The Connoisseur

Chapter 13 - Tears and Wine

“You hail from Constantinople, Excellency?” asked a merchant sat opposite them in the immense hall.

“Indeed, sir,” Sophia heard Alexander say, over the noise of the hundreds of other diners.

“But your companion does not have the look of a Greek,” said the merchant.  “From which country do you hail, good lady?”

“Britain,” said Sophia.

“My apologies,” said the merchant, leaning forward, “But did you say Britannia?”

“Oh.”  Sophia wrenched herself back into the moment, making eye contact with her questioner.  He was gawping.  “Yes.  Yes I did.”

“By the fires, I had thought that isle the far end of the world!  It is a land of barbarians, no?”

“Only on Friday nights.”

“I do not understand.  Does that night have some significance to your gods?”

Sophia knocked back a goblet of wine.  “You could say that.”

The merchant seemed to give up after that, and returned to conversing with Alexander.

They dined within the royal palace itself, in a massive chamber of sandy rock lit by great shafts of light from high windows and huge burning braziers.  Great banners in a rainbow of colours tumbled down the pillars, and above the top table hung a glittering crown, so large that it could not possibly be worn, which glittered with jewels and burnished gold.  Beneath it was the new King of Persia and in his hall were hundreds of diners, feasting on the delights of the land of the Tigris and Euphrates: dishes of lamb and olives, pomegranates and raisins, almond and walnut pastries, all accompanied by Ramian wine.

Alexander had led her there once the procession in the city had ended, but they had not spoken much to one another since.  Sophia picked at her food, and looked around the hall.  It was awesome to behold, but she felt no giddiness as she stared around once more.  Something of the wonder of the place had gone.

How?  A tremor shook her.  Her I am, she thought, sat as a guest of a King of Persia in the year 531 AD – and I feel sadness.  She felt like an alien in their midst.

She listened to Alexander’s conversation with the merchant.  They spoke of the wars of Emperor Justinian, the scholarly works of Boethius and Aryabhata, and the religions of the Christians, the Jews, and the Zoroastrians of Persia.  Never once did Alexander sound out of place.

When Sophia thought of him talking to her over pasta in a cheap Italian restaurant, two and a half thousand miles and fifteen hundred years away, she felt tears welling in her eyes.  She immediately stood.

“Sophia?”

She ignored him and walked straight out of the chamber.  She hurried through the glorious corridors, past the guards in their gleaming armour, and out into the open air.

The late summer sun was beginning to set.  The palace was raised above the rest of the city; Sophia walked to a balcony and stared out over the lush royal gardens, the outer wall, and the spread of Ctesiphon before her.  The Tigris glittered and cedars swayed.  She didn’t cry, but she could still feel her tears waiting to fall, trapped behind her eyes.

“Haján?”

Sophia whirled around, wiping her eye.  Before her stood a small, young woman with dusky skin, wearing a simple blue tunic and a soft turban.  She carried a wooden bowl of fruit.  She stared up at Sophia with a caring expression.

“Were you crying, haján?”

“No, no.”  Sophia looked away. 

When she dared to look back, the woman smiled kindly.