Up The Line

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.

55.

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 sulle

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 i

“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 stu

“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 begi

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, A

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.”

Her clothing fell away and she stood incandescently nude before me. Her smile was a defiant one, a smile that said that she retained her i

I stood dazzled before those high, heavy breasts, whose nipples were visibly hardening, and before that flat, taut belly with its dark, mounded bush, and before those firm muscular thighs and before those outstretched, beckoning arms.

She tumbled down onto the rough cot. She flexed her knees and drew her legs apart.

“Two bezants?” she suggested.

Pulcheria transformed into a tavern whore? My goddess? My adored one?

“Why do you hesitate?” she asked. “Come, climb aboard, give the fat dog Heracles another pair of horns. What’s wrong? Do I seem ugly to you?”

“Pulcheria — Pulcheria — I love you, Pulcheria—”

She giggled, shrill in her delight. She waved her heels at me.

“Come on, then!”

“You were Leo Ducas’ wife,” I murmured. “You lived in a marble palace, and wore silk robes, and went about the city escorted by a watchful due

“You are a madman,” she said. “But a handsome madman, and I yearn to have you between my legs, and I yearn also for your bezants. Come close. Are you shy? Look, put your hand here, feel how hot Pulcheria grows, how she throbs—”

I was rigid with desire, but I knew I couldn’t touch her. Not this Pulcheria, this coarse, shameless, wanton, sluttish wench, this gorgeous creature who capered and pumped and writhed impatiently on the cot before me.

I pulled out my pouch and emptied it over her nakedness, dumping golden bezants into her navel, her loins, spilling them across her breasts. Pulcheria shrieked in astonishment. She sat up, clutching at the money, scrambling for it, her breasts heaving and swaying, her eyes bright.

I fled.