HE restless stirring of the city had not penetrated to the palace. Late that afternoon the courtiers still sat under the awnings about the fountain that tossed its scented spray into the hot air of the central inclosure. Some of them diced or gossiped without energy. The yellow marble walls still gave out the heat of the sun's rays, and it was pleasant to sit in the shade and do nothing.
Imperial guardsmen in silver scale-mail and gilt leggings chatted at the foot of the long stairs that led from the court of the fountain to the emperor's chambers, which were on the side farthest from the land.
They greeted familiarly the slender figure of the Arab hakim, Abu Bekr, in his immaculate white cotton robe and hood, as he made his way into the presence.
“Thanks to thine arts, the Most Magnificent gains in health.”
The Arab brushed his fingers against his forehead, and answered enigmatically.
“What Allah hath done is well done.”
He passed through the outer corridors, and salaamed low at the threshold of the chamber that opened upon the balcony over the sea. A glance at his patient showed him that Lascaris seemed comfortable.
At that moment the emperor was talking with several nobles who had made the journey from Nicea to greet him. But he soon tired of that, and Abu Bekr asked them to leave the sick man. Then the physician felt Lascaris' pulse, and squatted down on the carpet by the couch, thrusting his hands into his sleeves, dignified and silent.
“Recovery is sure?” questioned the emperor, who spoke Arabic well.
“What is written may not be changed, O King of the age. But all the signs are favorable.”
“Now am I at ease,” Lascaris fingered his thin lips. “Thou, hakim, and the girl Rusudan cause me no anxiety. The others all come to beg for something.”
He gazed at the Georgian captive with pleasure, because he took delight in beauty and knew it when he saw it. Often he had thanked the gods that Choaspes had seen fit to make her a hostage. He did not quite know what Choaspes planned to do with the Georgian, but it was advisable not to have a young woman in the throne of one of the most warlike of the frontier peoples and, besides, he might arrange a marriage for her—with a Greek.
And he wondered what Rusudan could find to think about, as she sat by the window of the balcony, watching the water with eager eyes.
“The wine, Rusudan,” he said.
After a moment's hesitation, she rose and went past the giant Ethiopian who stood, motionless as the onyx pillar of the doorway, with his hands folded on the hilt of a bared simitar. Whenever any one entered or left the chamber the negro moved his head a little and looked at Lascaris. But he had grown accustomed to the Georgian and he did not move as she brushed by him, merely breathing deep, as a dog does when half asleep.
She filled the emperor's goblet from a jar brought by a little deaf-mute girl, and at the same time the domastikos, who was the chamberlain of the palace, offered her the tray with Lascaris' supper. The sick man had asked for seasoned food, and the tray held a dish of rice curry.
Rusudan smiled, because the domastikos, in his high cap of cloth-of-silver and his curls glistening with oil always amused her. Since she had the favor of the sick emperor, the officials of the palace always bowed profoundly to her and addressed her as Kyria.
“It is a wonder,” murmured the Greek, “that any woman should have such color without henna stain, and such clear eyes as the most fortunate Kyria.”
Rusudan looked at him without answering and the Greek seemed uncomfortable, perhaps because she gave the silver tray to the little girl to hold. While she knelt by the couch beside the deaf-mute slave Rusudan's thoughts went out to the water. She did not taste the wine as she usually did before Lascaris drank of it. And as soon as he had emptied the goblet she hastened to the window.
For an hour that afternoon she had watched Hugh in his skiff, not daring to go to the balcony while the eyes of the Greeks were on her. His face had changed, and in his sheepskins he must have looked to the guards like a fisherman.
But Rusudan knew him by the turn of his head, the thrust of his powerful arms and his way of lifting his chin. Not many rowers dared come near the palace, and no fisherman would have sat calmly when a cross-bow bolt whipped past. Rusudan hardly breathed, until he had drifted out from the rocks.
Even then she fastened her eyes on the skiff, noting greedily every swing of the man's shoulders, every slight motion that might mean he had seen her, though he could not have done so within the chamber, at such a height.