The All Father Paradox

by Ian Stuart Sharpe

  “Then we had best introduce ourselves at the palace,” said the prince and strode purposefully into the street.

  THE IMPERIAL CORTEGE ADVANCED IN steps, pacing towards the throne with infinite patience, the halls echoing with hymns of thanks and praise. At the centre of the procession sat Gregoras Chrysaphes, in Christ, Emperor and Autocrat of the Romans.

  He was flanked by men-at-arms, soldiers covered head to toe in mail so brightly polished that it was difficult to see the man they were guarding. The emperor was further obscured by the scarlet flags of his standard bearers and silver rods of the heralds, who in turn were surrounded by the pious crowds gathered in the Great Chamber. Hallelujah, intoned the cantors, time after time, a chorus echoing the soloist. The beauty of their voices was astonishing.

  “Bikkju-sonr,” Botulfr cursed.

  This didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. They had been carefully positioned by the door so as not to distract from the spectacle within. Five hulking Northerners and a slave-boy didn’t go unnoticed. Botulfr had tried to explain himself to the palace guard, but his halting Grikk had just resulted in the hasty summoning of the magistros. Askr had gracefully intervened and ensured that they gained entry to the auditorium—although the guards held onto their weapons.

  “What did you say to them?” whispered the prince.

  “I told the master that we were expected by the Bureau of Barbarians.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I am being serious. The bureau handles protocol and supervision of visitors. You wanted to be introduced. If you join the dance circle, you must dance. The bureau has spies everywhere. If they weren’t aware of our arrival, I’d be surprised.”

  “Spies? Who knew we’d arrived?” Botulfr scowled at Olaf, who had originated the whole expedition, but he just shrugged.

  Askr came to his defense. “In fairness, I only learned of it from the master and improvised from there. He’ll have scuttled off to find the logothete, a functionary who will have the ear of the basileus.”

  “The basileus?”

  “The emperor. The Grikkir call themselves the Rhomaoi, even though Constantine had moved the capital from Rome centuries ago, the official language changed from Latin to Grikk sometime after that, after the West had fallen to the Frakkar. With a stroke of a quill, the Imperium Romanum became the Basileia tōn Rhōmaiōn.”

  “With a stroke of his prick. I could end that old peacock before they could stop me.” Harald cracked his knuckles, while the rest of the hird tried hard to keep their composure. Ellisif looked pained and murmured to quiet them.

  Botulfr turned back to the hall and tried to relax. He felt oddly suffused in the chant. The cortege continued to step forward across mosaic floors strewn with laurel and ivy, the short journey designed to be as majestic and unhurried as the man on the throne. The intonations ringing all around were arranged for the same reason, a divine endorsement of his rule. The whole chamber was gazing at the emperor in rapt silence: senators, magistrates, monks, soldiers of the city watch, imperial secretaries and notaries.

  All except one.

  Harald had spotted him first and given the prince a hefty nudge to attract his attention. On the far side of the chamber, nestled in between soaring columns, embroidered curtains, and gleaming silver plates was a tall figure who stood apart from the dignitaries and patricians. Most of the men wore short red woolen capes, pinned at the shoulder, but this man wore a long, loose-fitting robe adorned with green eagles, like a Tork kaftan. Even at this distance, there was hint of something menacing about his eyes. They were as piercing as a hawk’s, even under the heavy hoods of his eyelids. The man disappeared for a while, lost in the crowd, then appeared again behind them, close to the huge golden organ that the Grikkir used to serenade the heavens.

  The man beckoned them over, away from the procession to a nearby vestibule. He spoke in almost-perfect Norse, in a deep baritone voice.

  “Allow me to introduce myself: Gilpractus, Logothete of the Course. We are glad you have come to pay your devotions to the emperor, it is quite delightful if unexpected. However, you must be dressed suitably for the occasion.”

  Some servants milled around, offering garnet tunics, with roses embroidered across the shoulders and cuffs. The Grikk official watched as they changed, his eyes a calm sea of deepest blue. Gilpractus was so assured and graceful it was impossible to argue, even though Harald clearly wanted to. Once they were in suitable attire, the logothete bowed deep and low in formal greeting, as if seeing them for the first time.

  “How is the most magnificent and most noble and distinguished Archon of Thule? How is your father, the fylkir, and his council of jarls? I am sorry the chartulary was unable to receive you in the harbour. Did anything unfortunate or distressing occur on your journey? Leave cheerfully and delighting in the fact that today you dine with our holy emperor.”

  At first, Botulfr tried to gather a suitable reply, but as the words tumbled towards him regardless, he realised he wasn’t required to answer any of the questions and that his host was effortlessly reciting a formula. Protocols had been adhered to, even if they threatened to disrupt the orderly and elegiac proceedings behind them. Having drifted through the address, Gilpractus allowed himself a sigh of what must have been relief.

  “Now, please join us and implore the mediation of Our Immaculate Mistress, the Mother of God, both for the cause of God and the life of the emperor.”

  The hird were steered forward, and for the rest of the interminable ceremony, Gilpractus stood immediately behind them. Botulfr had to keep his head fixed forward for fear of revealing his crushing boredom. The Grikk capacity for tedium was staggering.

  Eventually the emperor stepped to the dais, although he still paused for one last prayer. Botulfr found it hard to imagine that this solemn and ponderous ritual occurred before every imperial audience, but it was an impressive display of the empire’s supreme power, a reminder that Gregoras was the inheritor of the ineffable glory of God, that he was the viceroy of the Saviour. That he owned the gilded cage.

  “O Mother of the God of Love, have mercy and compassion upon me, a sinner and a prodigal. Accept this prayer which is offered to thee from my impure lips; and thou, being gracious and compassionate and tender-hearted, be thou ever present with me in this life as my defender and helper so that I may turn aside the assault of my enemies and guide me into salvation.”

  The prayer complete, the crowd were then led in cheers and proclamations, which provided enough noise to allow Askr to provide some translation into the prince’s ear.

  “You who have been chosen by divine election, to the concord and exaltation of the world; you who have been married into the purple by God and so on and on. It is all just hot air.”

  “Who or what is the Archon of Thule? I have this terrible feeling they have mistaken me for someone else.”

  Askr laughed. “It’s just what they call us. They can’t address you as the Prince of the Storm Hall without implicitly acknowledging our gods, so they stick with ancient forms of address. Allows them to keep the heavens in order. A place for all things, and all things in their place.”

  Botulfr looked towards his wife, who returned his gaze steadily. Her disguise had all but disappeared with the change of dress, but she didn’t look concerned. The silence that followed the hymns seemed as unearthly as the chants themselves. He turned back to the stillness of the great hall and looked around. The whole charade was preposterous, but still, with so many complicit courtiers, it made Uppsala seem an empty shell.

  The emperor sat, and his priests placed the imperial diadem on his head; a crenelated crown, profusely adorned with pearls and jewels, lappets gleaming from his temples to his cheeks. The logothete ushered the hird forward and urged them to kneel. There really was no other choice. Three others approached first, showing the customary reverence, and so the Northmen tried their best to imitate them. Now cloaked in the imperial purple, Gregoras beamed a welcoming smile strai
ght at his guests.

  “Arise, Varangoi! Today is a blessed and auspicious day. I have a feeling we shall be great and fast friends. Now, which of you is Gog, and which is Magog?”

  THE BANQUET WAS A LAVISH but confusing affair. Everything was made of gold: the couches and chairs, the tablecloths, even the food was served in golden bowls, so heavy they had to be hoisted onto the table by servants using ropes and pulleys attached to the ceiling. Anything that wasn’t gold was either red or purple.

  The hirdsmenn had evidently shaken any discomfort they felt earlier and were gorging themselves as if it were the last food and drink they might ever see. Botulfr didn’t begrudge them; the journey had been a long one, the meals infrequent and meagre. He was used to eating with his fingers or from a knife, but Botulfr noticed all the emperor’s men used long forks and spoons. There was nothing on the tables that was unknown in the North, but foods that were rare delicacies in his father’s halls were here in abundance. There were wheels of cheese; piles of figs, walnuts, almonds, chestnuts, and pears; a fat goat stuffed with garlic, onions, and leeks; eggplant and spinach steeped in fish sauce. There were the sweet and strange smells of peppers, cinnamon, vinegar and cumin; copious sweet rice dishes made with milk and sugar; unleavened cakes soaked in honey; free-flowing wines spiced with aniseed or pine resin. They ate until they were fit to burst.

  Gilpractus found them huddled in a corner. One of the host of servants bobbing at his heels politely coughed to attract their attention, while his master coolly surveyed the scene.

  “Honoured Archon, the great and high emperor who sits on the golden throne will grant you an audience shortly.”

  Olaf fell mockingly to one knee and offered a hand to Gest.

  “What did I tell you, farmboy? Wag your tail and yelp loud enough, and they’ll raise you up! These Grikkir have mistaken you for someone who matters!”

  Askr also started with theatrics, sweeping into a bow that looked quite dangerous in the ill-fitting Grikk garb. He answered for the group, replying in Grikk, explaining that they would all be honoured. The logothete immediately shook his head.

  “The Emperor of the Romans will see the Archon of Thule alone. Your skald is welcome to join my secretary and peruse the library. The rest of you too, if you wish. Your good lady wife might wish to pray at the Monastery of the Peribleptos?”

  Harald was not to be dismissed so lightly a second time. He towered above the crowd, splintered a glass goblet and pointed at the food. “Do you teach your goats to swim in this land? There is enough oil to drown a whale!”

  The logothete smiled thinly.

  “My apologies if the food is not to your liking. As your arrival was somewhat unexpected, I am told we were not able to provision appropriately. We have improvised as best as possible in the circumstances, given the necessity to… embellish. God clearly wishes to restore the dignity of your family, but, to be clear, since the Year of Calamity, we have received no formal embassies from Thule.”

  “The only calamity I know is this wine,” Olaf sniggered into his cup before draining it. “He means Sikiley. We fought there against the old emperor, Antiochus.”

  “Meinfretr,” cursed Harald. Stinkfart. “Why does no-one say what they mean?”

  The Grikk was still a model of calm and decorum, despite the antagonism.

  “Indeed, Antiochius the Bold was unable to gain the shores of the Catepanate of Italy, and the land was lost to us.”

  “Unable to gain the shores?” Gest was smirking too now. “The waves were so high it was as if Ægir were pouring out his wrath upon you, showing you from the very start that the Grikkir would not be successful. Never plan an assault when Loki’s Torch is rising in the sky. Some of the ships were lost, crews and all; others were dashed on the rocks and broken to pieces. We buried your dead with due rites, and ransomed you back the survivors.”

  “Thank you for the colour,” Gilpractus said, a mote of irritation creeping into his voice. “Regardless, your nation of pirates hasn’t treated with us since. Am I to assume you are sent by your father to return the territory?”

  This time, Ellisif answered for the prince, addressing the hawkish Grikk directly. “You know why we are here. To put an end to your meddling. Did you imagine that because some Northern cur took your bait we could be all so easily bought? My husband is a scion of Óðinn.”

  This made Gilpractus at least raise an eyebrow.

  “I am at a loss for your meaning, daughter. The Emperor of the Romans does not transact with the North. Paying your jarls and generals to leave us in peace only seems to encourage more of your kind. I once hired your kin as mercenaries to help reclaim land stolen by the Saracens, and you assumed the right to move onto it in their place.”

  Askr was first to respond, more heated than Botulfr had ever seen him. “If not your gold, then your god. If he does not tear down men’s homes, he ruins their minds, and then they tear them down themselves. We shall not kneel and pray.”

  Botulfr looked at the red faces of his hird. Their swaggering was becoming perilously close to swaying. He had the creeping realisation that they were more drunk than godsmen after a sacrifice. They were only going to get more belligerent as the evening wore on.

  One of the functionaries joined the fray. “Rest assured, there is no pig whose stink cannot be masked by the scent of holy oil.”

  Only Gilpractus remained unflappable. “And to think we have only just met! I imagine it must be so cold in the North that, unless you speak quickly, your tongues become frozen. We welcome anyone to renounce their demons and to be baptised in the name of undefiled, unstained, all-chaste and Pure Lady.”

  He held up his hands to wave away further comment and turned pointedly to Botulfr.

  “Honoured Archon. My distinguished predecessors thought it… inappropriate to allow vital aspects of the imperial glory to be mutilated, and so they embarked on a plan of impeccable order. We have provided the senatorial body and every subject with a suitable standard of life and conduct, as a result of which they should become better regarded and behaved, as well as beloved by their emperors, respected by each other as well as admired by every nation. A wise precaution, don’t you agree? Splendid. Then, if I might suggest you accompany me—alone—and we can discuss affairs of state in a more refined manner.”

  The logothete bowed and stalked away, replaced by a squall of lesser functionaries and menacing soldiers. Botulfr looked around at the hird, expecting them to look contrite, but if anything, they looked even more like wolves among the sheep.

  “Well, that went well,” he said as they all collapsed in gales of laughter.

  When the amusement subsided, Olaf offered some advice.

  “If the emperor offers you a sword on which to swear fealty, refuse the point and ask for the hilt. Tell him that it is our custom to pledge allegiance by touching it. As soon as you clasp hold, drive the blade through him.”

  The Grikk bureaucrats hadn’t a full grasp of the Norse tongue, but clearly understood the gestures the Norse had made. The guards shuffled around, nervously. Who knows what stories they told of the fury of the Norse?

  “Then sever his ribs from his flimsy spine and flop the lungs onto his womanly chest. A blood eagle to match his Roman banners.” Harald walked slowly to the nearest one, grasped him by the collar and belched in his face.

  “The only thing that has kept Miklagard from the same fate as Sikiley is that you have fortifications bigger than those of Asgard. I bet they cost the sun and the moon!” Olaf roared.

  The scene threatened to get ugly quickly, but Gest defused the tension by drawing out his harp and starting to sing. It sounded like a caterwaul in comparison to the choir earlier. The prince hoped it was because he was drunk and not because his ears had been corrupted by the Kristin God. Ellisif took his arm.

  “Go,” she said. “Discretion is the better part of valour. I will watch over the men here. Remember your mother.”

  She planted a kiss on his cheek, and wi
th that, Botulfr hurried after Gilpractus.

  “PEACE AND MERCY, HAPPINESS AND glory from the Aesir be with you, high and mighty Emperor of the Romans. Wealth and health and longevity from the north, peacemaking and good Emperor. May justice and great peace rise in your reign, most peaceful and generous Emperor.”

  Botulfr had practiced the formal greeting prescribed by Gilpractus, who insisted on the exact words. He’d managed the Grikk as best he could in the short space of time. Diplomatic form appeared to prevail over common sense in the East. Botulfr had refused to scrape and grovel further; there was a limit to the façade he was willing to put up with these days. He wanted to look his enemy in the eyes and understand the type of man he was.

  The hall was pierced by light from glorious windows; above the imperial throne was a glass image of Christ enthroned, while another over the entrance depicted the Virgin Mary; in between, the full beauty of the heavenly court, angels, priests, and martyrs was on display. Gregoras was arranged, very deliberately, at the epicentre.

  The poets called him Gregoras the Brave, a fitting epithet for a man at the pinnacle of his powers. The basileus was a greying but vigorous man, neatly bearded with near-set eyes, which, as soon as they focused on Botulfr, seemed to sparkle with delight.

  “Come, my boy. Let me look at you. Bronzed and strong, a veritable Achilles. Young too, barely any down on your cheeks—Patroclus then! Such harmony of limbs and features; why, not even Apelles could have sculpted something so entrancing. As a newly-shod emperor, I might have done such things but, forgive me. An old cat always hungers for tender mice. I understand you are married?”

  He was as effusive as he had been during the ceremony earlier, almost the opposite of the restrained logothete, and had an impressive command of the Norse language. Botulfr barely had time to nod before the emperor gushed on.