‘I rather suspect you won’t have the chance,’ Alixana said.
The Emperor looked at her a moment. He turned back to Crispin. ‘I had an impression in the throne room earlier that you were of the same cast of mind as I am, solving Scortius’s challenge. Are your tesserae not … pieces of a puzzle, as you put it?’
Crispin shook his head. ‘They are glass and stone, not mortal souls, my lord.’
‘True enough,’ agreed Valerius, ‘but then you aren’t an Emperor. The pieces change when you rule. Be grateful your craft spares you some decisions.’
It was said-had been said quietly for years-that this man had arranged the murder by fire of Flavius Daleinus on the day his uncle was elevated to the Purple. In this moment Crispin could believe it.
He looked at the woman. He was aware that they had played him like a musical instrument between them tonight, but he also sensed that there was no malice in it. There seemed to be a casual amusement even, and a measure of frankness that might reflect trust, or respect for Rhodian heritage… or perhaps simply an arrogant indifference to what he thought or felt.
‘I,’ said Alixana decisively, ‘am going to my bath and bed. Wagers seem to have cancelled each other, good my lord. If you return very late, speak with Crysomallo or whoever is awake to ascertain my… state.’ She smiled at her husband, catlike, controlled again, and turned to Crispin. ‘Fear me not, Rhodian. I owe you for a necklace and some diversion, and one day perhaps will have more of you.’
‘Dolphins, my lady?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer. Went through the open inner door and Crysomallo closed it.
‘Drink your wine,’ said the Emperor, after a moment. ‘You look like you need it. Then I will show you a wonder of the world.’
I have seen one, Crispin thought. Her scent lingered.
It occurred to him that he could have safely said it aloud, but he did not. They both drank. Carullus had told him, at some point in their journey here, that there was a judicial edict in the City that no other woman could wear the Empress Alixana’s perfume. ‘What about the men?’ Crispin could remember saying carelessly, eliciting the soldier’s booming laugh. It seemed a long time ago.
Now, so far enmeshed in intricacies he could not even properly grasp what was happening, Crispin took his cloak again and followed Valerius II of Sarantium out of the Empress’s private chambers and down corridors, where he was soon lost. They went outside-though not through the main entranceway-and the Emperor’s guards conducted them with torches across a dark garden space and along a stone path with statuary strewn about them, looming and receding in the windy, beclouded night Crispin could hear the sea.
They came to the wall of the Imperial Precinct and went along it on the path until they came to a chapel, and there they entered.
There was a cleric awake among the burning candles-one of the Sleepless Ones, by his white robes. He showed no surprise at seeing the Emperor at this time of night. He made obeisance, and then-with no words spoken-unhooked a key from his belt and led them to a small, dark door at the back behind the altar of the god and the golden disk of the sun.
The door opened into a short stone corridor, and Crispin, bending to protect his head, realized they were passing through the wall. There was another low door at the end of that brief passage; the cleric unlocked it, too, with the same key, and stood aside.
The soldiers paused as well, and so Crispin followed the Emperor alone into the Sanctuary of Jad’s Holy Wisdom in the depths of night.
He straightened up and looked around him. There were lights burning wherever he looked, thousands of them, it seemed, even though this space was not yet consecrated or complete. His gaze went upwards and then upwards and slowly he apprehended the stupendous, the transcendent majesty of the dome that had been achieved here. And standing very still where they had stopped, Crispin understood that here was the place where he might achieve his heart’s desire, and that this was why he had come to Sarantium.