Beyond that must lie the rooms of the Permanent Legate. Seen from the square outside, the front of the Legation was symmetrical about the dome. Seen by day from my window, the right enclosing arm of the Legation looked in much better order than the left. I couldn’t gain access to it but I supposed here was where the Legation did its work.
An elongated square of light played on this right arm. I couldn’t see its source because of the dome. But there was a lit room on the other side of the dome from where I was standing.
The idea was one of those things that pops fully formed into the consciousness. Without realising it, I must have been going over it as I stood there. But all I can say is that one moment I was thinking nothing whatever, and the next moment I had the plan complete in my mind.
If the Permanent Legate wouldn’t call for me, I’d go calling in my own way.
About eight feet above me, the balcony was part shaded by a ledge that jutted out from the base of the parapet wall. It was covered in lead sheeting, so far as I could tell, and ran along that whole line of windows. I could see that it sloped very gently down away from the wall, so rainwater could be collected in a gutter along the edge and carried off to downpipes.
There was an abrupt narrowing and increased sloping as the original parapet was broken by the dome. But a ledge seemed to extend all round the dome. Though I couldn’t see what lay on the far side, I could see it continuing along the right arm of the Legation.
When I had finished the jug of wine, I stripped off and laid my clothes carefully on the little couch against my office wall. Then I went back on to the balcony and looked up.
Making sure nothing was likely to give way under me, I climbed on to the balcony rail. This got me up about chest height to the ledge. The slope was noticeable and I’d need to take care not to fall off. But bare, slightly moist feet on eighteen inches of heavily weathered lead give a reasonable grip.
I hauled myself up and, facing towards the dome, lay on the lead sheeting. Though the sun was long down, it still gave off a faint warmth. I could now see that the sheeting was covered in places with raised layers of shit where birds had gathered. For the most part, however, the lead shone white and smooth in the moonlight.
It didn’t matter how hard I pressed the right side of my body against the parapet wall, still my left shoulder and my left arm hung over the edge. I kept myself stable by resting my left arm very lightly on the lead guttering.
Lying flat on the ledge, I twisted my upper body out over the balcony. I gripped the outer wall of the gutter with both hands, and carefully lowered my head and shoulders. So long as I kept enough body area in contact, the sloping was no cause for instability. The lead of the guttering was thickly folded, and held my weight without buckling. Without any risk of sliding forward, I was able to look through the top part of the window and into my office. Bathed in the pool of light thrown out by a single lamp, my desk and the papers on it were clearly in view.
I got up and, keeping the front of my body close against the wall, edged sideways along the ledge all the way to the dome. I had a slightly queasy feeling as I left the safety of my balcony. There was nothing now beyond that eighteen inches of lead but a thirty-foot drop to the gardens. But those eighteen inches seemed fully sufficient to keep me safe.
Passing along the ledge around the dome was harder. It narrowed to about nine inches here and sloped rather more. Far worse, the moonlight showed me that the lead was rippled in places, the underlying material having crumbled.
As I stepped up on to the ledge I told myself not to look down into the darkness where the moonlight didn’t reach. Arms spread wide, my body pressed forward against the lower convexity of the dome, I slowly and very carefully continued edging to my left.
Once or twice, I stretched my left foot down into nothingness. The ledge had crumbled, and the lead had sagged downwards. This explained the damp patches on the inside of the dome. It probably also explained the musty smell in some of my unused rooms.
The moon was now rising higher and I could see by twisting my head that the breakage in any one place was no more than a foot or so. I could step over it and be on a firm surface again. The lead was raised here and there, and my weight pressing down flattened it with a gentle creaking. Again, the lower walls of the dome were thick enough to prevent the noise from carrying inward.
The arc of the dome must have been only two or three times the straight length from my balcony, but the distance must have taken five or six times longer to cover.
At last I was through. Panting from the careful effort, and slightly shaky from all the risk, I stood still for a while on the firm and wide ledge that, as I’d expected, ran along the other side of the Legation.
I’d never have got this far from my suite inside the building.
Taking care not to make any additional noise, I got down on my hands and knees and inched along the ledge. Seeing a dim light within the first window beneath me I lay flat and took hold of the lead guttering. Making sure not to bend what was here fairly soft metal, I pulled myself over and down and looked briefly in through the lit window.
15
It was a smallish room – about half the size of my office – and fitted up as a chapel. There was a silver crucifix on the altar and icons of Saint Peter and of the Virgin covered the plain walls. At first I thought the man praying by the altar was Demetrius. He was about the same age and had the same bald patch.
It was hard to tell in that light whether the man was naked or partly clothed. The wide circle of darkness on his back might have been a piece of cloth, or it might have been some peculiarity of the skin. His outer clothes lay beside him in a crumpled heap. He knelt on the plain wooden boards, his arms raised in a prayer of intense devotion.
The man held himself so still that he might have been a statue. I watched him awhile, then grew bored. I hadn’t risked my life to see someone saying his prayers. And the withered flesh of his back and buttocks was about as diverting as an empty wineskin.
Just as I was about to pull myself back on the ledge, the man groaned. ‘O sweet and merciful Mother of God,’ he cried softly, ‘take this cup of bitterness away from Thy servant.’
He repeated the prayer, and again. Then, still on his knees, he twisted round to his left. It was now that I saw his huge erection. Throbbing, foreskin retracted from the swollen glans, it jutted upwards from the dark tangle of his crotch.
It was Antony, the legal official. But for the fact that he would tell us bugger all about the set-up in the rest of the Legation, he’d been about the friendliest of the officials. Now, I could see a wild gleam in his eyes.
I resisted the urge to pull myself out of sight. Unless he was looking, it was doubtful if he’d see me. He’d more likely notice the sudden movement. For the moment, I held still.
Antony stretched over to his clothes and took out a pouch of polished but very soft leather. It was about the size of a small correspondence bag. He kissed it reverently and turned back to the altar. He held it up before the crucifix and prayed again.
‘Lead me not, O Lord, into temptation,’ he said over and over, an edgy, fanatical note coming into his voice.
At last, he untied the bag. From it he produced a small corded whip. He held this up for Divine Inspection. It was one of those nasty things with sharpened iron triangles that you use as a last resort on your slaves. He kissed the handle and, with a melodramatic flourish, pulled himself upright on his bended knees.
‘Sweet Virgin, give me strength to resist and endure,’ he snarled through clenched teeth. With a sudden hiss of leather, and the staggered smack! of iron on flesh, he took the whip to himself. With wild force, bearing in mind his awkward position, and obviously much practice, he struck again and again. His prayers rose to a loud babble as he tore lumps out of himself and the blood ran freely down his back.
It was now that I realised the dark patch on his back was the scabbed-over effect of previous devotions. Those vicious bits of iron had the sca
bs off in an instant, and were ripping into already raw flesh.
Well, this had made the trip worth the effort! I’d not be telling Martin about it for fear of imitation, but I watched in fascination.
Indeed, as I watched that frenzied performance, I felt myself coming up in sympathy. For all he was no looker, the man was putting on a fine performance. You’ll pay through the nose to see anything half so good in a brothel.
I unclamped my left hand from the gutter and pushed it under my belly, down towards my crotch. With a horrid fright, I found myself sliding forward. One moment, I was as stable as if back in my bed. Another, and I was in free movement. I tightened my right grip on the gutter, trying to stabilise myself with brute strength. That stopped the sliding. Instead, I began to roll on to my left side. With my head and shoulders already hanging over the ledge, I was barely an inch short of rolling straight into the darkness. If the lead guttering held, I might be able to swing myself into the chapel.
Otherwise, it was the darkness.
Just in time, I got my left hand back on the gutter. My body pitched to the right. I was stable again.
I pulled myself up and lay flat along the ledge. What had looked wide and solid from my balcony now felt like a tightrope. The hundred or so yards back to the balcony stretched into as many miles as I lay shaking and sweating. For the first time, I wondered how I’d get back. Crawling on hands and knees had been easy enough. How to stand up again and turn with nothing but a blank wall to steady myself?
But I forced the thought from my mind. So long as I kept my nerves steady, I’d find my way back. I’d just have to be more careful.
Looking back into the room, I could see that Antony had given up on the scourging. He was now lying on his back, scrubbing the boards with his tattered flesh. A real enthusiast, I can tell you, would have had a dish of salt handy. As it was, those boards must have hurt like dry buggery.
Gasping with passion and at the terrible pain, he smashed hard with the whip handle on his balls and his continuously throbbing erection. It was all to no effect – or it was to none he might have admitted. With a despairing but subdued wail, he went off like an enema syringe. It was an impressive sight. Then, with a convulsive heave, he was over on his front. He buried his head in his clothes and sobbed disconsolately.
‘Oh, filthy, filth of filthiness,’ he mumbled into his clothes. ‘How shall I ever look back from the Jaws of Hell?’
Still erect and throbbing, his cock poked out from beneath his body.
‘Yes,’ I thought to whisper into the room – ‘Get out more often!’ But I resisted the urge. In his present mood, he’d probably think it was the Virgin herself giving him advice, and there was no telling what mischief I’d inflict on the streets.
I could have stayed to watch more of the tears and broken prayers. But I was still getting over my fright, and Antony had turned to slobbering over some relics. It was plain I’d seen the best he had to offer. Time to move on.
I continued along the ledge. The other rooms I passed below me were dark and silent. It was beginning to look as if that singular wank was all I’d see tonight.
But no – from the very last room before the right-angle turn to the left, I could see a flood of light. That was surely what I’d seen from my balcony. I positioned myself above and prepared to look down.
Before I could get my head down to look in, I pulled sharply back.
16
‘My dear Silas, if I can’t bring you to sympathise, you might at least take into account the problems we face.’
It was Theophanes, though it took me a moment to recognise the voice. His Latin had none of the ceremonious courtesy that it usually had with me. Instead, it was rapid and colloquial. He was standing by the window directly beneath me. He was so close, I could have reached down and touched his elaborately styled hair.
Another voice spoke indistinctly from deep inside the room. I couldn’t catch the words, but the voice was one of those affected noble drawls you still occasionally heard in Rome when I was young.
This was His Excellency Silas, the Permanent Legate to the Emperor of His Holiness in Rome. I badly wanted to twist down and get a look at him, but with Theophanes walking about the room, it was best to stay fully on the ledge and listen as well as I could to the conversation.
‘Can you imagine what it’s like to collect taxes when there are no taxpayers? To direct armies and ships that have their only existence on a sheet of papyrus? To govern cities that are for the most part become heaps of stinking ruins?
‘The revolt got up by the Exarch of Africa has brought on a crisis. Even if it can be handled, it has forced us to an awareness that we cannot continue indefinitely to act on the assumption that the plague of seventy years ago was a problem no worse than the barbarian invasions of the West.
‘We now have a solution to the problem. For the first time since we deposed Silverius, it is a solution that involves the Roman Church. You will soon not be tacking in your usual manner between increasingly ludicrous definitions of the Creed that only involve us in endless difficulties.’
There was more mumbling from inside the room. I could catch something like one word in three. But it brought an explosion of rage from Theophanes that left its meaning as plain as if I’d heard it all.
‘In private, Silas, let us be plain. Heresy is whatever your man in Rome declares it to be when the Greek and Eastern Churches disagree. And you support one side or the other exactly as suits your temporal interests. At least when there was an Emperor in the West, he only intervened in our affairs with some regard for the Empire as a whole. I increasingly think you people will only be happy when there is no Empire at all, and you can lay down your law among the successor kingdoms of the East as you are doing in the West.
‘But’ – his voice fell – ‘we now have an agreement that gives you what you want and safeguards every legitimate interest of our own.’
His voice rose suddenly to a strangled shout from deeper in the room: ‘So why are you doing your personal best to ruin everything? Aren’t we giving you enough?’
Delivered in a faint whine, there was more from Silas.
‘There is nothing more to discuss,’ Theophanes snapped. ‘The matter is fully agreed.’
Another reply, then Theophanes spoke again:
‘So far as they can be, the Lombards are squared. The Franks will not intervene. I have done what I can here to ease matters. For the rest, I look to you and yours.’
Outside on that ledge, I fought to control my breathing. There was no doubt I’d stumbled across something important. The question was what?
But that’s the problem with eavesdropping. If you don’t hear the beginning, you probably won’t understand all of it. What I did hear, though, knocked out every theory based on what I’d been told earlier. That was a lie for public consumption. Theophanes wanted people to think there was some difficulty with the Perman ent Legate, and that I was its cause. So far as I could now tell, there was an underlying agreement. The two of them, plus the Dispensator, were all in this together.
But what was this? If I’d been able to catch more than the occasional word in reply, it might all have made more sense. But the Permanent Legate was stationary on the far side of the room, and mumbling away like an adulterer at confession.
Why was he pretending to have withdrawn? Why had he let Theophanes in to lecture him? What was this deal? And where did I come into it? If I wasn’t needed to negotiate anything or to be an excuse for others not to negotiate, why had I been sent here? Why was I in so much danger?
I checked my thoughts. Did I now hear a mention of my name?
‘You will leave him also in my hands,’ Theophanes replied, a very hard tone in his voice.
Something now from Silas in a nasty voice, and an affected laugh.
‘I don’t care if he is!’ Theophanes said. I could almost hear the impatient wave. He moved back to the window. ‘Like most others of his sort, he was brought up a beer drin
ker, and he still drinks wine as if it were beer. As for what you call orgies, I have no doubt this Legation has seen worse.
‘Whatever the case, he’s no fool. I saw straight through your Dispensator on that point, and I’ve now had over a month of personal observation. If he is to be of any use at all, he will need careful management – and that must come entirely from me.’
Theophanes moved deep inside the room. I think he stood opposite the Permanent Legate, but his voice came up to me clear though faint.
‘I grow tired of the repetition,’ he said, impatience now mingling with contempt. ‘Justinus told him nothing. The boy didn’t even touch the letter. As for Justinus, he was in a coma when he arrived at the Ministry. I left him dead in his cell. Had he spoken, it would be different. But his letter said nothing to the uninitiated.
‘So long as you stay locked in here, Silas,’ Theophanes said with finality, ‘your safety is guaranteed. But withdrawal means total seclusion. You will not receive anyone but me. You will not receive the Master of the Offices. You will not receive Phocas himself, should he come calling. You will certainly have no dealings with that lunatic Priscus. If he comes knocking, you will send at once for me.
‘You will remain out of sight. You will also ensure that Dem etrius does not leave the Legation. If I see him in public, I will have him taken in and flogged.’
‘You’ll do no such bloody thing!’ The Permanent Legate’s outburst came clearly through the window. Theophanes brushed him aside.
‘I do not want any repetition of the game you tried with such idiocy to play in Ephesus,’ he said flatly. ‘If the report of the investigating magistrates hadn’t landed first on my desk, you and I might have found ourselves swinging side by side from the City walls.’
Terror of Constantinople Page 11