[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.In Jerusalem once he and Rogerius had spent the whole night buying wine for a drunken monk, who repaid them with stories of giants and pygmies, black men and yellow men, men with two heads, men with their faces in their chests, men with one leg, who hopped about and when the sun shone bright held a huge foot over their heads as sunshades.The monster in the Greek story was less interesting.The crafty leader of the captive band burned out the giant’s eye with a fiery stick, and tying his men under the bellies of the Cyclops’s sheep, he got them past the monster and out of the cave.There were other Cyclops living nearby but the leader of the Greeks tricked the poor blind creature and no one came to his help.The poem ended in a patter of applause.Hagen turned to go, and then he saw Theophano.He stopped where he was.She was standing near the doorway to the old building behind the courtyard, with two or three other women.These women all moved closer together, and he saw that in their center was a man.Tall and massively built, the man came out into the courtyard, ignoring the women, who hung on him adoringly.Even Theophano was gazing on him with a look of rapture.Hagen grunted, half-amused; where was all that pride now? Having never seen Prince Michael before at a close distance, he recognized the man as much by his haircut as anything else; unlike the other men who wore their hair loose and flowing, this one had his head close-cropped, so that the charioteer’s cap would fit.Around his waist he wore the heavy golden belt of the champion.He paid no more heed to the worshipful women around him than to the air he breathed.Theophano gave up.Drawing back, she remained a moment with her wistful gaze upon him, her hands at her sides, and turned away.Watching from the shadows, Hagen thought she was the most beautiful of them all; had he been Michael, he would have taken her into the house and let her prove her adoration.Her black hair was gathered up in a cluster of ringlets at the back of her head, secured by a long ribbon that fluttered down over her shoulder.If he tugged on the ribbon, Hagen imagined, all that perfumed hair would come tumbling down—She felt his look upon her; she raised her head and saw him there.He backed up a step, embarrassed, as if she could see what he was doing to her in his mind.She was coming toward him.He began to move away, back into the darkness, but she smiled, and the smile held him.He stood waiting for her, at the edge of the shadows.Theophano crossed the courtyard, circling the people who listened to Romulos recite Homer; she wondered what Hagen was doing here.She realized she was foolish to believe he would stay neatly put away in the room she had found for him.If Michael saw him here, the Prince would chase him off.Michael never let strangers stay within the bounds of his palace.“Hello,” she said.“What are you doing here?”“Looking around.Should I go?”“Well—” She thought of the list he had; she should be trying to get it back.Not tonight.Tonight she wanted to do nothing but enjoy herself.“No, no,” she said.“Stay and have a cup of wine, listen to the poem.”“I’ve been listening,” he said.“Oh? Do you understand it?” She moved sideways a little, toward a stone bench under the trees, and he went with her.Perhaps he was lonely.She could give him a little companionship, she decided; after all, he had saved her life once.She beckoned to a servant with a tray of wine cups.Hagen sat down beside her.He said, “The Greek’s a little odd.It sounds beautiful.”“You think so?” That surprised her; it seemed a refinement beyond the barbarian mind.“Yes.But my sympathies are with the Cyclops.”“They are! But why?”“He’s a barbarian, like me,” Hagen said.“Oh, it isn’t like that.”At once she saw that it was, that poor old Polyphemus groaning in his cave was the popular figure of a barbarian, hairy and strong and stupid.“Nobody is killing me!” Hagen was not stupid; Hagen resented it, and with good reason.She wondered, unsettled, if she had been rude to him, condescending, and was ashamed of herself.She put her hand on his, where it rested on the stone bench, and sought words to make it better between them.“But you are more like Odysseus, aren’t you—wandering the world on your way home.” There, that would serve.She smiled, pleased with herself, her tact, her generosity.“Do you have a pretty wife at home, too, weaving all day and picking it out again at night?”Under her hand, his hand moved, turning over, and he gripped her fingers.“Why, are you looking for a man? I saw you trying for him.” He nodded out across the courtyard toward Michael.She yanked her hand out of his grip, her ears hot with embarrassment.“Michael doesn’t love anyone but his horses.”“Michael is a fool,” Hagen said.“You’re much prettier than a horse.” He caught her by the hand again, his long smile on his face, his eyes bright.“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” With some difficulty she freed herself from his grasp.“Who the hell are you?”Absorbed in the talk with Hagen, she had not seen Michael coming up to them; she started all over, and Hagen took her hand again.“Oh! Michael,” she said.“You frightened me.”The charioteer stood before them, his feet widespread, his chest thrown out, his hands on the golden belt at his waist.“Who the hell is this? What are you doing bringing peasants into my house?”Hagen did not get up; he sat there looking Michael over at his leisure, all the good nature gone from his face.Alarmed, Theophano got swiftly to her feet, remembering how on the porch of the church on the Chalcedon road Hagen had drawn his sword against four men.“Michael,” she said, “he is the guest of the Basileus—”“I don’t want the low-born here!”Hagen got up.He was even taller than Michael, seeming slender next to the Prince’s heavy-muscled chest and shoulders.He said, “What’s wrong, horse-boy—can’t you bear the competition?”Theophano pushed in between them, her heart pounding
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]