Chira found a small amphora, filled it with water, and carried it from the bathhouse to the stairs for the Empress’s apartments. Nearing the foot of the stairs, she encountered two armed Varangian Guards (for more on what we know of the arms and armor of this class of fighter, refer to Mortimer Shore’s MARS [Martial Arts Research Summary] #12). She approached them carrying the amphora. They challenged her in accented Greek; she identified herself as a new servant of Basina’s, sent to fetch her mistress scented water for a headache. The taller guard was about to let her go, but the shorter one expressed skepticism and proposed accompanying her back upstairs.
Speaking in what might have been a Norman dialect, the taller Varangian rebuked the shorter one. Chira cannot understand circa 1200 Norman, beyond some ability to pick out French and Anglo-Saxon loan words. Having been on this DEDE several times now, she is fairly certain that the topic of conversation was a woman named Candida. Body language, facial expression, tone of voice, and one unmistakable Anglo-Saxon word all suggested that the short Varangian was seeking an excuse to visit Candida in the middle of the night for the purposes of sexual intercourse, and that the taller Varangian disapproved of it.
The short, horny Varangian disagreed with this assessment and, as proof of its inaccuracy, suggested he remain below while the tall one accompany Chira upstairs to Basina. Tall one agreed to this and marched Chira up three broad, shallow flights of marble steps, finally arriving at tall, decorated double doors, visible as a tangerine-colored sunrise was coming in through windows overlooking the stairwell.
At this point, more Varangian Guards challenged them, speaking in Anglo-Saxon, which Chira also does not speak. After a brief conversation, during which Chira’s physical endowments were obviously being closely assessed, she and the tall Varangian were allowed into the antechamber of the apartments, made of marble with serpentine inlaid heavily in patterns on the floor; high ceilings; eunuchs in abundance. Chira was handed over to one of them, and tall Varangian was dismissed. The eunuch took her into a chamber with windows overlooking a courtyard.
This room had golden-tiled ceilings and smelled of incense. A woman in her early thirties (Basina) was in the central, extremely ornate bed; there were smaller beds along the walls, and four younger women dressed in long silk gowns were preparing Basina’s jewelry and wardrobe for her. They looked startled by the early morning intrusion. The eunuch presented Chira to Basina saying, “Your Ladyship, this woman was found by guards at the bottom of the stairs, claiming she was your handmaiden.”
Basina stared at Chira with a slightly mocking air, as if she could not believe an assassin had been stupid enough to approach from such a direct route. Chira met the look calmly, held out the amphora, and said, “The scented water for your headache, m’lady.” She spoke with a small reassuring smile, and then winked at Basina.
Basina showed no reaction at all to the wink. After a few more heartbeats, she instructed the eunuch, “Leave her here and wait outside.” The eunuch released her and left.
Before the door had closed, the four young women had surrounded Chira at a distance of perhaps a yard, each with a hand on the eating-knife at her belt (see Mortimer Shore’s MARS #19 for more on these; they are short blades, nominally for cutting food during meals, not considered weapons, but obviously capable of being used as such).
“What are you wearing under that?” asked Basina of the shift. “That’s from the bathhouse. I would never dress my servants so poorly.” She had a low voice and spoke slowly, sounding sardonically amused.
Chira set down the amphora and in one smooth gesture pulled the shift over her head; it dropped to the ground at her feet, leaving her nude. Basina continued to stare at her, now a little appraisingly. “I see,” she said. Her attendants sniggered slightly but she made a harsh, wordless noise of disapproval and they all instantly went silent. Finally Basina asked, “Are you a gift? Who sent you?”
“Someone who would be your friend,” said Chira.
Basina smiled, then chuckled like a contented hen. “Everyone wants to be my friend,” she said. “Most of them bore me.”
“I am sent from someone who will not bore you,” Chira said. “But I am under instructions to reveal more only when we are alone together.”
“We’re alone,” said Basina comfortably. “My women are nothing but an extension of me.”
Adopting a very gentle tone of voice—almost sympathetic—Chira said, “I have reason to believe that might not be true.” Basina frowned and sat up, throwing the sheets off of herself. The clutch of attendants stepped in closer and brandished their eating-knives.
“Who says so?” demanded Basina. Chira met her gaze and said nothing. After a long moment, Basina ordered her women, “Check her.”
Chira then submitted to a body cavity search, which was unpleasant but brief. Once they found nothing on/in her, Basina ordered the four of them out of the room. They protested, shocked and angry, but she grunted at them and they left.
When Basina and Chira were alone, there was a long pause. “I detect some glamour,” said Basina at length. “Who has Sent you?”
“Nobody you know, milady,” said Chira. “A company of good men and women who seek your aid. We are from far away, in every possible sense.”
Basina listened, took a moment—in general her movements and words were slow and languid—and then said, in a bored and long-suffering tone, “What is desired of me?”
“A clandestine introduction to a member of the court.”
“It is a rather large court, girl, can you be more specific?”
“There is a court apothecary who is also responsible for the maintenance of the herb gardens.”
“Let me guess,” Basina said with a throaty laugh. “Somebody wants kalonji. It’s always kalonji.”
Chira suppressed surprise and asked, “Who else wants kalonji?”
“Everyone. Every witch I’ve ever met, especially Franks, since nobody can seem to make it thrive in the north. Cyril Arcadius—the apothecary—would be a very wealthy man if he sold it. Then he could buy himself as many ladies’ favors as he liked.”
“He prefers the barter method,” guessed Chira.
“He finds it romantic.” Basina laughed.
“I’m prepared to barter,” said Chira. “This should be simple.”
“Honey-bee,” Basina said in a knowing voice, “nothing is ever simple.”
Although she was already fairly certain of what was coming, from her experiences on the first three Strands, Chira kept a blank look of innocence on her face and asked, “What isn’t simple about Cyril Arcadius?”
“He likes a witch to be performing magic—any little spell, nothing dramatic—while he is taking her. Makes him feel like he’s somehow part of the magic-making. It’s pathetic.”
This is not what Chira had expected, as on previous Strands Basina had simply alerted her to various peccadillos of the apothecary’s, none of which fazed her. This variation posed a serious problem, however:
“I am not a witch,” said Chira. “I can’t offer that.”
Basina shrugged. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I suppose I could be your proxy. If you will be my proxy for another matter.”
“Meaning?”