Kay, Guy Gavriel – Sarantine Mosaic 01 – Sailing to Sarantium

And so, in the Hippodrome of Sarantium, under the brilliant summer pun, Valerius, Count of the Excubitors, yielded to his fate and suffered his loyal guards to clothe him in the purple-lined mantle Leontes happened to have brought with him.

Will they not wonder at that? ‘ he had asked Petrus.

‘It won’t matter by then,’ his nephew had replied. ‘Trust me in this.’

And the Excubitors made way, the outer ring of them parting slowly, like a curtain, so that the innermost ones could be seen holding an enor­mous round shield. And standing upon that shield as they raised it to their shoulders-in the ancient way soldiers proclaimed an Emperor-Valerius the Trakesian lifted his hands towards his people. He turned to all corners of the thundering Hippodrome-for here was the true thunder that day- and accepted, humbly and graciously, the spontaneous will of the Sarantine people that he be their Imperial Lord, Regent of Holy Jad upon earth.

Valerius! Valerius! Valerius!

All glory to the Emperor Valerius!

Valerius the Golden, to the Golden Throne!

His hair had been golden once, long ago, when he had left the grain-lands of Trakesia with two other boys, poor as stony earth, but strong for a lad, willing to work, to fight, walking barefoot through a cold, wet autumn, the north wind behind them bringing winter, all the way to the Sarantine military camp, to offer their services as soldiers to a distant Emperor in the unimaginable City, long, long ago.

‘Petrus, stay and dine with me?’

Night. A western sea breeze cooling the room through the open win­dows over the courtyard below. The sound of falling water drifted up from the fountains, and from farther away came the susurration of wind in the leaves of the trees in the Imperial gardens.

Two men stood in a room in the Traversite Palace. One was an Emperor, the other had made him so. In the larger, more formal Attentive Palace, a little way across the gardens, Apius lay in state in the Por­phyry Room, coins on his eyes, a golden sun disk clasped between folded hands: payment and passport for his journey.

‘I cannot, Uncle. I have promises to be kept.’

‘Tonight? Where?’

‘Among the factions. The Blues were very useful today.’

‘Ah. The Blues. And their most favoured actress? Was she very use­ful? ‘ The old soldier’s voice was sly now. ‘Or is she to be useful later this evening?’

Petrus looked unabashed. ‘Aliana? A fine dancer, and I always laugh during her comic turns upon the stage.’ He grinned, the round, smooth J. face free of guile.

The Emperor’s gaze was shrewd, undeceived. After a moment he said quietly, ‘Love is dangerous, nephew.’

The younger man’s expression changed. He was silent a moment, by one of the doorways. Eventually he nodded his head. ‘It can be. I know that. Do you . . . disapprove?’

It was a well-timed question. How could his uncle’s disapproval attach to anything he did tonight? After the events of the day?

Valerius shook his head. ‘Not really. You will move into the Imperial Precinct? One of the palaces?’ There were six of them scattered on these grounds. They were all his now. He would have to learn to know them.

Petrus nodded. ‘Of course, if you honour me so. But not until after the Mourning Rites and the Investiture, and the Hippodrome ceremony in your honour.’

‘You will bring her here with you?’

Petrus’s expression, directly confronted, was equally direct. ‘Only if you approve.’

The Emperor said, ‘Are there not laws? Someone said something, I recall. An actress . . .?’

‘ You are the source and fount of all laws in Sarantium now, Uncle. Laws may be changed.’

Valerius sighed. ‘We need to talk further on this. And about the hold­ers of office. Gesius. Adrastus. Hilarinus-I don’t trust him. I never did.’

‘He is gone, then. And Adrastus must also be, I fear. Gesius… is more complex. You know he spoke for you in the Senate?’

‘You said. Did it matter?’

‘Probably not, but if he had spoken for Adrastus-unlikely as that may sound-it might have made things. . . uglier.’

‘You trust him?’

The Emperor watched his nephew’s deceptively bland, round face as the younger man thought. Petrus wasn’t a soldier. He didn’t look like a courtier. He carried himself, more than anything else, Valerius decided, like an academician of the old pagan Schools. There was ambition there, however. Enormous ambition. There was, in fact, an Empire’s worth of it. He had cause to know, being where he was.