This would be Gesius, Crispin knew. The Chancellor. His patron, if he had one. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. And remained utterly motionless, his forehead touching the floor. There was a pause. Someone giggled.
‘You been granted permission to rise,’ the thin, dry voice repeated. Crispin thought of the zubir in the wood. And then of Linon, the bird-the soul-who had spoken in his mind to him, if only for a little while. He had wanted to die, he remembered, when Ilandra died.
He said, not looking up, but as clearly as he could, ‘I dare not, my lord.’
A rustle, of voices, of clothing, like leaves across the floor. He was aware of the mingled scents, the coolness of the mosaic, no music now. His mouth was dry.
‘You propose to remain prostrate forever?’ Gesius’s voice betrayed a hint of asperity.
‘No, good my lord. Only until I am granted the privilege of standing before the Emperor in my own name. Else I am a deceiver and deserve to die.’
That stilled them.
The Chancellor appeared to be momentarily taken aback. The voice that next spoke was trained, exquisite, and a woman’s. Afterwards, Crispin would remember that he shivered, hearing her for the first time. She said, ‘If all who deceived in this room were to die, there would be none left to advise or amuse us, I fear.’
It was remarkable, really, how a silence and a silence could be so different. The woman-and he knew this was Alixana and that this voice would be in his head now, forever-went on, after a gauged pause, ‘You would rather be named Caius Crispus, I take it? The artisan young enough to travel when your summoned colleague deemed himself too frail to make the journey to us?’
Crispin’s breath went from him, as if he’d been hit in the stomach. They knew. They knew. How, he had no idea. There were implications to this, a frightening number of them, but he had no chance to work it through. He fought for control, forehead touching the floor.
‘The Emperor and Empress know the hearts and souls of men,’ he managed, finally. ‘I have indeed come in my partner’s stead, to offer what assistance my meagre skills might avail the Emperor. I will stand to my own name, as the Empress has honoured me by speaking it, or accept what punishment is due my presumption.’
‘Let us be extremely clear. You are not Martinian of Varena?’ A new voice, patrician and sharp, from near the two thrones.
Carullus had spent some of the time on the last stages of their journey telling what he knew of this court. Crispin was almost certain this would be Faustinus, the Master of Offices. Gesius’s rival, probably the most powerful man here-after the one on the throne.
The one on the throne had said nothing at all yet. ‘It seems one of your couriers failed to ensure proper delivery of an Imperial summons, Faustinus,’ said Gesius in his bone-dry voice.
‘It rather seems,’ said the other man, ‘that the Chancellor’s eunuchs failed to ensure that a man being formally presented at court was who he purported to be. This is dangerous. Why did you have yourself announced as Martinian, artisan? That was a deception.’
It was difficult doing this with his head on the floor. ‘I did not,’ he said. ‘It seems that-regrettably-the herald must have … misheard my name when I spoke it to him. I did say who I am. My name is Caius Crispus, son of Horius Crispus. I am a mosaicist, and have been all my grown life. Martinian of Varena is my colleague and partner and has been so for twelve years.’
‘Heralds,’ said the Empress softly, in that astonishing, silken voice, ‘are of little use if they err in such a fashion. Would you not agree, Faustinus?’ Which offered its clue, of course, as to who appointed the heralds here, Crispin thought. His mind was racing. It occurred to him he was making enemies with every word he spoke. He still had no idea how the Empress-and so the Emperor, he had to assume-had known his name. ‘I shall inquire into this, naturally, thrice-exalted.’ Faustinus’s sharp tone was abruptly muted.