CHAPTER XV
THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE
THE restless stirring of the city had not penetrated to the palace. Late that afternoon the courtiers still sat under the awnings about the fountain that tossed its scented spray into the hot air of the central inclosure. Some of them diced or gossiped without energy. The yellow marble walls still gave out the heat of the sun's rays, and it was pleasant to sit in the shade and do nothing.
Imperial guardsmen in silver scale-mail and gilt leggings chatted at the foot of the long stairs that led from the court of the fountain to the emperor's chambers, which were on the side farthest from the land.
They greeted familiarly the slender figure of the Arab hakim, Abu Bekr, in his immaculate white cotton robe and hood, as he made his way into the presence.
“Thanks to thine arts, the Most Magnificent gains in health.”
The Arab brushed his fingers against his forehead, and answered enigmatically.
“What Allah hath done is well done.”
He passed through the outer corridors, and salaamed low at the threshold of the chamber that opened upon the balcony over the sea. A glance at his patient showed him that Lascaris seemed comfortable.
At that moment the emperor was talking with several nobles who had made the journey from Nicea to greet him. But he soon tired of that, and Abu Bekr asked them to leave the sick man. Then the physician felt Lascaris' pulse, and squatted down on the carpet by the couch, thrusting his hands into his sleeves, dignified and silent.
“Recovery is sure?” questioned the emperor, who spoke Arabic well.
“What is written may not be changed, O King of the age. But all the signs are favorable.”
“Now am I at ease,” Lascaris fingered his thin lips. “Thou, hakim, and the girl Rusudan cause me no anxiety. The others all come to beg for something.”
He gazed at the Georgian captive with pleasure, because he took delight in beauty and knew it when he saw it. Often he had thanked the gods that Choaspes had seen fit to make her a hostage. He did not quite know what Choaspes planned to do with the Georgian, but it was advisable not to have a young woman in the throne of one of the most warlike of the frontier peoples and, besides, he might arrange a marriage for her—with a Greek.
And he wondered what Rusudan could find to think about, as she sat by the window of the balcony, watching the water with eager eyes.
“The wine, Rusudan,” he said.
After a moment's hesitation, she rose and went past the giant Ethiopian who stood, motionless as the onyx pillar of the doorway, with his hands folded on the hilt of a bared simitar. Whenever any one entered or left the chamber the negro moved his head a little and looked at Lascaris. But he had grown accustomed to the Georgian and he did not move as she brushed by him, merely breathing deep, as a dog does when half asleep.
She filled the emperor's goblet from a jar brought by a little deaf-mute girl, and at the same time the domastikos, who was the chamberlain of the palace, offered her the tray with Lascaris' supper. The sick man had asked for seasoned food, and the tray held a dish of rice curry.
Rusudan smiled, because the domastikos, in his high cap of cloth-of-silver and his curls glistening with oil always amused her. Since she had the favor of the sick emperor, the officials of the palace always bowed profoundly to her and addressed her as Kyria.
“It is a wonder,” murmured the Greek, “that any woman should have such color without henna stain, and such clear eyes as the most fortunate Kyria.”
Rusudan looked at him without answering and the Greek seemed uncomfortable, perhaps because she gave the silver tray to the little girl to hold. While she knelt by the couch beside the deaf-mute slave Rusudan's thoughts went out to the water. She did not taste the wine as she usually did before Lascaris drank of it. And as soon as he had emptied the goblet she hastened to the window.
For an hour that afternoon she had watched Hugh in his skiff, not daring to go to the balcony while the eyes of the Greeks were on her. His face had changed, and in his sheepskins he must have looked to the guards like a fisherman.
But Rusudan knew him by the turn of his head, the thrust of his powerful arms and his way of lifting his chin. Not many rowers dared come near the palace, and no fisherman would have sat calmly when a cross-bow bolt whipped past. Rusudan hardly breathed, until he had drifted out from the rocks.
Even then she fastened her eyes on the skiff, noting greedily every swing of the man's shoulders, every slight motion that might mean he had seen her, though he could not have done so within the chamber, at such a height.
Since she had been brought to the court she had heard the story of the crusader who defied the emperor, and whenever she saw the Genoese, Trevisani, she thought with dismay how she had urged Sir Hugh to seek safety among the Greeks. She understood now that this man would not turn aside from peril, and she told herself that he had come to the Chersonese to seek her.
At times her veins were chilled by the fear that he might be recognized and given to the hands of the silent and beast-like torturers who awaited the summons of Lascaris in the passages below the palace. She had seen captives and women who screamed at the sight of these men.
But now she quivered with exultation and her heart sent the blood beating through her body; she could rejoice in his daring, and it seemed to her as if all the men in the chamber must guess her secret—that she had seen the man she loved and that somehow he would come near her and she would hear his voice.
Now the skiff was no longer visible, and all the shore was veiled in ruddy twilight. Rusudan rested her head on her arms, her lips half smiling. And then she caught her breath, hearing close behind her a groan that seemed to have come from an animal rather than a human being.
She looked around. The deaf mute still knelt by the couch holding the tray on her arms, but the eyes of the negro were rolling wildly, and on the couch Lascaris lay, tearing at his body with quivering fingers.
“Poison!” he grunted. “It is burning me!”
He flung himself over on his side, coughing and retching and crying for Abu Bekr.
RUSUDAN stood by the couch, voiceless. The Arab leaned over the emperor, one knee on the couch, and touched his throat. He seized the chin of the struggling man and looked swiftly into the contorted face. Then he stepped back, glancing at the empty golden dish that had held the rice curry, and at the Georgian girl.
“No man may escape his fate,” he said calmly. “For him it is the hour appointed, and for thee and me—the All-Wise knoweth.”
“You must save him!” the girl cried. “Bring wine.”
But Abu Bekr merely shook his head. He turned and went to the other end of the carpet and knelt, bending his head and stretching forth his hands, palm down.
“Haram dar pishat,” he said under his breath. “The sanctuary is before thee, and lo, there comes a day of days when the believers shall count their joys.”
He was facing toward the south, preparing to meet the end of life and oblivious of other matters. Into the chamber thronged the domastikos, the captain of the guards, and frightened slaves.
Lascaris' lips were drawn back from his teeth and foam dripped from his mouth.
“Kallinos! Daim! Choaspes! They have poisoned me.”
The officers and slaves were staring at him, mouths agape. The glow of sunset had faded from the room, and the purple canopy turned from crimson to a dim black.
“Ai!” cried the domastikos, wringing his hands. “Your sacred Clemency—your Supreme Magnificence—”
He tried to make the emperor lie down, with fumbling, ineffective movements. In the corridors women were wailing, and more people pressed into the room.
“In this day the righteous and unrighteous shall number their deeds—” the murmur of the Moslem reached Rusudan's ears.
Then Lascaris thrust the domastikos aside and pulled himself to the edge of the couch, the sweat running from his head, his body jerking with cramps.
“The torturers!” he gasped. “Make the girl speak. She brought wine—she knows!”
And he pointed at Rusudan.
“The barbarian hath slain the emperor,” cried the domastikos loudly. And the women, who had long been jealous of the favor shown Rusudan, echoed his words in shrill voices.
After that there was more tumult outside the room, but those around the couch kept silent, listening to the heavy breathing of the man who wore the imperial purple. A change had come over Lascaris; his eyes were sunken and heavy. He lay prone, though his hands kept pushing at the silk covering as if he would raise himself up. Rusudan found herself speaking, very slowly:
“I am guiltless. The wine was given me by this child, who is innocent. I drank of it.”
“How much?” the domastikos mocked her.
“The Arab saw. The poison was in the food, not the wine.”
No one answered her, and she saw that many of the guards were gazing at her curiously. Rusudan thought that Abu Bekr had known nothing of the plot and that others, unseen, had put the poison in the strongly seasoned curry. Lascaris had been very weak—
Hands grasped her shoulders, slid down to her wrists, and she felt a leather cord touch her skin. With all her strength she struggled to free her arms and then to tear herself loose and run to the balcony, to escape the torture by leaping into the sea.
The hands tightened, pressing into her flesh, and the cord was drawn fast. An arm reached around her, slipping the cord about her knees, which were bound and lashed to her wrists. Then she ceased struggling and lifted her head.
“Confess—tell who gave you the poison,” demanded the captain of the guards.
“She will not speak—now,” retorted the domastikos. “She is stubborn.”
“No woman can endure the pain,” muttered the Greek officer in the silvered mail, biting his lips. “Better that she named the assassins—”
“I know nothing,” cried Rusudan, “for I was seized by traitors, and brought among you. Ask of the men who have watched their lord dying and have taken thought only for the torment of a captive.”
“Begin,” said the domastikos dryly.
An iron band was slipped over Rusudan's head, and she felt it clasped close upon her hair. She made no effort to see the men who held her; instead she turned her head toward the Greeks and though there were shadows under her eyes and her lips trembled a little, she spoke to them clearly.
“I will be avenged, and the sword that strikes you down will know no mercy!”
Impatiently the domastikos made a sign. Rusudan felt no pain, and she stood very still. The hands moved around her head, and the iron creaked. Then two tiny points of steel pressed into her temples behind the eyes. The girl's body stiffened and she cried out.
“Again!” a voice demanded.
The points of steel turned slowly, boring through the skin, and blood dripped into her lips. Agony surged into every nerve, and she strained forward. The arms of the torturers caught her and held her upright. They pulled away the strands of damp hair that had caught in the screws when she struggled.
“Again!” commanded the domastikos.
But Rusudan did not hear his voice. She lay unconscious in the arms of the torturers, and the domastikos turned his attention to the figure on the couch. Then for the first time one of the men who held Rusudan spoke.
“He is dead.”
There was a stir around the couch. Some one laid a hand on the face of Theodore Lascaris, and the unseen women wailed anew. But a tumult arose in the great courtyard, and scarcely a moment had passed before a name was shouted by many throats.
“Choaspes! Choaspes reigns! Long life to the emperor!”
The officers in the death chamber exchanged glances, anxious, suspicious or exulting. No one touched a sword, and the domastikos, who had watched their faces to good effect, held up his arms.
“The army has chosen the successor to Lascaris. Who is better than the scion of the Comneni?”
When no one answered, he turned briskly to the guards nearest him.
“Look to that woman. Take the irons from her, or she won't gain her senses. Then begin with the torture again, until she confesses.”
The Greeks were pushing from the room. The domastikos thrust his way among them, his cap askew on one ear, his face flushed. No one paid any attention to the body on the couch except the giant black who still kept his post, breathing heavily.
Running down the marble stairs, the domastikos forced his way through the guards who were grouped around Choaspes. The strategos was mounted, and the cloak over his shoulders was purple edged with gold that gleamed in the torchlight. Bending down, he listened to the whisper of the domastikos—
“May your Magnificence live for ten thousand years—”
Choaspes spoke impatiently, and the chamberlain nodded.
“It is finished—all. The Arab was cast from the rock.”
“And you have—a captive?”
“The gods were kind! Lascaris himself cried out to torture her.”
“Who?”
“Rusudan.”
Choaspes started, then was silent a moment.
“The little Gipsy! By the throne of Bacchus! Well, she was a barbarian.” His eyes quested through the court, searching faces. “The Bulgars and Goths in the other wing of the palace have held out against us. They are surrounded and will be cut down. Trevisani holds the plaza and his galleys the waterfront. The mob is wild and knows not what to shout. Toss silver freely among them and they also will cry 'Choaspes!'”
He gathered up his reins that were heavy with silver-work and tassels. The charger he bestrode, a white Dalmatian, edged sidewise and snorted, sensing the excitement of the throng of men. Already that evening Choaspes had ridden him through most of the Chersonese, giving orders to his sympathizers and broaching wine kegs for the mob.
But Choaspes listened to the clatter of steel and the hoarse outcry in the barracks by the gate courtyard. The barbarians who served Lascaris had seen their leaders bound and led away, and had taken to their weapons. In a few moments the fighting lessened, and a Greek lieutenant came to report that the way was clear for the emperor to ride into the city.
Then Choaspes gave command for the trumpets to sound. He was exceedingly anxious to win over the thousands in the port before some of his cousins might form a faction against him.
Of Rusudan he did not think again save that it would be diverting to watch the torture of the young girl. It was necessary, now, she should be made to confess that she had given the poison, and Choaspes never questioned necessity.