Chapter 92
Nestor's body having been tossed in a heap so close to the had raised Cyn’s hackles. Were they being watched? After scanning the marketeers and forum frequenters, Pons eventually concluded that the Column of Constantine was used as a dumping ground merely because it was convenient to the Great Palace with its dungeons and torture chambers. He ordered Cyn to arrange a cart and take Nestor to St. Mary’s in Galata, where he would lie beside the Renier. Not Orthodox, but consecrated - and Pons damned the expense.
“The brave fellow. He fell aiding our vendetta. He did not talk, else we would have been taken in our sleep last night. I shall watch to see if Mariapitkee visits the girls at the fountain. Nestor may have spoken of her, but I doubt it. Still, I would like to be sure.”
All appeared safe, however, as Mariapitkee arrived alone. She reported that more nobles (than little Maria could remember the names of) had been ordered executed. It seemed the storyteller had told no tales.
Later, Pons and the girls joined Cyn and Zinth at St. Mary’s, carrying bouquets of flowers. Maria and Anna sang a hymn, and together they prayed for Nestor. No choir. No incense. Just them.
“This was because of my short-sightedness,” Pons berated himself later at the over wine with Cyn. “I grew a beard to disguise . I wore a sun hat to hide . But I forgot that the scum had also seen Nestor at the races. He saw you there as well, and again with the cart to fetch Theodore’s fallen body at Nicea. He will recognize both of us on sight.”
“We should be hunting him. If he seeks us, let him find us. We can ambush him. Hiding does not suit me. It would be nice to go up on the seawalls, breathe the salty air, and see the Venetian fleet with Lord Conrad and the army of Montferrat on the horizon.”
“Unless I miss my guess, he is in Thessalonica coordinating his arrival with the Norman land army. No, you stay put. You stand out, but I blend in better with a crowd. Keep close to the for the next few days. I will visit our friends: John Ducas, Brian the Saxon, and the Lady Euphrosyne. We need allies… perhaps…” A smile crossed his face.
Cyn brightened. The cunning old fox had just come up with an idea. We might not be finished yet.
“I'm off. If I don’t come back, flee the city. Fast horses still wait in the monastery stables beyond the Old Golden Gate. Head west and try to meet up with the invaders."
* * *
Cyn spent a few days dicing with Zinth and checking the fletching on his bolts. He had a quiver full, having crafted his own. No one cared about who owned goose feathers in these lands. He avoided the races and forums, but out of boredom, he visited churches, listened to choirs, and took note of bejeweled crucifixes and chalices.
The dire need to flee did not materialize, however, as Pons returned before dawn a few days later with a new plan.
“You will shoot him with your crossbow, not as he distributes alms outside a church, but as he sits in the watching the next races.”
Cyn's Italian hands, filled with exasperation, waved and punched the air, displaying his annoyance. “I suggested this years ago! A week after we arrived in this city! You said the idea was foolish. Someone would bump my arm, and I would miss; and even if I hit, we would be caught before we could leave the stadium.”
“Things have changed. We have new friends. No one will interfere. Instead, they will be cheering for your shot. We will not be caught. The crowd will wave palm fronds as we make our exit.”
You crafty silver-tongued devil. This better make up for the debacle at Forty Martyrs.
* * *
All was in flux. There were no “next races.”
The entire sweltering summer passed without public events, only mounting nervous dread.
The Normans advanced.
Under the command of General Branas, the Byzantine army remained in the field, prudently keeping to the north until the enemy committed itself to besieging the great walls. Then they would strike at the engaged forces - at least, that was Pon's surmise based on what Maripitkee had gleaned and what John Ducas had let slip.
Pons hoped there would be no siege at all. Ideally, the Golden Gate would fall from within. The guards had been bribed before; they could be bribed again. A crowd with torches chanting for a new emperor would help.
So would the confusion caused by absent leadership.
Finally, word went out: races would be held at the beginning of September.
* * *
The day began with a still dawn, but by afternoon, a wind from the northeast blew. The direction of the wind was not an issue, but its inconsistency was. It gusted, creating a problem. The distance from their place in the stands to the was one hundred paces - well within Cyn’s deadly range.
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The gusting wind carried smoke from a clay furnace set up at the southwest end of the . Men with long poles tended a raging fire of brushwood and naphtha.
“The horses will veer clear of that conflagration, and the turns won't be tight.”
“There have been burnings before. I would think both drivers and horses are used to it by now. The smoke will help me track the wind.”
People had come out to cheer. The length of the track was mostly empty, but at the curve of the , a throng had gathered. Many shook Pons and Cyn by the hand and clapped their backs. Pons encouraged them not to cheer for himself as their benefactor, but to root for the Blues as usual. With Zinth’s assistance and clever wrapping, they disguised the crossbows and brought them in alongside several amphorae of wine. Maria and Anna brought baskets of loaves from the bakeries of the to distribute. Everyone was merry.
“John Ducas once advised me about the uncuttable quality of silk,” Pons reminded Cyn.
“I will aim for his face. Eye, throat, no matter. I applied a fresh coat of venom to the heads of two of my best quarrels.”
“Careful. A scratch to the hand from an arrowhead took out his uncle, Emperor John ‘the Beautiful.’”
“Won’t bring it out until the moment I need it. This is more fitting. Finish him here, where we first laid eyes on him.”
“I did not see Andronikos for the first time here at the . When I first saw him, he was dressed in a loincloth covered in ashes, wearing manacles, and begging for his cousin's forgiveness. This was shortly before Renier’s wedding.”
“Was he granted forgiveness?”
“Yes. His contrition was marveled at.”
“How did that work out?”
* * *
At the monthly meetings, Ser Pons never told Mariapitkee exactly what was afoot or what his plans were. Later, during pillow talk, Cincinatus was reluctant to reveal much more. “Best you do not know, my love,” he would say. “The Emperor and his noseless rat could put anyone to the rack at any moment.”
Still, she had a good idea of what was going to happen that afternoon at the races. She knew that something had been planned for the reinterment of Andronikos’ first wife at Forty Martyr’s Church, but it had not happened. Instead, the girls at the fountain told her that their ‘uncle’ had been slain by the noseless one. They now reported her daily information directly to Ser Pons.
A cutout had been cut out.
Being the first race in a long time, the turnout in the stands seemed better than of late. A jovial throng of filled the seating opposite the . Was he there? She felt sure of it but kept her eyes on those in the box, lest her gaze lead to betrayal.
As always, the Imperial box was crowded. Stephen Hagiocharistophrites was now elevated to be among those closest to the Emperor. He was always watching and disdainful. Two elites - the Rus, who pinched the concubines' bottoms, and the handsome Saxon - stood at the top of the stairs. They had remained with a cohort of guardsmen while their fellows deployed to the front. Poor Anna was permitted to drop the to start the races. It had been a traumatic year for the little Augusta. Mariapitkee and her silent sister Eyrinee did their best to comfort the girl and divert the Emperor’s attentions. The Emperor’s remaining son, Ioannes the ‘Prison Conceived,’ sat in the place of honor at his side, while a new cupbearer poured wine as the box began to fill with men seeking favor.
Mariapitkee shifted to allow for the press of new adherents, now mostly landless upstarts and third sons of lesser houses - those with nothing to wager. The nobles had caught on to Andronikos’ estate-grabbing tricks.
She sat unobtrusively on the railing. The stone was ancient, but unlike the last time she sat here, a crack had formed between the railing and the wall of the kasthima. It was wide enough for her to slide her hand in. Was the railing a little wobbly?
The dropped, and the races began.
The first biriga race featured an exciting ‘shipwreck’ that removed one car from each team. The heat went to the Blues in a close finish. Cheering erupted from the far side of the stadium.
After the match came a parade of amputations carried out in front of the for the Emperor’s amusement and the crowd's moral instruction. Each punishment fit the crime: a tongue that had borne false witness, disobedient ears that had not listened, the hand of a thief, the eyes of the corrupt who sought the luster of gold, and the head of a traitor whose mind held improper thoughts.
The second race was unexciting, as a green biriga took an early lead and never lost it.
This was followed by the execution of Mamalos, who was guilty of being the last surviving servant of young Emperor Alexios. A naked young man bound in ropes was prodded toward the roaring furnace by the long poles of the stokers. In a desperate attempt to escape the blistering agony of his unavoidable death, he threw himself against the staffs and had to be beaten into submission. Once forced into the maw of the furnace, the pain revived him, and he screamed and thrashed repeatedly against the poles pushing him to his doom. Exhaustion and acceptance overcame both body and will. His soul ascended to Heaven with the smoke, while the reek of his searing flesh filled the stands.
* * *
Patiently, Cyn waited, concentrating on his target. There was always a lot of waiting before pulling the lever. He was aware of the races and punishments on the track only as a waxing and waning of activity that could draw his quarry forward into the bright sunlight and the carved stone railing.
For the perfect shot.
He had a perfect shot of Marapitkee perched on the rail in flowing white, like the angel who had been beside him on the tetrapylon. The others in the box were more obscure under the shady overhang.
It would not be during the early races, but during the final heat - Cyn had a sense of this.
The mappa dropped, and the hisplex sprang open. Pons and Zinth began a popular call-and-response chant and waved palm fronds. Amid the movement and the mass, Cyn retrieved his arbalest from its wrappings and wound it.
Three teams were vying for the lead, constantly changing order and narrowly avoiding one another. They ran wide on the turn where the smell of roasted flesh wafted, but veered tight on the far end. Everyone was on their feet. Cyn knocked his bolt. Rounding the turn, two riders’ whips became entangled. A third team made its move. Cyn shouldered and aimed. His tall bearded target was unmistakable. Nobles pounded on the railing of the , cheering on their team. The stonework tottered, gave way, and fell, crushing those standing below.
* * *
Marapitkee lurched. The wobbling railing simply fell away beneath her, and for an instant, she was falling - until a strong hand grabbed her flowing white gown.
Andronikos.
But he was losing his purchase and beginning to slide. He flailed, and his son Ioannes grabbed his other hand, forming a chain. Meters below her, bodies lay sprawled, and blood splattered the stone seating.
* * *
“Shoot!” Pons shouted.
A rush of blood filled Cyn's ears.
kasthima killed six, however Andronikos did not grasp a falling concubine while a cliffhanger (sans cliff) ensued.
