by David Capel
I shrugged and turned and walked out of the room towards the front door. She followed for a moment and then stopped to watch me leave. As the servant let me out she called once more, too loudly for the enclosed space, “Remember, Alexius is still there. I can’t recall the letter. He’ll be expecting you if you need him.”
γ
As I strode down the street away from the Ducas house something jarred in my mind. I was angry with myself for showing my weakness. But that was not it, there was something else. Her reaction was desperate, almost pleading. But it was not my forgiveness that she begged for, but my compliance.
‘As usual,’ I said aloud to myself, as I strode down the rutted pavement and shook my head as if I could rid myself of the conversation that way.
It was as I approached the Mese that I first had an inkling that there was something wrong. The hairs at the back of my neck rose, caused by what I could not say. It could have been a too regular footfall behind me in the quiet boulevard – too soft, too steady – but I could not say exactly.
They should have waited until I was on the crowded avenue where I would have noticed nothing.
Walking round the City in those days you were always slightly on your guard. There had once been municipal lighting on some of the wider thoroughfares, but this was long gone by my day. From dusk, the only light came from windows or the private lanterns lit by shopkeepers, taverns, or the wealthier households.
The City had not yet fully recovered from the time of the Arab siege. That time, many generations before, had been the low point in the fortunes of the Roman state. That disastrous conflict, with the loss of half our provinces, had taken its toll on the City and reduced it to a series of small villages, clustering round their monasteries, or the great church and palace by the old Acropolis.
And yet at its peak, in the days of Justinian, when Roman arms had triumphed from Arabia to the pillars of Hercules, the City had nearly filled the great expanse encompassed by the mighty walls that stretched from shore to shore some two miles from where I now hurried through the gloom.
As a result, these days the streets were littered with ruinous empty spaces – abandoned houses and half built shacks between them, the lurking place of beggars, aliens, and thieves. The spaces immediately inside the walls were now open fields and orchards. We called it the Chora, and at night it gave refuge to a whole variety of humanity – mendicant monks, refugees from the wars, runaways and mutineers.
Most of the time, as a young man, you were safe, particularly in daylight and among the more populated areas. But there was always an edge to the City, and it paid to be alert to danger.
It struck me that if someone was following me they would be unlikely to begin by chance in an exclusive street such as that where the Ducas family lived. In that case I might be a specific target rather than a random victim.
I don’t know where such lucid thoughts came from, but this logic suggested that the way home might be a dangerous one, so at the Forum of Theodosius I quickened my step and headed straight on in the direction of the Great Palace. When I reached the other side of the square I looked behind, and there they were, two men, one clearly pointing in my direction.
I hurried down the Mese and then ducked into a narrow street to the left and sprinted up it. To my great misfortune there were no further turnings left or right for a hundred paces or more, and when at last I dodged through an archway to the right, I could already hear the pounding of booted feet behind me.
I was in a narrow lane of houses, their upper stories nearly touching in the overhanging space above me, and though there were few people at this hour to hinder me, the paving was broken and slippery with mud and slops. I was panting, my chest heaving to draw air into my lungs, and as my pace slowed I risked a glance behind me. There were now three of them, less than forty yards behind, and I felt a surge of panic and adrenalin and ran on as fast as I could. I skidded into a small square that I recognised – by God I had covered nearly a mile already – and I knew that the old Cistern precincts were somewhere to my left, which mean that the Great Church was not far beyond. If I could just reach it there would be a multitude of priests and guards, and I could maybe find sanctuary.
I sped across the cobbles to the other side and aimed for a narrow alley that I was sure would lead me to safety. But as I reached the shadow of its entrance I was struck by a sudden blow, as if a bull had hit me on my left side. My body flipped over, my head span round and a searing pain shot through my hip as I crashed to the ground. I had run full tilt into a cart or barrow in the gloom, and it had felled me like an axe blow. Too late I scrambled to my feet, my hands slipping in the ooze, but before I was half way up I felt a stunning blow to my ribs. I fell forwards flat onto the hard street and the wind was driven out of my chest. There followed a rain of kicks to my back and kidneys. I yelled and tried to curl into a ball but strong hands hauled me to my feet, near choking me on the neck of my tunic. I glimpsed a brutal face, scarred, with shaven hair and then I was doubled over in agony by a massive punch to the stomach. I toppled over again, and the punishment continued.
For a few moments there was a shocking lack of noise. My ears were filled only by my own heavy grunts of helpless pain. And then – horror – the thrilling sound of steel on scabbard rang out, and I caught the stinging flash of a metal bade in the half-light.
Fear surged through me, but I could not move or speak, overcome by a throbbing, noiseless pain in my head, and then the scarred face knelt over me, framed by his two fellows behind.
He held me down with his knee pressed into my ribs, which I thought would crack under the pressure. Then his hand came into my line of sight, holding a cruel, jagged blade, which he raised slowly to my face until I could no longer focus on its glint. I closed my eyes, but to my horror he clamped his thumb and finger over my right socket and forced apart my eye lids so that I could only stare up at him.
He groaned in apparent lust and satisfaction.
“No, please, what can I do…?” I gabbled, and my voice broke in terror.
Then there was a searing, red hot pain, but instantly I knew that he had cut my cheek to the side and my eyeball was safe for the moment.
He bent his face to my ear and I smelt his foetid breath.
He hissed something in a foreign tongue – “Pagare la debiti!” – and I twisted my head aside in shock, and felt the cold stench of ordure against my jaw. Then the pressure was suddenly lifted, and I saw the three shadows draw back. In panic I staggered to my feet and hurried away from them through the agony, desperate to escape, sure that they would be on my heels in an instant.
I was almost mad with pain and fright. Nothing like this had happened to me before. The street robberies that I had on occasion heard of and half feared had sounded far more tame than the shocking reality. I stumbled on, my mind loosened by fear, hardly knowing where or who I was.
I rounded another corner and beheld a mighty building before me, lit from within like a furnace. Stupidly, I ran towards it full pelt and without slowing through the vast portal of the greatest structure on earth.
For some reason the guards did not at first apprehend me, and I staggered as if in a trance under the golden arches and semi-domes to the colossal space at its centre. I dimly heard shouts of alarm behind, but before they could reach me I fell to the ground and rolled onto my back. At last I dimly recognised where I was, strange though it looked in the evening half-light, and empty of the monkish pageantry that was usually on display to visitors. Before I fainted I beheld the image of the face of God, suspended high above in glory looking down upon me in Saint Sophia, the Church of Holy Wisdom.
**
I had quite forgotten about the Venetian. There was really no question of collecting the money I owed him quickly or easily given my new circumstances, and I suppose my mind had naturally postponed this uncomfortable truth for active consideration. After all, I had even more important matters to think about.
I quickly came round
, lying there on the floor of the Great Church. My face stung like fury, but I kept my eyes shut, enjoying the feeling of relief that swept thought me, and listened to the conversation of the small group now clustered around me.
“Get him out of here!” said a surly voice, and I felt strong hands seize my feet.
“No, wait,” said another, younger, but authoritative. “Can’t you see his clothes? This man is no drunk or beggar. He has clearly been attacked. Look at the state of him! He was probably taking sanctuary here.”
Then, presumably to the man who had grasped my feet, “It’s Harald, isn’t it? Carry him over there, into the side aisle. I will fetch some wine.”
“Yes, sir.” I recognised the rough accent of one of the Varangians that guarded the Church and Palace. Someone hooked their arms under my shoulders and I was lifted and carried bodily for a short distance. They lay me down once more, gently enough, and I opened my eyes once I sensed I had been left alone. I was in one of the shadowy aisles to the side of the great space under the dome of the Church. I could hear the murmur of prayers accompanying one of the endless services somewhere in the huge building, and the hollow echoes of whispered voices chased each other across the shimmering gold-vaulted cavern above me.
I tested my limbs one by one, and all seemed to be in working order despite the pain. As the relief and adrenalin ebbed away, it was replaced by a deep sense of self pity. I considered with bemusement the recent events that had overtaken me. The brutality of the thugs who had chased me. The tired resignation of my mother. The disdain of Maria. The serpent coldness of Nikephoritzes. Was it he who had set the brutes to track me down? No, that was the Venetian trader, judging by the foreign words, whose meaning I could guess at, but how had he known my whereabouts? Were the two somehow connected?
A thrill of fear coursed through me once again. I felt like a puppet, at the mercy of fate and the whims of others. And then my feelings changed. First there was resentment, at those who would use me, combined with a feeling of shame, that I would allow myself to be thus used.
In a moment of clarity I realised what must be done. I would ride out and confront my destiny myself. Dangerous it may be, but with the help I apparently had on offer, and the country swarming with Imperial troops, there could be no better time. My mother – and indeed Nikephoritzes and Maria – were right. I should sort out my – our – affairs for myself. And besides, staying in the City was not an option. With Italian thugs scouring the place looking for me, I may as well be at the mercy of the Turks. There was no way I could afford to repay the Venetian before he left, and my new mood made me inclined to leave him the poorer. He had probably cheated anyway. I was reminded of the drink. Had it been drugged in Maria’s house? Were all these events somehow connected? It was an uncomfortable thought, but it seemed implausible, so I shook it off.
In that moment of lucidity that often follows a crisis, I thought of Maria herself. I had been angry with her that evening, and I knew my anger stemmed from frustration that I could not win her for myself.
I had known her properly for five years now, ever since she had arrived from Georgia as a bride for Michael Ducas. She had lived briefly in the City as a child in the household of the old empress Theodora, but had returned to her native land after just a few months when the empress died. By chance I had played with her in those days, being the same age, and Maria had remembered my name.
So she had summoned me on her return to the City years later, as the only person she knew, and I dare say I had proved more entertaining company in those early days of her marriage than her milksop of a husband. I had just come of age, and was throwing myself enthusiastically into a life of fashionable debauchery, a world she loved to dip into as much as decorum allowed.
Maria was captivating company for me, and no doubt for many. But as I lay there in the great church I saw that it was not love for her, but lust for her beauty that had affected me these last years. And there are two ways to conquer lust. If it cannot be assuaged, it has to be forgotten, through absence if not abstinence.
So to stay was to diminish. In clinging vainly to the wreckage of my old lifestyle I would attract only contempt from others as well as myself.
It was with these resolute thoughts that I gazed up at the shimmering images of saints and emperors, their stern faces shifting amidst the burning gold mosaic in the dim candlelight. There my kindly priest found me, and like the good Samaritan eased my hurts with wine and cloth to staunch and clean the wound on my cheek.
“You’ve had a nasty scrape, young man. What happened to you out there?” he had a pleasant voice, with a rather distinctive, sing song accent that sounded familiar.
I gave him a brief description of my flight and mugging, without the detail of who might be behind it.
He tutted. “It’s a shocking thing to have such thuggery in the streets of the Holy City! I’m afraid that you can’t stay here for long. But when you have caught your breath I can help you to our quarters where we have a small dormitory for travellers. You’re welcome to rest there until daylight. Can you move?”
I assured him that I was in full working order, and determined to reach the safety of my house that night.
“Well in that case you must have an escort. These Varangians are good for nothing but standing around, I’m afraid, but there is a young monk here who I will send with you.”
I thanked him gratefully, and gingerly got to my feet. “Incidentally, where are you from?” I asked. “I seem to recognise your accent.”
“From Dalmatia. You must forgive my poor Greek. My first language is Italian.”
“Not at all. It is I who must ask your forgiveness, for disturbing your evening devotions. I am greatly in – how do you say it – la debiti!”
He looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled. “No, that would mean ‘the debts’. What you mean is vostro debito. But don’t worry, you’re not!”
δ
At the time I wondered if there might be a difference of dialect between Dalmatia and Venice, or wherever my attackers came from. But when I asked some Italian merchants I accosted at the Julian harbour below our house the next day, my fears were confirmed. The grammar was the same, at least in respect of that simple phrase.
That suggested the people who attacked me were not Italian, but were pretending to be. So I deduced, but the exact implications of this I could not fathom. It could mean that Amando, or whatever the man’s real name was, was not directly responsible for setting the thugs on me as a threat to me to pay my debts. Or at least that he was a stooge. But in that case, who was behind it?
I remembered the wine and my drunkenness on the night I had played and lost at tabula. Had I been drugged to be certain I would gamble rashly and lose? It seemed entirely possible. If that were the case I faced an alarming prospect – someone was prepared to go to considerable lengths both to impoverish me and threaten me so that I would want to leave the City and would need money at the same time.
That pointed to the eunuch Nikephoritzes. He certainly had the ruthlessness to set me up, and he wanted me to carry his letter for him.
But what about Maria? She too had tried to persuade me to leave. I remembered the pleading note in her voice. Had she known about the muggers too, been trying to protect me from them? It was possible, of course. But I could not bring myself to suspect her of being fully complicit in the assault, despite my internal rejection of her.
Either way, I reflected that if powerful and unscrupulous people wanted me to do something, it would be perverse and dangerous not to obey their wishes. After all, both Maria and Nikephoritzes were right in one thing. I had to go East anyway, and if they wanted me as a trusted courier I had no reason to deny them one.
Knowing that my assailants had a false identity changed nothing. If anything it reinforced the urgency of my departure.
I woke the next day feeling battered but purposeful. My mother was shocked at the state of my face when we met over breakfast. The cut on my cheek I had w
ashed once more with alcohol, but it had swelled up nonetheless into an angry red welt and gave me a gruesome appearance. It was matched on the other side of my face by a black eye. Mother was even more disturbed at my change of plan, and I surmised that the best way to deflect her concerned enquiries about my injuries was with a rush of activity, followed swiftly by departure. When I explained that I would be in the care of Comnenus and his troops she saw that it would if anything be safer for me to leave the City. I hinted that my attackers seemed to know me (or at least my movements) but did not broach the subject of their suspect knowledge of Italian, nor the possible link with the Venetian trader.
So I had no desire to postpone my departure, let alone walk the streets. My encounter with the ‘Italian’ thugs had quite unnerved me. But I had just the gumption to walk across to the house of Nikephoritzes in Blachernai to claim his funds and letter of introduction.
Blachernai was becoming fashionable among a certain type of grandee who liked to marry wealth with discretion. The villas of the new rich spread out among the orange trees near the Imperial residence on the Land Walls there. It was not an area I frequented, but I could see why it suited Nikephoritzes. It took me some time to find his house, which was set amidst some shady lanes overlooking the Golden Horn. Here you could almost forget you were in the metropolis. A high, blank wall was pierced by a single narrow gate. It was locked, so I knocked at its oaken panels with my fist. Almost instantly a narrow window in the door opened, and a pair of eyes looked at me suspiciously.
“I’m John Lascaris. Here to collect something from the Praetor Nicephorus.”
There was a brief pause and then the door opened wide. A young slave beckoned me in.
“The Praetor is not here,” he said, “but we have been expecting you. Please come in.”
He had a breathy, high pitched voice and I realised with a slight shock that he was probably a eunuch like his master. He led me down a covered path, paved with cobbled black and white mosaic. On either side were the shrubs and flowers of a mature garden. On my left was an awning under which sat a grotesque figure. For a moment I thought it was a statue, but then it shifted in its stool and stood up.