Anna of Byzantium (16 page)

There were hundreds of guests. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and courtiers—people familiar to me since my childhood—mingled with foreign visitors, and the babble of many tongues was deafening. I looked down the long rows of tables. There was redheaded Maria, soon to be betrothed herself. I caught a glimpse of a head of short gold hair and my heart skipped a beat. Was it Constantine? No, of course it couldn’t be. Still, my appetite suddenly deserted me, and I leaned back in my chair, feeling ill. But I knew better, this time, than to leave the room. So I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep from crying. A few tears oozed out and flowed down my cheeks as I remembered that long-ago conversation with Constantine. “Our first meeting was sweet,” he had said. My first meeting with Bryennius had not been unpleasant, but there had been nothing particularly sweet about it.

No one noticed my silence or my tears in the confusion of the banquet. Servants constantly moved among the tables,
pouring red wine into the goblets. The company grew louder and louder, singing bridal songs. Some of them were in such ancient language that I could not comprehend all the words. But I understood enough to make me blush. I thought my mother would be scandalized, but she was singing with the rest of them. Her cheeks were flushed, and she laughed long and loud at some of the songs.

A servant refilled my goblet and I drank thirstily. My appetite made a weak return. The company feasted for hours. Occasionally I glanced over at Nicephorus Bryennius, who ate and drank eagerly. I knew he had recently returned from the war with my father and had probably been on short rations, but still I was scornful that he did not show the restraint one would expect of a scholar.

When the banquet drew to a close, diners leaned back from the table, faces greasy, belts loosened. A few had to be led from the room, as they were overcome by wine and heat. Everyone must have been eager to lie down, and I expected to hear my father dismiss the company, when I saw the priest approaching.

Father Agathos’ long robes were rumpled, and his beard seemed to have caught a little of everything he had eaten. My mother stood and motioned Bryennius and me to follow suit. I wished I had managed to slip away, but there was nothing for it now; I had to stay. I knelt on a cushion next to Bryennius and resigned myself to a long wait.

The priest started a prayer. We repeated the responses at the proper time—at least those of us who were not overcome by feasting. Father Agathos finished one prayer, and to my despair started another.

“… and for the return of His Majesty’s servants, and for the destruction of hordes of infidel Turks …” Sophia’s words came back to me: “I lived with my mother and father and brothers and little sister in a village far from Constantinople.” These were some of the infidel Turks Father Agathos was referring to. I pushed the thought from my mind.

Finally the priest reached the end of the blessing, sprinkled us with holy water, and after making a deep bow, withdrew. But escape was still not possible, for now Bryennius rose from his seat. All eyes turned in our direction. Bryennius took from a servant a richly decorated cedar box, its smell reminding me of the throne room. He opened the jeweled lid and pulled out a long belt, made of heavy links of gold, hammered flat and joined in such a way that the belt looked as though it were made of liquid fire. Holding it stretched between his two palms, he turned to me and bowed, saying, “With this girdle I make you my affianced bride,” and before I knew what he was doing, he had passed it around my waist and was fastening the clasp. I shrank from his touch, despite my efforts not to.

Next he reached back into the box and pulled out two rings, one encrusted with gems and the other in the shape of a snake biting its own tail. He slipped them on my fingers, his hands warm and dry as they held mine. All eyes were still on us, and I knew everyone expected me to say something. My head swam as I searched for words. Then I saw my grandmother’s slanted eyes looking at me, with a glint of what had to be satisfaction. So she thought I
would freeze, did she? The thought gave me steel and I turned to face Bryennius.

“My lord,” I said. My voice sounded clear and strong, and could be heard through the room. “I, the firstborn of the emperor Alexius Comnenus, carry the blood of Digenis Akritas, the great hero who was ancestor of my mother’s Ducas family, and the blood of the Comneni, who have fought to redeem the holy city of Jerusalem from the infidels. The emperor has decreed that our family’s blood be further enriched by alliance with a great scholar and soldier. In this, as in all other matters, I obey the will of the emperor. What the emperor has once decreed may not be changed.”

My grandmother’s expression had altered. Instead of holding a glint of triumph, her eyes were veiled, their heavy lids half-closed as she looked at me appraisingly. I knew she had understood me: The emperor had once decreed that I, not John, should rule. This was the decree that I would not permit to be changed. I wondered if the little monkey had understood as well.

I continued. “Nicephorus Bryennius, I am honored by your gifts. By accepting them, I accept your proposal of marriage, as decreed by His Imperial Majesty, Alexius Comnenus.” I bowed to Bryennius, who bowed in return. Together we faced the emperor, and both of us knelt. He bade us rise, and dismissed the company.

The banquet was over.

s was customary, Bryennius and I saw little of each other. Not that I would have wanted it otherwise; my betrothed was a pleasant enough person, but so dull that I had no desire to spend more time in his company than was demanded by our social duties.

My father had given me a wing of Balchernae Palace, my favorite of the residences in the imperial compound. I was able to put into practice the household arts I had been learning for several years. After all, I wearily reminded myself as day followed day in tedious sameness, my mother says that a palace is just a large house. I was mistress of the house, and was responsible for all its inhabitants, princess or no.

I had a small consolation when I found that of all the domestic arts I was now called upon to practice, I most enjoyed my skill in medicine. I treated the fevers people came down with in the summer, and children came to me with all their scrapes and bruises for me to anoint.

One afternoon all my tasks had been completed. The servants were sleeping, and I was too restless to lie down. Simon was working in the library, and I wandered through the room, looking for something to read. I pulled a book off the shelf and read the title. To my annoyance, it was a collection of hymns. I was about to find something more suited to my taste, when Simon spoke behind me.

“You might learn something from that book, Little Beetle,” he said.

“Why?” I asked, pausing with the book in midair. “Those are the hymns of Kassia. Do you not remember her?” he asked.

“Kassia?” I remembered the name, but little else. “A little nun who wrote pious verses, was she not?”

“I thought you knew better than to judge without seeing for yourself,” he said. “A fine historian you are. Read one and then tell me what you think.”

I opened the book at random to a hymn to St. Barbara. I read the opening lines aloud:

Astonishing. This wasn’t the usual little nun. Nor was it pious, as I had expected, but a severe condemnation of those who committed wrongs. I turned a few pages and read a poem about Christina the martyr:

I closed the book and held it to my chest. Kassia obviously knew all about injustice, and the importance of remaining strong in the face of your enemy. “I didn’t know there were women who wrote like this,” I said. “I thought it would all be about forgiveness and accepting your place in the world.”

Simon nodded, pleased to have been proved right. “Didn’t I ever tell you the story of Kassia and the apple?”

I shook my head and sat down on my usual low stool to listen. I had been missing Simon’s stories.

“Kassia,” he began, “was a noblewoman. She lived in this city—oh, about four hundred years ago. The custom at that time was for the emperor himself to choose his own bride. All the most beautiful unmarried women would gather in the palace and the emperor would walk
among them until he saw the one he wanted. I suppose his advisors would tell him ahead of time which one was the most suitable, so he would not unknowingly choose a woman deficient in morals or in wit, but in any case the choice was his alone.

“In his hand, the emperor carried a golden apple. When he found the woman he was to marry, he would hand it to her. When the emperor of four hundred years ago saw Kassia, he was smitten by her beauty and grace, and handed her the apple. But he wanted to make sure she knew just how small was her importance compared with his, so as he gave it to her, he said, ‘Through woman has come all evil,’ referring, of course, to the mother of the human race, Eve, whose eating of the apple caused mankind to fall.

“Kassia handed him back the apple, refusing the offer of marriage to a man of such small comprehension and one who obviously did not value womankind. The fact that he was emperor did not sway her. She said to him, ‘But also through woman better things began,’ speaking about Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ. She left the city and became a nun, founding an abbey and writing hymns to the end of her days.”

A satisfactory story, I thought, until the end. Only a fool would choose to live in an abbey when she could have a palace!

lthough as a woman of thirteen I was freed from regular lessons with Simon, I still spent most of my time in the library. My betrothed continued his own historical studies, and as I learned more about history, we found much to discuss, though I did not seek him out for the delight of his conversation or wit. He was also a warrior, but I found it difficult to imagine him on a horse in his long scholar’s robes.

This comfortable situation was not to last, for once again my father was called to war. By now I was used to this. So I felt no worry. Nicephorus Bryennius joined him, and I felt a twinge of relief at the prospect of spending time alone again.

But after their departure, I found
myself with too much time and not enough to do. Absorbing though my readings were, I could not keep at them all day. It occurred to me that since my father was absent, my grandmother must be holding audiences in the throne room again. I wondered how John was faring at her side. I knew that I should stay away, but my curiosity was too strong. So, dressed in my finest robe and with as much jewelry as I felt necessary to indicate my status, I made my way down the familiar corridor.

The door was flanked, as always, by burly guards in full armor. They must be new, I thought, as they did not bow at my approach. Rather, one moved to block the doorway. Surprised, I looked up at his face and saw that far from being a new recruit, this guard was a man known to me. “What are you doing?” I demanded. “Do you not recognize me?”

“You are the betrothed of Nicephorus Bryennius, and sister to the heir,” he replied, as though repeating words carefully rehearsed.

I fought to keep from showing the shock I felt. Betrothed of? Sister to? Was I not the Imperial Princess Anna Porphyrogenita Comnena, in my own right?

“Let me by,” I said, attempting to push past. But he stood firm, and I could not dislodge him. “Move aside, I say! I will enter!” I tried to squirm around him, but suddenly the other guard joined him and the two of them formed a barrier I could not cross. I cried out as one of them seized my wrist and dragged me from the door.