‘There does not appear to be,’ a new voice, blunt and matter-of-fact, inserted itself, ‘any great difficulty here. An artisan was requested from Rhodias, an artisan has answered. An associate of the named one. If he is adequate to the tasks allotted him, it hardly matters, I would say. It would be a misfortune to mar a festive mood, my lord Emperor, with wrangling over a triviality. Are we not here to amuse ourselves?’
Crispin didn’t know who this man-the first to directly address Valerius-would be. He heard two things, though. One, after a heartbeat, was a ripple of agreement and relief, a restoration of ease in the room. Whoever this was had a not-inconsiderable stature.
The other sound he caught, a few moments later, was a slight, almost undetectable creaking noise in front of him.
It would have meant nothing at all to virtually any other person in Crispin’s awkward position here, forehead pressed to the floor. But it did mean something to a mosaicist. Disbelieving at first, he listened. Heard suppressed laughter from right and left, quick whispers to hush. And the soft, steady creaking sound continuing before him.
The court had been diverting itself tonight, he thought. Good food, wine, amorous, witty talk, no doubt. It was night-a festival night. He pictured female hands laid expectantly on male forearms, scented, silk-clad bodies leaning close as they watched. A Rhodian needing a measure of chastisement might offer wonderful sport. He didn’t feel like offering them sport.
He was here at the Sarantine court in his own family name, son of a father who would have been proud beyond words in this moment, and he wasn’t inclined to be the mark for a jest.
He was a contrary man. He’d admitted it already, long ago. It was self-destructive at times. He’d acknowledged that, too. He was also the direct descendant of a people who’d ruled an empire far greater than this one, at a time when this city was no more than a gathering of wind-blown huts on a rocky cliff.
‘Very well, then,’ said the Chancellor Gesius, his voice almost but not quite as dry as it had been. ‘You have permission to rise, Caius Crispus, Rhodian. Stand now before the all-powerful, Jad’s Beloved, the high and exalted Emperor of Sarantium.’ Someone laughed.
He stood, slowly. Facing the two thrones.
The one throne. Only the Empress sat before him. The Emperor was gone.
High and exalted, Crispin thought. How terribly witty.
He was expected to panic, he knew. To look befuddled, disoriented, even terrified, perhaps wheel about in a stumbling bear-like circle looking for an Emperor, reacting in slack-jawed confusion when he did not find him.
Instead, he glanced upwards in relaxed appraisal. He smiled at what he saw when he did so. Jad could sometimes be generous, it seemed, even to lesser, undeserving mortals.
‘I am humbled beyond all words,’ he said gravely, addressing the figure on the golden throne overhead, halfway to the height of the exquisite little dome. ‘Thrice-exalted Emperor, I shall be honoured to assist in any mosaic work you or your trusted servants might see fit to assign me. I might also be able to propose measures to improve the effect of your elevation on the glorious Imperial throne.’
‘Improve the effect?’ Faustinus again, the sharp voice aghast. Around the room, a sudden tidal murmuring. The joke was spoiled. The Rhodian, for some reason, hadn’t been fooled.
Crispin wondered what the effect of this artifice had been over the years. Barbarian chieftains and kings, trade emissaries, long-robed Bassanid or fur-clad Karchite ambassadors, all would have belatedly looked up to see Jad’s Holy Emperor suspended in the air on his throne, invisibly held aloft, elevated as much above them in his person as he was in his might. Or so the message would have been, behind the sophisticated amusement.
He said mildly, still looking upwards, not at the Master of Offices, ‘A rnosaicist spends much of his life going up and down on a variety of platforms and hoists. I can suggest some contrivances the Imperial engineers might employ to silence the mechanism, for example.’
He was, as he spoke, aware of the Empress regarding him from her throne. It was impossible not to be aware of her. Alixana wore a headdress more richly ornamented with jewellery than any single object he’d ever seen in his life.