‘And the other way?’ It was Gesius the Chancellor this time, surprisingly. The elderly eunuch’s spare, gaunt features were thoughtful, as if chasing a nuance through this exchange. It wouldn’t be the subject that engaged him, Crispin suspected, but Valerius’s interest in it. This was a man who had survived to serve three Emperors.
‘The other way,’ he said softly, ‘you turn that gift of a high, curved surface into … a wall. A badly made wall that bends. You forego the play of light that is at the heart of mosaic. The heart of what I do. Or have always tried to do, my lord. My lord Emperor.’
It was a cynical, Jaded court. He was speaking from the soul, with too much passion. Far too much. He sounded ridiculous. He felt ridiculous, and he had no clear idea why he was giving vent in this way to deeply private feelings. He rubbed at his bare chin.
‘You treat the rendering of holy images in a sanctuary as… play?’ It was the tall Strategos, Leontes. And from the blunt, unvarnished soldier’s tone, Crispin realized that this was the man who’d intervened earlier. One western artisan is like another, he’d suggested then. Why do we care which one came?
Crispin took a breath. ‘I treat the presence of light as something to glory in. A source of joy and gratitude. What else, my lord, is the sunrise invocation? The loss of the sun is a grave loss. Darkness is no friend to any of Jad’s children, and this is even more true for a mosaicist.’
Leontes looked at him, a slight furrow in the handsome brow. His hair was yellow as wheat. ‘Darkness is sometimes an ally to a soldier,’ he said.
‘Soldiers kill,’ Crispin murmured. ‘It may be a necessary thing, but it is no exaltation of the god. I would imagine you agree, my lord.’
Leontes shook his head. ‘I do not. Of course I do not. If we conquer and reduce barbarians or heretics, those who deride and deny Jad of the Sun, do we not exalt him?’ Crispin saw a thin, sallow-faced man lean forward, listening intently.
‘Is imposing worship the same as exalting our god, then?’ More than a decade of debating with Martinian had honed him for this sort of thing. He could almost forget where he was.
Almost.
‘How extremely tedious this suddenly becomes,’ said the Empress, her tone the embodiment of capricious boredom. ‘It is even worse than talk of which way to lay a piece of glass on some sticky bed. I do not think sticky beds are a fit subject here. Styliane’s just married, after all.’
It was the Strategos who flushed, not the elegant wife beside him, as the Emperor’s own thoughtful expression broke into a smile, and laughter with an edge of malice rippled through the room.
Crispin waited for it to die. He said, not sure why he was doing so, ‘It was the thrice-exalted Empress who asked me to defend my views. My strong views, she called them. It was someone else who described them as a stupidity. In the presence of such greatness as I find myself, I dare choose no subjects, only respond when asked, as best I may. And seek to avoid the chasms of stupidity.’
Alixana’s expressive mouth quirked a little, but her dark eyes were unreadable. She was a small woman, exquisitely formed. ‘You have a careful memory, Rhodian. I did ask you, didn’t I?’
Crispin inclined his head. ‘The Empress is generous to recall it. Lesser mortals cannot but recollect each word she breathes, of course.’ He was surprising himself with almost every word he spoke tonight.
Valerius, leaning back on the throne now, clapped his hands. ‘Well said, if shameless. The westerner may yet teach our courtiers a few things besides engineering and mosaic technique.’
‘My lord Emperor! Surely you have not accepted his prattle about the reverse-‘
The relaxed demeanour disappeared. The grey gaze went knifing past Crispin.
‘Siroes, when you presented your drawings and your plans to our architects and our self, you did say this device was new, did you not?’
The tone of the room changed dramatically. The Emperor’s voice was icy. He was still leaning back in his throne, but the eyes had altered.