The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [140]
The sun was about to emerge, and so was the Emperor. The noise was cheering, which had been going on for some time, but was now much increased. Along with it were other sounds: of marching feet and hooves and trumpets, of cymbals and drums and the tinny snore, rising and falling, of portable organs. The sea wind, mixed with salt and fish, sweat and ordure and woodsmoke, brought with it suddenly the scent of horseflesh, and a waft of bruised herbs and aloes and the queer, strident note of opoponax. Nicholas, who had been talking beside him, unaccountably stopped. Then, between the buildings on the lower side of the Meidan, the first of the procession reached the top of the slope and led the way towards them, across the soft bran of the enclosure, making for the pillared entrance of the villa which was to be the Emperor’s box, his kathisma.
The icon led the way, as before. Behind, as in Constantinople the All-Happy City, came the elders dressed in red brocade, followed by young men in white and then by slim youths in green tunics and buskins. They walked erect, and quickly, passing through the gate of the barrier from sunshine to shadow, and then up the passage between the merchants’ benches. One of the boys, turning an exquisite profile, broke into a smile at the sight of Nicholas and almost paused. He had close-curled hair of a classical fairness, and Tobie had seen him somewhere before. He said, “Who is that?”
Nicholas turned his head. “His name is Alexios,” he said.
“They’re all called Alexios,” said Tobie.
“It just seems like that,” Nicholas said. “Anyway, they all have quite different flavours.”
It made less sense than usual, but that was to be expected. In any case, here were the servants with their ranks of gold axes, the eunuchs in white; the young guards with their breastplates and shields and spears covered with gold. Then the princes in cloth of gold, the chiefs each holding a golden rod; the rest with swinging gold censers. Then the pages. Then the Emperor, on his horse caparisoned in scarlet and gold, with the Empress and her train following after.
The Vice-Regent of God on Earth still wore his high golden crown, but another long tailored robe, of cloth of gold woven with jewels, and sewn with blocks and ribbons of goldsmith work, set with pictures and gems. The sun, losing at that moment the last of its veils, made of him suddenly a dazzling artefact, with his spun-gold beard and moustache no less bright than his dress. Only his face, pinkly powdered, half severe, half smiling at nothing, was that of a man, bathed and well fed and just risen from a couch on which he has not lain alone. Behind him, the Empress turned her beautiful, tinted face from side to side, to be seen, but not to respond. If she observed the Florentine banner, or the Genoese, she gave no sign but passed on, riding serenely. Among the ladies walking behind her, Violante of Naxos also ignored the Florentine flag, and her pupil. Which was just as well, Tobie thought. He has enough to contend with.
Then the Imperial party filled the balconies, and were seated; and the trumpets blew; and the Patriarch blessed the proceedings; and a master of ceremonies stepped on the bran and delivered a long and elaborate speech which the Emperor acknowledged and the crowd, chanting, repeated. O God, protect the Emperor, protect the Magistrates, protect the children born in the purple. Mother of God, may the Empire be filled with joy…Then his Imperial majesty raised his hand, and the entertainment began.
It had been a long time since Tobie, a cynical man, had been made to sit through a spectacle. His uncle, physician to dukes, attended them as a matter of course. His uncle took jesters for granted, and jugglers, and men who swallowed fire and crossed high-slung wires pushing wheelbarrows with