Mine was of some fine white stuff, with a red cross broidered on the right shoulder.

Stauracius, the eunuch and great minister, who had been ordered to act as my god-father, rode alongside of me on a mule, because he dared not mount a horse, sweating beneath his thick robe of office, and, as I heard from time to time, cursing me, his god-son, and all this ceremony beneath his breath.

On my other hand was my god-mother, Martina, riding an Arab mare, which she did well enough, having been brought up to horsemanship on the plains of Greece.
Her mood was varied, for now she laughed at the humour of the scene, and now she was sad almost to tears.
The streets were lined with thousands of the pleasure-loving people of the city, who had come out to see the show of the Empress going in state to the cathedral.

They were gathered even on the flat house-tops and in the entrances to the public buildings and open places.

But the glory of the sight was centred, not about me, with my escort of guards and chanting priests, but in Irene's self.