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the High Temple of Phos, where Balsamon was to anoint and crown him Emperor of
the Videssians.
Thorisin emerged, stiff-faced, from the Hall of the Nineteen Couches and
walked slowly past his assembled troop contingents to the litter. By custom,
the procession should have begun at the Grand Courtroom, but that building was
already in the hands of a swarm of craftsmen repairing the damage it had
suffered in the previous day's fighting.
In all other respects, though, the new Avtokrator followed traditional usage.
On this day he put aside the soldier's garb he favored for Videssos' splendid
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imperial raiment. Above the red boots, his calves were covered by blue-dyed
woolen leggings; his bejeweled belt was of links of gold, while the silken
kilt hanging from it was again blue, with a border of white. His scabbard was
similarly magnificent, but Marcus noticed that the sword in it was his usual
saber, its leather grip dark with sweat stains. His tunic was scarlet, shot
through with cloth of gold. Over it he wore a cape of pure white wool, closed
at the throat with a golden fibula. His head was bare.
Namdaleni, Videssian soldiers, Videssian sailors, Khatrishers, more
Videssians as Thorisin Gavras strode by each company, the troops went to their
knees and then to their bellies in the proskynesis, acknowledging him their
master. That was still a custom Marcus, used to Rome's republican ways, could
not bring himself to follow. He and his men bowed deeply from the waist, but
did not abase themselves before the Emperor.
For a moment Thorisin the man peeped through the imperial facade.
"Stiff-necked bastard," he murmured out of the side of his mouth, so low only
the tribune heard. Then he was past, settling himself into the blue and gilt
sedan chair that was used only for the coronation journey.
Mertikes Zigabenos and seven of his men were the imperial bearers, their pride
of place earned by the coup that had toppled Ortaias. Zigabenos himself stood
at the front right, a thin-faced, lantem-jawed young man who wore his beard in
the bushy Vaspurakaner style. Slung over his back he bore a large,
bronze-faced oval shield. It was nothing like any a present-day Videssian
would carry into battle, but Marcus had been briefed on the role it would soon
play.
"Are we ready?" Gavras asked. Zigabenos gave a curt nod. "Then let's be at
it," the Emperor said.
A dozen bright silk parasols popped open ahead of the traveling chair, further
tokens as if those were needed of the imperial dignity. Zigabenos' men bent to
the handles at their commander's signal, then straightened, raising Thorisin
to their shoulders. Their pace a slow march, they followed the parasol bearers
and Thorisin's strong-lunged herald out through the gardens of the palace
compound toward the plaza of Palamas.
"Behold Thorisin Gavras, Avtokrator of the Videssians!" the herald roared to
the multitude assembled there. The citizens of the capital, like the court
functionaries, knew their role in the coronation. "Thou conquerest, Thorisin!"
they cried: the traditional acclamation for new Emperors, delivered in the
archaic Videssian of Phos' liturgy.
"Thou conquerest! Thou conquerest!" they thundered as the imperial procession
made its way through the square. Marcus was surprised at their enthusiasm.
From what he knew of the city's populace, they would turn out for any sort of
spectacle, but would almost rather face the rack than admit they were
impressed.
He understood a few seconds later, when palace servants began throwing
handfuls of gold and silver coins into the crowd. The Videssians knew the
largess to which they were entitled on a change of Emperors, whether the
tribune did or not.
"Hey, the money's real gold! Hurrah for Thorisin Gavras!" someone yelled,
startled out of formal responses by the quality of Thorisin's coinage. The
cheers redoubled. But Scaurus knew the Vaspurakaner mines from which Thorisin
had taken that gold were now in Yezda hands, and wondered how long it would be
before the currency was cheapened again.
Still, this was no time for such gloomy thoughts, not with the applause of
thousands ringing in his ears. "Hurrah for the Ronams!" he heard, and caught a
glimpse of Arsaber standing tall in the middle of a knot of prosperous-looking
merchants. One or more of them, he suspected, would go home lighter by a
purse.
More cheering crowds lined Middle Street; every window of the three-story
government office building had two or three faces peering from it. "Look at
all the damned pen-pushers, wondering if Gavras'll have 'em for lunch," Gaius
Philippus said. "Me, I hope he does."
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A few blocks past the offices, the imperial procession turned north toward
Phos' High Temple. The golden globes atop its spires gleamed in the bright
morning sun.
The High Temple's great enclosed courtyard was, if anything, even more packed
then the plaza of Palamas had been. Priests and soldiers held a lane open in
the crush and kept the throng from flowing onto the broad stairs leading up to
the shrine.
At the top of the stairs, somehow not dwarfed by the looming magnificence of
the temple behind him, stood Balsamon. The partriarch was a fat, balding old
man with a mischievous wit, but it suddenly struck Scaurus how great his power
was in Videssos. Ortaias Sphrantzes was not the first Emperor he had helped
cast down, and Thorisin Gavras would be what? the third? the fifth? over whose
accession he had presided.
But his time was not quite come. Mertikes Zigabenos and his guardsmen carried
Gavras through the crowd, which grew quiet, knowing what to expect. Followed
by the ceremonial contingents, the Emperor's litter climbed the stairs. It
halted two steps below the patriarch. The bearers lowered the chair to the
ground. Thorisin climbed out and waited while his troops arranged themselves
on the lower stairs.
Zigabenos unslung his shield and laid it, face up, before the Emperor.
Thorisin stepped up onto it; it took his weight without buckling. Marcus was
already marching up toward him, as were the other commanders of the units he
had chosen to honor: the admiral Elissaios Bouraphos, Baanes Onomagoulos, Laon
Pakhymer, Utprand Dagober's son, and a Namdalener the tribune did not know, a
tall, dour man with pale eyes that showed nothing of the thoughts behind them.
Scaurus guessed he had to be the great count Drax, perhaps included here to
show that his mercenaries were still wanted by the Empire, even under its new
master.
Once again, though, Zigabenos had precedence. He took from his belt a circlet [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]