They were disarmed and led away.
“Fascinating,” exclaimed Niketas. “This may be the most bloodless coup this city has ever seen.”
“They haven't reckoned with Euphrosyne,” I replied. “I think I will go find out what is happening there.”
“Tell me everything you see,” he begged me.
Euphy looked as though she had not slept in days. Her hair was a rat's nest, her crown askew, and her makeup applied so haphazardly that it made her face look lopsided. She was screaming at every servant and lady-in-waiting unfortunate enough to cross her path while waving an old sword that she had found somewhere.
“We shall attack them at dawn!” she cried. “Fetch me armor. When
the men have fled, it shall be the women who shall repel the invaders. There will be no surrender, no suicides. The Trojan women were cowards and traitors to our sex. Fetch me armor!”
Anna, her middle daughter, rushed into the room.
“They've arrested my husband!” she wailed.
The Empress turned to stare at her.
“Who dared lay a hand on Laskaris?” she asked.
“The Varangians!” cried Anna. “They're saying Father's not the Emperor anymore.”
Euphrosyne drew herself up to her full height.
“I am the Emperor!” she shouted. “Fetch me the Varangian captains. I shall execute them myself.”
No one seemed particularly anxious to carry out this order.
There was a tramping echoing down the hallway, coming closer and closer.
“Shut the door and bar it,” commanded the Empress. “We shall hold them off from here.”
Her servants hesitated.
“Do it!” she screamed.
Two women heaved the doors closed and dropped an iron bar across it.
“There's no other way in,” she declared. “Bring me my bow.”
She strung it herself and notched an arrow in readiness. The door shook, then a regular pounding began. As the thick planking began to shiver, I inched closer to Euphy. She drew the arrow back steadily.
The door shattered. Just as the first Varangian poked his head through, I knocked Euphy's arm up. The arrow sailed high over the doorway and stuck halfway up the wall.
She turned to me in fury. “How dare you!” she thundered, raising her hand. She swung, but this time I was ready for her. I ducked the blow and gave her a nice, solid head-butt to the stomach. She staggered
back, momentarily winded, and collapsed onto her throne.
The Varangians swarmed in and seized her and Anna. Evdokia came into the room and froze. A Varangian took a step toward her, but the one in charge stopped him with a glance. They placed the two captives in manacles and started hauling them away.
“You can't do this!” screamed Euphy. “Someone help me!”
“Wait,” said Evdokia. The Varangians stopped and looked at her. She stepped forward and ripped the crown from Euphrosyne's head.
“Goodbye, Mother,” she said, and the Varangians started walking again.
“How could you abandon me, ungrateful child?” cried Euphy.
“Mother, how could you say such a thing?” smiled Evdokia. “You know that I'll come visit you. I was always good at visiting prisoners. How is Wednesday?”
She laughed as her mother and sister were led shrieking out of the room. The servants and ladies-in-waiting took the opportunity to flee.
Which left just the two of us. She hadn't noticed me. It wasn't until she looked into the glass while posing with the crown on her head that she saw my reflection behind her. She whirled around in surprise.
“Well,” said Evdokia. “How do I look?”
“You're not the Empress yet,” I said.
“I know,” she replied. “But I am closer than I was. By the way, I won't be needing you anymore. Good day, Aglaia.”
I walked out of the Empress's chambers for what would be the last time. Somewhere in the distance I could still hear Euphy sobbing. Then a door slammed shut, and the noise stopped.
I'm out of a job, I thought.
Niketas was waiting outside the throne room. He brightened when he saw me.
“Come,” he said, taking my arm. “I'll escort you to my home.”
“What about Feste?” I asked.
“He's busy,” he said, chuckling. “He asked me to take care of you. I'll tell you all about it on the way.”
Niketas lived in a good-sized palace northeast of the Hagia Sophia, in a district called Sphorakion. The entrance was through a low portico that was architecturally unimpressive but eminently defensible from within. His servants unbarred the front gate and welcomed their master with a palpable sense of relief. He, like us, had been up and about since the previous dawn.
I was given a room that was far above our current status, with a bed so soft that my eyes closed the minute I lay upon it. When I woke, it was afternoon, and I was starving. I staggered down to the kitchen, where I was taken in hand by the cook, a jolly woman in her fifties who immediately divined my pregnancy and loaded my plate over and over, chatting amiably about the eleven times she had given birth, along with reams of advice on how to rear children, tame husbands, order about incompetent servants, and generally run the world.
I had my fill of both food and advice, thanked the provider, and waddled back up the Mese to Blachernae. There were hordes of people blocking the way. I learned from a soldier that they were getting ready to cheer the entrance to the city of the boy Alexios. I wonder how many of the cheerers had hurled stones at his ship only a few days before.
I thought I could get a better view from the monastery on top of the Fifth Hill and started up the familiar road to the top. I decided to drop by the house of Bastiani's lady. I was curious to see how she had fared.
I arrived at her gate. It was open, which surprised me. I peeked through, and saw with horror that the house no longer stood. Instead, there was a pile of charred timbers and stones, a thin wisp of smoke rising from it.
I heard the sound of a shovel breaking ground and turned to see
the gardener working, despite the ruin behind him. Then, on closer look, I saw that he was shoveling dirt onto a grave beside the garden. I walked up, making sure that he could see me well before I got to him. He stopped shoveling and waited for me.
“She's gone,” he said, tears running down his cheeks.
“How?” I said.
He could read lips, apparently, for he responded.
“I sleep in that shed in the corner,” he said. “I didn't hear the fire. I didn't smell the smoke in time. When I did, the flames were already reaching the sky. The house collapsed like it was made of twigs. It happened so fast. By the time I got help, she was dead.”
He resumed filling the grave.
“She once told me that she thought she would not live past this year,” he continued. “She wanted no priest, no ceremony. Just to be buried by her garden. It was the last thing she kept of all her finery.”
“What was her name?” I mouthed.
He looked at me. “I called her Lady,” he said.
I looked around. All of the other houses on this street were untouched by the fires that had raged across the base of the hill. And this fire had happened at night, after the others had been doused.
I picked up a clod of earth and crumbled it over the grave.
“Good-bye, Lady,” I said softly. “I hope, wherever you are, that you find him.”
 
We met briefly with the troubadours once things had settled down a bit. It was at this meeting that we learned that Tantalo had died in the battle at Galata.
“So, I will be assuming the leadership of the Guildmembers,” asserted Raimbaut haughtily.
Feste shook his head. “I am the Chief Fool in Constantinople,” he
said quietly. “Nothing has changed that. As far as I am concerned, the three of you are cowards and traitors to the Fools' Guild, and I will see to it that you are expelled.”
“But—” spluttered the troubadour.
“But nothing!” shouted Feste, standing abruptly. “Did you cover yourself in enough glory to impress Montferrat, Raimbaut? Have you drenched your sword in enough blood to win his eternal subsidy? There is peace here, no thanks to you. Peace because we worked for it. You've done nothing to call yourself our leader.”
“It won't last, Feste,” said Gaucelm.
“Then when it's threatened, we'll think of something else. If we need you and think we can trust you, then maybe we'll get in touch. Until then, stay the hell out of our city!”
He stormed out of their tent, Plossus and I trotting after him. I noticed a knight staring after me. He removed his helmet.
“Sebastian!” I exclaimed.
Feste and Plossus stopped and turned to watch. My twin looked back and forth at the three of us. I took a few steps toward him. He shook his head, replaced his helmet, and walked away.
 
It was an uncharacteristically gloomy trio of fools who gathered in the Hippodrome a few days later. We had come to rehearse for the games to be given in honor of the coronation. Apart from that, there had been little call for our services as entertainers. Plossus had picked up some extra pocket money by giving guided tours to small groups of awestruck Crusaders.
“I swear you could tell the French the most outlandish tales, and they will believe them,” he said. “I tell them that the figures in a frieze will move when no one is looking, and they will stare at it, waiting. I tell them that the scenes on a column foretell the fate of the city when
all they really show are stories from the Bible, and they will gasp, ‘I' faith? ‘Tis so?' If they ever get the money they claim they're owed, we shall be able to do quite well.”
“But until that happy day, let's do what we are supposed to do,” said Feste as we passed through the stables and waved to the boys exercising the horses.
We had performed at the Hippodrome before several times, of course, but it was somehow eerie to be doing our routines when there was no one present to observe us except for the statues. The statues were everywhere, ringing the top level of the stadium and fighting each other for space on the euripos, the lengthy oblong divider in the center of the course. On each end were a pair of enormous columns, and in the center was the fabled Serpent Column that once stood before the Oracle of Delphi, the three carved snakes intertwined and supporting a massive bowl.
We sat on the edge of the euripos, opposite the Kathisma, the two-story royal box from where our new co-patrons would be watching. It was hard to summon up any enthusiasm for rehearsing. We were all still weary, even emotionally spent, from our exertions during the last battle. I found myself regretting not having made more efforts to help Bastiani's lady. Feste, in addition to everything else, had been morose since learning of Tantalo's death.
“But you said yourself that they had betrayed the Guild,” argued Plossus, continuing a debate that had raged between them since morning.
“I said it, and I meant it,” said Feste. “But Tantalo is someone that I've known for years. I can forgive him for being weak in these circumstances.”
“Only because he's dead,” retorted the younger fool. “If he lived, you would want to kick him out of the Guild along with the other three.”
“Maybe,” said Feste. “But he was the best of them.”
He leaned back against a bronze lion, his eyes closed.
Plossus leapt to the dirt track.
“This is no mood for a revel,” he growled. “How are you going to entertain the multitudes when you can't even crack a smile?”
“Enough, boy,” muttered Feste, his eyes still closed.
“What is bothering you?” Plossus persisted. “This should be our triumph as well. We brought about an end to the war before it got completely out of hand. I'm sorry about Tantalo for your sake, but I don't see why you need to mope about for so long.”

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