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.That woman of the Empress’s, Theophano—”“I think,” said Nicephoros, between his teeth, “he should be allowed to secure such companionship for himself.”“Excuse me,” said ibn-Ziad, and moved on, out of earshot of the two men and their argument.“A man needs a woman,” said the Parakoimomenos, and bowed.“How would you know?” Nicephoros said.“He does not need a pander.Nor does he need a heavy-handed effort at seduction, by you, by Theophano, by anyone.”Turning on his heel, he walked on after their guest, now the center of a sedate crowd, moving in through the double doors of the chapel.The Parakoimomenos stayed where he was.In spite of the rage in his heart, he smiled; he promised himself that when the day came of Nicephoros’s downfall, he would know who had arranged it.Drawing himself up to his full height, his face smoothed free of any expression, the Parakoimomenos went after the others at a pace designed to keep a distance between them.Ibn-Ziad loved Constantinople.He had been coming here now since his boyhood, when he had accompanied his father on an informal embassy to the court of the Emperor Leo.Every time he came here he felt more at home.Certainly he was at home in the Chapel of the Virgin.Several other foreigners had joined their little group, and a guide in the clothes of a Christian priest was supposed to be escorting them about, but before they had set eyes on the first of the wonderful objects in the Treasure Room, ibn-Ziad had begun his own discourse.He could not help it.He knew these relics, now, as well as any Greek, and he loved showing off to his hosts and lording it over his fellow barbarians.The looks of amazement and wonder on the faces of the Romans spurred him on.He would show them they had no monopoly on knowledge.“Ah,” he said.“The rib of Saint Paul.The reliquary”—he paused, to allow those in the mob around him unfortunate enough not to recognize this word to grasp its meaning—“was designed in the time of Justinian, was it not?”The guide bowed with a flourish.“The most excellent Lord Ambassador flatters us with his knowledge.”Ibn-Ziad bowed; around him with a rustle and a hiss of silk the others bowed too.They moved on through the magnificent room.After the blasting heat of the day, the cool stone of the chapel made this space a blessed sanctuary.The marbles of the floor and the walls were wonderful in themselves, dark brown veined with white and gold in the exuberant patterns of nature; God’s paintings, ibn-Ziad thought, sentimentally.In cases of glass and polished wood, set around this room, the relics of the Imperial collection were displayed, chips of bone and wood surrounded by goldwork and enamel, little vials of crystal clasped in filigree, all set off on cushions of velvet and subtly lit by lamps whose direct glare, shielded off by screens of perforated gold, was reduced to a reverent glow.It was this that was most Roman, to ibn-Ziad: these small masterpieces, this attention to detail, this elegance.They went from one case to the next; sometimes he let the guide talk, but usually he pushed himself forward, delighted with what he knew, and expounded at length on the finding of the True Cross by the mother of Constantine the Great, and on the miracles wrought by the little bottle of the Virgin’s Tears, stoppered by a huge diamond.The others listened with such attention that he felt himself released from all inhibitions; he knew himself the most assured of orators, and when he was done, they burst into applause, and he felt the heat rising into his face, and could not restrain his smiles.But when they had seen everything, and the others were gathering at the doorway, ready to be whisked off to another gathering, ibn-Ziad went back by himself, and stood looking through the glass at the wonderful reliquary of the True Cross: a tiny replica of the chapel itself, with doors that really opened, and goldwork so ornate and finely done he had to squint to make out the details.While he stood there, Prince Constantine came up to him, and stood waiting, a little to one side, to be noticed.Ibn-Ziad turned to him, smiling.“Good afternoon to you, sir.I trust you have some happy news for me?”Constantine’s mouth curved into a grin, and he winked.“I have the girls, the room, and the wine.When will your official duties be over?”“Ask the Parakoimomenononono.”Constantine laughed outright; the two men shared another knowing smile.Ibn-Ziad straightened, putting his shoulders back, his head high; it soothed the lingering bruises in his pride to make fun of the Parakoimomenos, and he turned to look for the tall eunuch in the crowd that still filled the far end of the chapel.Suddenly something else, something much more vital and amusing, leapt into his mind.He turned to Constantine again.“That race—remember? You told me—some Arab team is coming to race in the Hippodrome?”“‘Some Arab team.’ I did not tell you.”“One of you did.” Ibn-Ziad plumped out his chest and bounced on his heels.“From Caesarea, it is.”“Oh, yes.”“Well, I have engaged the Augustus in a wager.That ought to make the moments with her more compelling, don’t you think?”Constantine grunted.“You’ve bet on the Caesareans? How much?”“Unimportant.I gather I shall not lose, in any case?”But Constantine did not smile reassurances at him; Constantine was frowning.“I’m sorry?” Ibn-Ziad said stiffly.“I’ve erred, in some way?”Constantine shook his head.“No, of course not.A wager is a wager, isn’t it? Gambling’s a matter of taking risks.”“I was under the impression that this Arab team would sweep all before it.”Constantine’s eyebrows jerked up and down over his nose.“The Caesarean team is in the race with Ishmael—Mauros-Ishmael, you saw him, yesterday, do you remember? In the Hippodrome, the blacks and greys.”“Ah?” Ibn-Ziad said, alarmed.Who had told him of this race? He could not remember; someone had told him that the Caesarean team would surely win
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