Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (34 page)

“
I hope ‘tis all that it holds,” Ailinn commented dryly, following Lyting and ignoring his chuckle.

Picking her way down, she counted thirty-nine steps before reaching the bottom one. There, she joined Lyting and looked over the cistern as he held up the torch. They could make out a vast body of water
— as though a lake — and rising from it a forest of marble columns, upholding a vaulted ceiling. Even the capitals of the columns were carved with delicate stonework — a lacy foliage. The cistern looked as though it were a beautiful palace — its water, a shiny floor.

“
We can reemerge many streets from here, in another section of the city. Rurik told me that small boats are kept in the cisterns at the various entrances.”

He held the torch out and moved it before them. There were none by the steps. A moment later he spied one moored to a nearby column. After giving over the torch to Ailinn, he doffed his mantle and tunic. Their eyes locked when his hands went to his trousers.

Ailinn looked aside, her heart tripping anew. She heard the cloth drop to the step, then the soft splash of water as he entered the cistern. Saints forgive her, but she could not repress the image that rose to mind of Lyting standing naked at the rapids of Essupi.

After he returned with the boat and dressed, they set out on the waters. Lyting rowed in thoughtful silence until he felt Ailinn
’s eyes upon him and found a curious smile playing on her lips.

“
Have you found humor in this night after all we have endured?”

“
I was thinking of how quiet, even dull, ‘twill be for you behind your monastery walls if we survive this journey and you yet intend to go there.”

“
I will have memories aplenty to liven my days,” he returned lightly, but his look gave Ailinn to realize those memories would be filled with her.

“
I, too, shall remember these days. For all time.”

Their eyes held, their
unspoken thoughts touching heart-deep.

Lyting broke the
ir gaze and, relying on his sense of direction, rowed southward while Ailinn held the torch and they glided among the legion of columns.

He
forced his mind to the events of the night. ‘Twas clear he’d been mistaken for Rurik, and that Rurik — and now
he
— was marked for death. Neither of them had anticipated that he might be mistaken for Rurik, himself. Yet, they should have.

At the same time Lyting reminded himself that Ailinn had been seen with him and was possibly in danger as well. He castigated himself for placing her at added risk.

He would need to keep her close to him and deliver his message to the Imperials without delay. The “spider’s” waiting was at an end, and the “scorpion” was poised to strike.

Much later they emerged from the cistern in another part of the city and made their way cautiously along the darkened streets to Melane
’s.

As the first glimmerings of light brightened the skies, Ailinn accompanied Lyting to the Sacred Palace.

Along their walk, Lyting explained his purpose in coming to Constantinople
— his mission for his brother, Rurik, and his need to deliver his message and warning to the Augusta, the Empress Zoë. Yet for all he confided, Ailinn suspected he kept much more locked inside himself.

And then there was the matter of the attack in the cemetery last night. Lyting owned that his brother had enemies in the city and assured her the attack was the result of his being mistaken for Rurik.

Still, Lyting had not disclosed what passed between him and the silver-haired man at the crypt, and she guessed his mission held more dangers than he cared to speak of. Not for the first time she looked forward to leaving the golden city. On the day of her arrival she realized Constantinople was not the “light” of which her mother had spoken.

Ailinn shifted her harp from one hip to the other as they entered the
Mesê. Lyting’s and her goods had arrived late the day before at Melane’s. She brought the precious harp with her, for the women of the house showed it such interest, she feared they might abuse it in her absence.

Reaching the boulevard
’s end, they entered the Augustaeum. To the right, a pair of bronze horses adorned the entrance to the Hippodrome. There, Lyting informed her, the games were held, the chariot races being the first love of the male populace and life of the city. There, too, the factions gathered. The fate of the Caesars had been made and remade when the fires of dissent flamed into riots.

To the left stood the immense Hagia Sophia
— “Holy Wisdom” — a ponderous building that rose in stages with buttresses and half-domes supporting a huge central dome overhead. And yet, for all the building’s massiveness, a multitude of windows pierced its exterior, including a row just beneath its enormous dome. In the early morning duskiness she could see that lights burned brilliantly within, God’s holy light a beacon to the harbor.

Lyting and Ailinn continued on, along with a multitude of others, streaming toward the palace grounds
— people of every station: workers, couriers, diplomats, and senators. It amazed Ailinn still that Lyting’s affairs should be so high-placed — with the emperor, Constantine, and the Augusta, Zoë.

“
We will enter at the Chalke Gate.” Lyting gestured ahead as they followed the enclosure wall. “ ‘Tis also called the `Brazen Entrance’ and provides access to the grounds.”

Ailinn viewed an exquisite building with magnificent gilded doors and gilded roof
— bronze, Lyting informed her. Perfumers’ stalls crowded the gate, their sweet scents layering the air and wafting pleasantly through the doors of the vestibule as Lyting and Ailinn entered.

Inside, Ailinn found herself standing in the most dazzling room she had ever seen. A blaze of mosaics covered the walls and ceiling, and multicolored marbles dressed the floor
— greens, reds, blues, and white.

“
Thord tells me that is Justinian’s great general, Belisarius.” Lyting pointed to one of the brilliant mosaic scenes. “ ‘Tis made of
tesserae
— colored glass. The colors are more varied and intense than marble, and many contain gold.” He smiled at her astonished look. She obviously had never seen such beauty.

Emerging onto the grounds, Ailinn beheld a rambling complex of buildings in a setting of matchless beauty. Here were shaded walks, gardens, ponds, fountains, and arbors. Here also was
a multitude of buildings, each a lovely gem of architecture — some made entirely of a single colored marble: yellow, verde, or red. Ailinn believed them each to be a palace unto themselves.

Lyting informed her, however, that while some were pavilions of the Imperial Family, others were workshops, storehouses, stables, and government offices such as the Hall of Tribunals with its numerous statues and the Senate building which he pointed out.

Looking to the distance, she saw how the land sloped toward the harbor and looked out to the placid blue waters of the Marmara. For its many thousands of workers and attendants, the grounds possessed a sense of tranquility.

As they progressed, Ailinn noticed with some surprise that the fashion within the palace grounds was to wear red slippers sewn with pearls. Somehow, she could not imagine Lyting wearing them and secretly smiled at the thought.

For the better part of the morning, Lyting and Ailinn dealt with the cumbrous Byzantine bureaucracy, moving from one official to another, chamber to chamber, building to building.

For all his forbearance, Lyting
’s patience wore thin. He suspected these men played him a game, using their authority to wield their petty powers and thwart others at will. Some of the eunuchs were obnoxiously imperious. Other officials, more completely endowed, eyed Ailinn openly — one not so subtly suggesting that Lyting and he come to an “arrangement,” the object of that arrangement being Ailinn.

Refraining from striking the man and flattening him straight out, Lyting quit the building and escorted Ailinn outside. There he strove to cool his ire and collect himself.

“Ailinn, I regret this has taken so long. Would you prefer to wait on the grounds? There seem to be guards aplenty. You can enjoy the airs and the view of the harbor. There remains one more office Thord suggested I approach. Judging by the last ones, I shouldn’t be long.”

“
Do not hurry yourself.” Ailinn smiled, touched by his concern. “I have my harp to entertain me and will wander down the path here and seek a place to rest.”

Lyting touched her cheek in parting, sending a shiver through her. Ailinn watched as he strode back toward one of the fine buildings and disappeared inside. Glancing about, she deemed that n
othing in all of Eire could compare to this. Her homeland seemed an impoverished country by comparison.

Even Hedeby, which once struck her as so advanced, seemed piteously rustic measured to the Imperial City.

Turning, Ailinn strolled down along the path, noticing peacocks, ibis, and pheasants wandering about the grounds. She happened on one fountain and found wine springing from a golden pineapple into a marble basin filled with almonds and pistachios.

She soon came to a small but lovely pavilion, its colonnade lined with alternating columns of green and red onyx. It seemed a quiet place, tucked away, adorned with shrubbery, and overlooking its own private garden, which in turn stretched toward the Marmara.

Ailinn discovered a marble bench sitting before the seaward side of the pavilion and settled herself there. Looking out over the waters, her senses filled with the mingled fragrances of the sea and its incredible beauty.

C
ontent, she slipped the wrapping from her harp. Assured she would neither disturb nor be disturbed by anyone, she plucked out a run of notes, then began a simple but enchanting melody, one she had loved as a child. She sang it softly, closing her eyes as she gave herself to its lilting tune.

Ailinn
’s lashes parted. She thought to hear a rustling among the shrubbery. She suspected an errant bird to be caught there and continued to sing. Again, came a rustle of leaves. Glancing to her left, she found a young boy standing amid the greenery where he had been hiding.

She continued to play and sing, for his eyes were intent upon her hands. Though he did not smile, he appeared mesmerized as her fingers stroked the strings and brought them joyously to life.

He eased from the bushes and quietly came to sit beside her. As she sang, she slipped a glance to him. He was a fine-looking lad — slim and broad-shouldered. His face was somewhat long, his nose slightly aquiline, and his eyes a pale but brilliant blue. The child possessed little color and appeared of frail constitution. Yet, as he studied her fingers, his eyes bright and attentive, she suspected a sharp and curious mind.

On she played, with a flourish of runs and trills, thinking in the back of her mind how the boy
’s garments alone — a stiff brocade shot through with gold and lavishly adorned with gems — would make her a wealthy woman for a lifetime at home. How opulent were the ways of the Byzantine nobility, that even their children should be dressed thusly.

Intrigued by
the child, Ailinn brought her song to a close, hoping to find a way to communicate with him. But as her fingers stilled, such disappointment flooded his features that, once more, she took up another song.

He smiled in earnest, transforming his features entirely, a liveliness coming into his eyes. Thinking he might like to play the harp, Ailinn continued to sing while she took her hand and patted the space beside her, indicating he should move there. When he did, she transferred the harp over to his lap and demonstrated how he could pick out a little run of notes.

A jubilant smile spread over the child’s face as he set the strings aquiver and the harp began to sing.

»«

Lyting grumbled in his thoughts, disgusted anew with Byzantine bureaucracy. He wished Thord were here to help him through the maze of officials and paperwork. His introduction — the cloth of purple and gold
solidus
of Leo VI — had thus far closed more doors than it had opened, and had raised considerable suspicion.

Again he thought of Thord. Though an officer, Thord was not a member of the inner circle of the Guard. They would need
to engage the help of the Akolouthos, or Acolyte — the head of the Varangian Guard — in order to seek an audience with the Imperials. Even then he could expect a period of waiting — a week or more — before he would be called to the throne room.

But he didn
’t have a week, Lyting thought with frustration. And perhaps neither did Zoë and her son.

Making his way down the path a
nd toward the water, where he’d left Ailinn, Lyting caught sight of her fiery tresses where she sat before a small pavilion, partially hidden by the shrubbery there. He headed toward her.

As he approached, he saw in the shelter of the green a lad of about ten years sitting next to her
— dressed in shimmering robes of gold and on his feet, slippers of Imperial purple.

Lyting threw himself prostrate to the ground at once, realizing this to be none other than the child emperor, Constantine Porphyrogentius, Emperor of the Byzantine Empire.

“Ailinn. Get down!” Lyting called through his teeth.

“
What?” Hearing Lyting’s voice, Ailinn looked up and to her astonishment found him lying prone on the ground.

“
Prostrate yourself, if you do not wish to lose a limb or be run straight through,” he urged her again, alarm in his voice.

Ailinn
swallowed against the shock of his words, but before she could move, shouts bellowed all around. There was a sudden rumble of feet and scraping of swords leaving their scabbards as soldiers rushed in from three directions and surrounded them.

Looking up, Lyting saw a retinue of officials, guards, and noblewomen sweep into view, hurriedly traversing the colonnade
— and leading them all, a woman of striking beauty, dressed in resplendent robes of deep royal purple, a heavy diadem crowning her head — emblazoned with jewels and having strands of pearls cascading from the crown to her shoulders.

Lyting looked in awe upon the Augusta, the Empress
Zoë.

Zoë
whisked her gaze about, taking in the scene before her with her large dark eyes — eyes as black as coals. Her gaze touched her son, then Ailinn, then moved to Lyting.

Lyting prostrated himself
once more, all the while praying most earnestly that Ailinn would follow his example. The guards closed in about him and hauled him to his feet so the empress might better view him.

Looking
upon his features fully, the empress’s hand flew to the great jeweled collar where it covered her heart.

“
Rurik!” she gasped, astounded.

Her elegant brows pulled slowly together as her eyes shifted to Lyting
’s snow-pale hair. Her head tilted ever so slightly. “Rurik?”

“
Majesty.” Lyting bowed.

Straightening, he reached for the enameled box in his tunic. The soldiers stopped him abruptly, aiming their spears at his heart. One searched his tunic and, locating the box, presented it to the empress as she came forward.

Zoë smoothed her fingers over the box, a look of recognition flickering across her eyes. She opened it, then paused as she gazed on the cloth of purple. Fingering it aside, she lifted the golden
solidus
of Leo VI. Taking the coin, she pressed the image of her husband to her lips and closed her lashes.

“
Majesty,” Lyting began again. “I am
Lyting
Atlison, brother of Rurik the Varangian, who once served Leo Sophos and yourself and son so faithfully. I have traveled a great distance from the West to bear you his greetings and a missive most urgent.”

Zoë
opened her eyes and searched Lyting’s face. She smiled and nodded, comprehension in her dark eyes.

“
These are troubled times,” she said in a voice rich and clear. “ ‘Tis good that an Atlison returns to Constantinople and the house of the Macedonians.”