The Belt of Gold by Cecelia Holland

Author:Cecelia Holland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-12-11T21:15:28+00:00

16

In the morning the City still seemed to be trembling. The streets were full of people, standing in clumps, talking, their eyes whining with excitement and fear; every church was packed with prayermongers. Hagen rode past one of the places that had burned: the space between one street and the next lay in a heap of fire-blackened trash, a masonry corner still erect, a pile of bricks, some roofing tiles, stinking of smoke. A dozen people were picking through the ruin, some looking for loot, some for dead friends. There was a sheet on the side of the mess, with some bodies on it.

Hagen imagined that the ground beneath Constantinople had opened, and flames from Hell shot up to the surface. He shivered at the vision.

He passed by John Cerulis’s palace and saw the courtyard clogged with wagons, some already loaded, others being piled up with boxes and jars. Swiftly he went away up the Mesê toward the Sacred Palace.

Nothing here had toppled. No sign of fire here. The precinct of the Empress, perched on its hilltop above the sea, was as inviolate as a piece of Heaven. He went inside, feeling safer there, and set out to find the Basileus.

The morning room was finished, the candles in the ceiling light all lit. Irene walked around beneath them, frowning up at the hanging lamp. It had seemed more interesting in the planning than it looked now.

“Well, I think it’s charming,” said Helena. “And at last the room is clean.”

Irene paced up and down the carpet, restless and dissatisfied. “I’m hungry. Send for wine and cakes, Ida. And I want some music. Oh.”

She had forgotten that Theophano was gone, who played the lute. Disappointed, she sank down on the sofa and drew little Philomela into her lap to be caressed; the child beamed at her.

“Were you afraid when the earth shook, my dear one?”

“Oh, no, mama,” said the little girl proudly. “I never even woke up.”

All the women laughed.

“And you’ve done your lessons for today?” The Empress stroked her face over the child’s shining hair.

“I have finished the whole of Homer now.”

“And your music?”

At that the warm flesh against her own stiffened and drew back. A cloud passed over the child’s expression, and she burrowed her head into Irene’s shoulder.

“I cannot play the lute, mama, I cannot!”

Helena swooped down on her, hands out like pincers. “Don’t do that! Naughty girl, you wrinkled her dress, and see—” She pulled the child away and leaned down to smooth the disturbances in Irene’s silk stola.

“That white-haired man is here,” she said, under her breath.

“He is?” Irene sat bolt upright. “Very good. Send him in. There, Ida.” The serving woman was bringing her a small plate of Cathayan ware, a slice of apple cake on it. Irene’s mouth watered.

The big Frank came into the room. Somewhere he had acquired a Roman tunic, under which he still wore his barbarian leggings and boots. He looked curiously around the room a moment before he went down on one knee before Irene.

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