"We must think carefully," my mother said, her voice more lively than it had been since my father first took ill. "We must look at the character of the girl, at who her relatives are, at-"
"Her dowry," Stephen the Persian put in.
My mother nodded, albeit reluctantly. "That does matter, but less here than it would in another marriage. If the Emperor must depend on his wife's bride-portion for what he needs, the Roman Empire has fallen on hard times indeed."
"True," Stephen admitted, "but, everything else being the same, more is better than less. Gold never goes to waste." Yes, he was one of those who spoke the word "gold" as another might say "God." I noted that then, and put it to use later.
"I shall inquire," my mother said. She had something to do now, some direction in which to go. The smile she gave me was wan, but it was a smile. "Is there anything more, Emperor?" It was the first time she called me what I now was.
I shook my head, dismissing her and Stephen. Having given them a purpose, I soon found one of my own, the one I had rejected before. Soon, I was frolicking with one of the blond Sklavinians, not Irene, but another one. If I was to be restricted to a wife thereafter, I would enjoy myself while I could.
One thing I quickly discovered: when the bridegroom is to be the Emperor of the Romans, every family in the city has an eligible- indeed, an ideal- daughter, or imagines it has. Some of these my mother quickly eliminated from consideration. No, I did not want to marry the headsman's daughter; or a screaming harridan of thirty-five who remained unwed and undoubtedly virgin because every man who got near her had fled in terror; or a girl who, although of the requisite age and social standing, had the misfortune- or the greed- to be wider than she was tall.
"She would not suit you," my mother said seriously, speaking of this last candidate. "There are appetites, and then there are appetites."
I stared at her. It was the first time I had ever seen, ever thought of, her as a woman rather than merely as my mother, the first time I truly realized what losing my father meant to her. Not knowing what to say, I kept silent.
Over the next few weeks, she and Stephen the Persian winnowed the list down to three. "Among these, I cannot choose," she said. "Best you should meet them all, and pick which one suits you."
And so I did. Zoe, the daughter of Florus the patrician, was like the general in being clever and plainspoken. Unfortunately, she also looked like him, and Florus, while fearsome to his foes, was also fearsome to behold. I was sure Florus's status and her own good sense would get Zoe a match one day, but it would not be with me.
Anna was the daughter of John, the eparch of the city. But, although John had the brains to administer Constantinople, a quarter hour's conversation convinced me Anna had none in her head or concealed anywhere else about her person. She was pretty and well made, which tempted me, but, before making up my mind, I decided to see the third of the girls my mother and the parakoimomenos thought a possible match for me.
Before I did meet Eudokia, I teased my mother, saying, "This whole business reminds me of the way I'll choose a new patriarch when old George dies. The synod of bishops will send me three names, and I'll pick one from among them."
"Choose wisely then," my mother answered. "Choose wisely now, too."
And so I met Eudokia, the daughter of Philaretos. Her father was count of the walls, the officer in charge of maintaining the Long Wall, the fortification protecting the part of Thrace nearest Constantinople from barbarian attack. Philaretos was a less prominent man than either Florus or John, which had advantages and disadvantages both. While he brought less influence than either of the other two men, he was also less likely to get above his station and think that being father-in-law to the Emperor entitled him to conduct himself as if he, not I, ruled the Romans.
I dined with Philaretos and his family in the tribunal of the nineteen akkubita, a ceremonial hall that, Stephen the Persian assured me, had been built in the reign of Constantine the Great. The count of the walls was bluff and affable, his wife Marina plump and pleasant. Her father having lately died, she and my mother, who were about of an age, commiserated together.
Philaretos also had a couple of sons, one older than I, one younger. Neither of them said much; no doubt they had been told to keep their mouths shut unless I spoke to them. Beyond bare politeness, I did not. I was more interested in their sister.
Eudokia was close to my age: half a year younger, it turned out, when we compared birthdates. She was less lushly put together than Anna, but far from displeasing, unlike poor homely Zoe. Her hair was dark, like her father's, but showed little reddish glints when the lamplight shone on it. Her eyes were an interesting color, somewhere between brown and green; I wondered whether Philaretos or Marina had a Sklavinian or a German down near the roots of the family tree.
She said, "Thank you for inviting us into the city, Emperor. Because of my father's post, I come here less often than I would if I could." When she smiled- not brazenly, but not as if in apology, either- she showed good teeth. I liked her voice, too: not squeaky, not raspy, but smooth like well-aged wine.
"But do you come less often than your father would like?" I asked. "Out in Thrace, you have less chance to spend his money."
"If you marry her, Emperor, that'll be your worry, not mine," Philaretos said with a laugh: more than most men would have dared, sitting where he was.
"He'll be able to afford it better than you can, Father," Eudokia said, which was also daring- though certainly true.
The feast, and the talk afterwards, went on longer than they had when I was meeting Zoe or Anna. The servants kept bringing in wine, and we kept drinking it. Philaretos did a hilarious impression of a Bulgar with a hangover. Even my mother and his wife, in mourning though they were, laughed till they had to hold on to each other to stop.
When, sometime close to midnight or perhaps after it, we rose from the table, Eudokia said, "Thank you again for inviting my family and me here, Emperor. I enjoyed myself."
I realized I had enjoyed myself, too. I had not particularly expected to; I had looked on the dinner as something I needed to do, not something I wanted to do. A woman with whom I could enjoy myself- if that was not a recipe for a wife, what was?
My mother was in a sour mood the next morning, probably from too much wine and not enough sleep. "Are you trying to imitate Philaretos's Bulgar?" I asked, and won from her half a smile. Then I said, "Of the three of them, I choose Eudokia."
That did lighten her mood. "Oh, good," she said. "I hoped you would, but I wondered if you would rather have Anna because of her looks. Not that Eudokia isn't a nice-looking young girl," she added hastily, as if afraid she might make me change my mind.
"I like the way she smiles," I said.
"The night I met your father, I was too nervous to smile," my mother said; by the look in her eye, that night was very close to the present in her mind. "He forgave me." She seemed to come back to thinking about me. "May God grant you and Eudokia many years, many children, and much happiness." She crossed herself. So did I.
God has His own purposes. He must weigh the happiness of my family against other matters in His scales, and find it comes to not so much. Of course, He has all of His plan before His eyes at all times, where for us humans it unfolds bit by bit.
MYAKES
Justinian hit too close to the mark there, Brother Elpidios. And he didn't see all of it, though he heard the last. Anastasia had to witness every bit of that house's misfortune, right down to the end. I wonder how she bore so much sorrow, and what happened to her at last. So many things we never get to know.