Lord of Emperors. Guy Gavriel Kay
in the same breath. ‘It’s a terrible place! Thieves and whores.’
‘How do you know so much about it?’ Crispin asked wryly, then appeared to recollect his urgency.
‘Get two of the Imperial Guard to go with you. Carullus’s men will all be at the accursed wedding by now. Tell them it is for me, and why. And you two,’ he turned to Pardos and the doctor. ‘Come on! You’ll stay with me for the morning, I have guards.’ Crispin snapping orders was something Pardos remembered. His moods had always changed like this. ‘We’ll go out a side door and we have to move! You’ll need something white to wear, this is a wedding! Idiots!’ He hurried off; they followed quickly, having little choice.
Which is how the mosaicist Pardos of Varena and the physician Rustem of Kerakek came to attend—wearing white over-tunics borrowed from Crispin’s wardrobe— the formal ceremony and then the celebration banquet of a marriage on the day they each arrived in Jad’s holy and august city of Sarantium.
The three of them were late, but not hopelessly so, in the event.
The musicians were lingering outside. A soldier, waiting anxiously by the doorway, saw their approach and hurried inside to report it. Crispin, murmuring a rapid stream of apologies in all directions, was able to hastily take his place before the altar in time to hold a slender golden crown over the head of the bridegroom for the ceremony. His own hair was considerably disordered, but it almost always was. Pardos noticed that the very attractive woman who was to hold the crown above the bride did fist his teacher hard in the ribs just before the service began. There was a ripple of laughter through the chapel. The presiding cleric looked startled; the groom smiled and nodded approval.
The bride’s face Pardos didn’t see until afterwards. She was veiled in the chapel as the words of union were spoken by the cleric and then in unison by the couple being wed. Pardos had no idea who they were; Crispin hadn’t had time to explain. Pardos didn’t even know the name of the Bassanid standing beside him; events had unfolded at an unbelievable speed this morning, and a man was dead.
The chapel was elegant, gorgeous in fact, an extravagance of gold and silver, veined marble pillars, a magnificent altar of jet-black stone. Overhead, on the small dome, Pardos saw—with surprise—the golden figure of Heladikos, carrying his torch of fire, falling in his father’s chariot. Belief in the god’s son was banned now, images of him deemed a heresy by both Patriarchs. It seemed the users of this patrician chapel had sufficient importance to prevent their mosaic being destroyed thus far. Pardos, who had adopted the god’s bright son with the god himself, as had all the Antae in the west, felt a flicker of warmth and welcome. A good omen, he thought. It was unexpected and comforting to find the Charioteer waiting for him here.
Then, partway through the service, the Bassanid touched Pardos on the arm and pointed. Pardos looked over. He blinked. The man who’d killed the doctor’s servant had just entered the chapel.
He was quiet and composed, clad in exquisitely draped white silk, with a belt of links of gold and a dark green cloak. His hair was neatly tucked away now under a soft, green, fur-trimmed hat. The gaudy jewellery was gone. He moved discreetly to take his place between an older, handsome man and a much younger woman. He didn’t look drunken now. He looked like a young prince, a model for Heladikos in splendour overhead.
There were those of the Imperial Precinct and the higher civil offices who actively courted the racing factions, either or both of them. Plautus Bonosus, Master of the Senate, was not one of these. He took the view that a benign detachment from both Blues and Greens best suited his position. In addition, he was not, by nature, one of those inclined to lay siege to the girl dancers and, accordingly, the charms of the notorious Shirin of the Greens were purely a matter of aesthetics for him and not a source of desire or enticement.
As such, he’d never have attended this wedding, had it not been for two factors. One was his son: Cleander had desperately urged him to attend, and to bring him, and since it was increasingly unusual for his son to show the least interest in civilized gatherings, Bonosus had been reluctant to pass up an opportunity to have the boy appear presentable and functional in society.
The other reason, a little more self-indulgent, had been the information, conveyed smoothly by the dancer with her invitation, that the banquet in her home was to be prepared by Strumosus of Amoria.
Bonosus did have his weaknesses. Charming boys and memorable food would probably lead the list.
They left the two unmarried girls at home, of course. Bonosus and his second wife attended—scrupulously punctual—at the ceremony in their own neighbourhood chapel. Cleander arrived late, but he was clean and appropriately garbed. Looking with some bemusement at his son beside him, Bonosus was almost able to remember the dutiful, clever boy he’d been as recently as two years ago. Cleander’s right forearm seemed puffy and discoloured but his father elected not to ask about that. He didn’t want to know. They joined the white-clad procession and the musicians (very good ones, in fact, from the theatre) for the short, rather chilly walk to the dancer’s home.
He did feel briefly uneasy as the musical parade through the streets ended before a portico with a well done copy of a classical Trakesian bust of a woman. He knew how his wife would feel about entering here. She’d said nothing, of course, but he knew. They made their way into a common dancer’s abode, thereby conferring all the symbolic dignity of his office upon the woman and her house.
Jad alone knew what went on in here at night after the theatre. Thenaïs was impeccable, as ever, revealing not the least trace of disapproval. His second wife, significantly younger than he was, was flawlessly well bred and famously reticent. He’d chosen her for both qualities after Aelina had died in a summer of plague three years ago, leaving him with three children and no one to manage the house.
Thenaïs offered a gracious smile and polite murmur as Shirin of the Greens, slender and vivacious, welcomed them at her door. Cleander, between his father and stepmother, blushed crimson as Bonosus presented him, and locked his eyes on the floor as the dancer lightly touched his hand in greeting.
One mystery solved, the Senator thought, eyeing the boy with amusement. Now he knew why Cleander had been so eager to attend. At least he has good taste, Bonosus thought wryly. The Senator’s mood was further assuaged as a servant handed him wine (which proved to be a splendid Candarian) and another woman deftly presented a small plate holding delicate morsels of seafood.
Bonosus’s view of the world and the day grew positively sunny as he tasted his first sampling of Strumosus’s artistry. He let out an audible sigh of pleasure and gazed about with a benign eye: a Green hostess, the Blues’ chef in the kitchen, a number of guests from the Imperial Precinct (making him feel less conspicuous, in fact, as he noted their presence and nodded at one), sundry performers from the theatre, including one curly-haired former lover whom he promptly resolved to avoid.
He saw the rotund head of the silk guild (a man who seemed to attend every party in the City), the Supreme Strategos’s secretary, Pertennius of Eubulus, surprisingly well turned out, and the Greens’ burly, beak-nosed factionarius, whose name he could never remember. Elsewhere, the Emperor’s much-favoured Rhodian mosaicist was standing with a stocky, rough-bearded young man and an older, also bearded fellow, distinctly Bassanid. And then the Senator noticed another unexpected, note -worthy guest.
‘Scortius is here,’ he murmured to his wife, sampling a tiny, pickled sea urchin, in silphium and something unidentifiable, an astonishing flavour that tasted of ginger and the east. ‘He’s with the Green racer from Sarnica, Crescens.’
‘An eccentric gathering, yes,’ Thenaïs replied, not even bothering to follow his gaze towards where the two chariot-drivers were surrounded by a cluster of admirers. Bonosus smiled a little. He liked his wife. He even slept with her on occasion.
‘Taste the wine,’ he said.
‘I have. Candarian. You’ll be happy.’
‘I am,’ said Bonosus happily.
And he was, until the Bassanid fellow he’d noticed with the mosaicist