Rovert Silverberg - Up The Line

“No,” they said. “No messages.”

“Think carefully. I’m expecting an important message from the Ducas palace. From Pulcheria Ducas.”

“From whom?”

“Pulcheria Ducas.”

“No messages, sir.”

I clothed myself in my finest finery and clipclopped into Constantinople. Did I dare present myself at the Ducas place uninvited? I did dare. My country-bumpkin cover identity would justify my possible breach of etiquette.

At the gate of the Ducas palace I rang for the servants, and an old groom came out, the one who had shown me to the chamber that night where Pulcheria had given herself to me. I smiled in a friendly way; the groom peered blankly back. Forgotten me, I thought.

I said, “My compliments to Lord Leo and Lady Pulcheria, and would you kindly tell them that George Markezinis of Epirus is here to call upon them?”

“To Lord Leo and Lady—” the groom repeated.

“Pulcheria,” I said. “They know me. I’m cousin to Themistoklis Metaxas, and—” I hesitated, feeling even more foolish than usual at giving my pedigree to a groom. “Get me the major-domo,” I snapped.

The groom scuttled within.

After a long delay, an imperious-looking individual in the Byzantine equivalent of livery emerged and surveyed me.

“Yes?”

“My compliments to Lord Leo and Lady Pulcheria, and would you kindly tell them—”

“Lady who? ”

“Lady Pulcheria, wife to Leo Ducas. I am George Markezinis of Epirus, cousin to Themistoklis Metaxas, who only several weeks ago attended the party given by—”

“The wife to Leo Ducas,” said the major-domo frostily, “is named Euprepia.”

“Euprepia?”

“Euprepia Ducas, the lady of this household. Man, what do you want here? If you come drunken in the middle of the day to trouble Lord Leo, I—”

“Wait,” I said. “ Euprepia? Not Pulcheria?” A golden bezant flickered into my hand and fluttered swiftly across to the waiting palm of the major-domo. “I’m not drunk, and this is important. When did Leo marry this — this Euprepia?”

“Four years ago.”

“Four — years — ago. No, that’s impossible. Five years ago he married Pulcheria, who—”

“You must be mistaken. The Lord Leo has been married only once, to Euprepia Macrembolitissa, the mother of his son Basil and of his daughter Zoe.”

The hand came forth. I dropped another bezant into it.

Dizzily I murmured, “His eldest son is Nicetas, who isn’t even born yet, and he isn’t supposed to have a son named Basil at all, and — my God, are you playing a game with me?”

“I swear before Christ Pantocrator that I have said no word but the truth,” declared the major-domo resonantly.

Tapping my pouch of bezants, I said, desperate now, “Would it be possible for me to have an audience with the Lady Euprepia?”

“Perhaps so, yes. But she is not here. For three months now she has rested at the Ducas palace on the coast at Trebizond, where she awaits her next child.”

“Three months. Then there was no party here a few weeks ago?”

“No, sir.”

“The Emperor Alexius wasn’t here? Nor Themistoklis Metaxas? Nor George Markezinis of Epirus? Nor—”

“None of those, sir. Can I help you further?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, and went staggering from the gate of the Ducas palace like unto one who has been smitten by the wrath of the gods.

Dismally I wandered in a southeasterly way along the Golden Horn until I came to the maze of shops, marketplaces, and taverns near the place where there would one day be the Galata Bridge, and where today there is still a maze of shops, marketplaces, and taverns. Through those narrow, interweaving, chaotic streets I marched like a zombie, having no destination. I saw not, neither did I think; I just put one foot ahead of the other one and kept going until, early in the afternoon, kismet once more seized me by the privates.

I stumbled randomly into a tavern, a two-story structure of unpainted boards. A few merchants were downing their midday wine. I dropped down heavily at a warped and wobbly table in an unoccupied corner of the room and sat staring at the wall, thinking about Leo Ducas’ pregnant wife Euprepia.

A comely tavern-slut appeared and said, “Some wine?”

“Yes. The stronger the better.”

“A little roast lamb too?”

“I’m not hungry, thanks.”

“We make very good lamb here.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said. I stared somberly at her ankles. They were very good ankles. I looked up at her calves, and then her legs vanished within the folds of her simple cloth wrap. She strode away and came back with a flask of wine. As she set it before me, the front of her wrap fell away at her throat, and I peered in at the two pale, full, rosy-tipped breasts that swung freely there. Then at last I looked at her face.

She could have been Pulcheria’s twin sister.

Same dark, mischievous eyes. Same flawless olive skin. Same full lips and aquiline nose. Same age, about seventeen. The differences between this girl and my Pulcheria were differences of dress, of posture, and of expression. This girl was coarsely clad; she lacked Pulcheria’s aristocratic elegance of bearing; and there was a certain pouting sullenness about her, the look of a girl who is living below her station in life and is angry about it.

I said, “You could almost be Pulcheria!”

She laughed harshly. “What kind of nonsensical talk is that?”

“A girl I know, who resembles you closely — Pulcheria, her name is—”

“Are you insane, or only drunk? I am Pulcheria. Your little game isn’t pleasing to me, stranger.”

“You — Pulcheria?”

“Certainly.”

“Pulcheria Ducas?”

She cackled in my face. “Ducas, you say? Now I know you’re crazy. Pulcheria Photis, wife of Heracles Photis the innkeeper!”

“Pulcheria — Photis—” I repeated numbly. “Pulcheria — Photis — wife — of — Heracles — Photis—”

She leaned close over me, giving me a second view of her miraculous breasts. Not haughty now but worried, she said in a low voice, “I can tell by your clothes that you’re someone important. What do you want here? Has Heracles done something wrong?”

“I’m here just for wine,” I said. “But listen, tell me this one thing: are you the Pulcheria who was born Botaniates?”

She looked stunned. “You know that!”

“It’s true?”

“Yes,” said my adored Pulcheria, and sank down next to me on the bench. “But I am a Botaniates no longer. For five years now — ever since Heracles — the filthy Heracles — ever since he—” She took some of my wine in her agitation. “Who are you, stranger?”

“George Markezinis of Epirus.”

The name meant nothing to her.

“Cousin to Themistoklis Metaxas.”

She gasped. “I knew you were someone important! I knew!” Trembling prettily, she said, “What do you want with me?”

The other patrons in the tavern were beginning to stare at us. I said, “Can we go somewhere to talk? Someplace private?”

Her eyes took on a cool, knowing look. “Just a moment,” she said, and went out of the tavern. I heard her calling to someone, shouting like any fishwife, and after a moment a ragged girl of about fifteen came into the room. Pulcheria said, “Look after things, Anna. I’m going to be busy.” To me she said, “We can go upstairs.”

She led me to a bedchamber on the second floor of the building and carefully bolted the door behind us.

“My husband,” she said, “has gone to Galata to buy meat, and will not be back for two hours. While the loath-some pig is away, I don’t mind earning a bezant or two from a handsome stranger.”