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"He's a pisser, that one," Scaurus' raffish neighbor said admiringly as the
Amphitheater exploded with glee. Balsamon, as was his way, flowered in the
applause. He was much loved in the city, and for good reason.
The mimes darted under the Amphitheater for a change of costume. The first one
to re-emerge stepped forth in the furs and leathers of a nomad, with a silver
circlet on his head to show he was of some rank. He prowled about fiercely,
brandishing a saber and ignoring the hisses and catcalls that showered down on
him. Those turned to cheers when another actor came out wearing imperial
raiment. But he took no notice of the nomad, turning his back on him and
staring off into the distance.
More fur-clad actors emerged, three of them pushing a covered cart over to
their chief. He scowled and gnashed his teeth at it, whacking it with the flat
of his blade.
There was a flourish of trumpets. Out from the runway strutted a tall man in
outlandish military getup, followed by four or five more wearing less splendid
versions of the same costume. Marcus frowned, wondering who these apparitions
were supposed to be. Their shields were taller than they were. . . . The
tribune leaned forward in his seat, feeling his face grow hot.
The pseudo-legionaries far below marched very smartly, or would have, if they
had been able to move more than three paces without suddenly changing
direction. After a while their leader literally stumbled over one of the
mock-nomads, which produced a good deal of startlement and alarm on both
sides.
The Yezda chieftain pointed to his cart, then to the figure of the Emperor,
who was still aloof from it all. After some comic misunderstanding, the Roman
leader paid him a gigantic bag of coins and took possession of the cart.
Pantomiming falls in the mud, he and his men wrestled it over to within a few
feet of the Emperor.
Marcus' heart sank anew as he watched the mock-legionaries curl up for sleep
around the cart. As soon as they were motionless, the four men inside, dressed
Namdalener-style in trousers and short jackets, tore the cover off, scrambled
out, and danced a derisive jig on their backs. Then, kicking up their heels,
they fled for the runway and disappeared.
Still with his back turned, the actor in imperial robes gave a great shrug, as
if to ask what could be expected from such hopeless dubs as the ones he had to
work with.
The tribune looked at Thorisin. He was laughing now. So much for Nepos' warm
words, Marcus thought.
"There's more coming," the little man next to him said as the Roman rose from
his seat.
"I'm for the jakes," Scaurus mumbled, sliding crabwise toward the stairs past
the row of drawn-up knees. But he did not stop at the latrines. Pausing only
to drain another cup of new green wine, he hurried out of the Amphitheater.
The crowd's snickers burned in his ears. They would have laughed louder yet,
he thought, had the mime troupe known the whole story.
It was nearly dusk; men were lighting torches round the Amphitheater. They
crackled in the wind.
A cheese-paring of moon sank over the palaces. Marcus started back to his room
in the Grand
Courtroom, but changed his mind while he was still in the plaza of Palamas.
Tonight he needed more of the grape, and every tavern in the city would be
open to oblige him.
Turning his back on the palace complex, Scaurus walked through the forum and
east along Middle
Street. The thoroughfare was nearly as crowded as the plaza. He kept one hand
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on his belt-pouch;
there were more thieves in Videssos than the one he had been sitting by.
The granite pile that housed more government offices, the archives, and a
prison took up most of a long block. As the tribune passed the massive
building, he heard his name called. His head spun.
Alypia Gavra waved his way as she came down the broad black marble steps
toward him.
He stood frozen in the street a moment, while revelers surged round him. "Your
Highness," he managed at last. Even in his own ears his voice was a startled
croak.
She looked about to see if anyone in the crowd had heard him, but no one was
paying any attention.
"Plain Alypia will do nicely tonight, thank you," she said quietly. She was
not dressed as a princess, but in a long, high-necked dress of dark green wool
with rabbit fur at the sleeves and collar. If any-
thing, she was more plainly gowned than the women around her, for she wore no
jewelry at all, while most of them glittered with gold, silver, and precious
stones.
"As you wish, of course," Scaurus said woodenly.
She frowned up at him; the top of her head came barely to his chin. "This [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]