The Mosaic of Shadows

by Tom Harper

  Sigurd slowed his horse so that I came up beside him. ‘I should be sallying out of those gates at the head of my company,’ he muttered. ‘Not skulking around the enemy’s flanks.’

  ‘A glorious battle is what we hope to prevent,’ I reminded him. ‘And in any case, the flanks are where the enemy are always weakest.’

  ‘Not so weak that six men and a corpse can turn them. Look.’ Sigurd pointed his axe to our right, and a wave of apprehension coursed through me as I saw a score of the barbarian cavalry galloping towards us. Sparks flew where their horses’ hooves struck rocks, and their spears were couched low.

  ‘We can outpace them,’ I said, glancing towards the hill where the barbarian captains stood. ‘These beasts were bred for speed.’

  ‘We can outpace them,’ Sigurd agreed, ‘but we would only spur ourselves into the end of the sack. There is a company of spearmen on that hill, and it will take more than half a dozen post-horses to break their line.’

  I looked back to the approaching horsemen, who were now fanning out to envelop us. Battle would be futile, for they outnumbered us four to a man: even the Varangians would succumb against those odds. Reaching under the ill-fitting mail hauberk I had hurriedly pulled on at the palace, I felt for the hem of my tunic and tore at it. A thin strip came away; I knotted it about the end of my sword and waved it desperately over my head, shouting the one Frankish word I had learned. ‘Parley! Parley!’

  Thankfully they did not carry bows, or they might have brought us down before ever coming into earshot. But the brevity of their weapons, and the unlikely threat that our gaggle of Varangians posed, drew them close enough to hear our vital pleas. I saw their leader slow his steed, and cock an ear to what we said, while his men spread into a loose cordon about us.

  I looked to the interpreter, who seemed struck dumb by our situation. I doubted he had ever expected to be plying his trade in the midst of a battlefield.

  ‘Tell them that we ask for a parley,’ I shouted to him. ‘Tell him that we come from the Emperor, that we must see Baldwin or Duke Godfrey.’

  Somehow the interpreter found voice to stammer a few words in the Frankish tongue. The barbarian listened impassively, his face masked by the thick cheeks of his helmet, then answered brusquely.

  ‘He says he will not take us to his captain,’ the interpreter told me. ‘He fears we are assassins.’

  I reversed my sword, and let it fall from my hand. It stuck upright in the soft ground, the white ribbon on its blade flapping weakly in the breeze.

  ‘We are not assassins.’ Though it would have been of little use against their spears, I felt exposed without my sword, but I forced calm into my voice. ‘Tell him to take this to Baldwin.’

  I withdrew the monk’s garnet ring from my pocket, where I had carried it so many months, and threw it to the Frank. His hands were clumsy in their mail gauntlets, and he almost dropped it in the mud before trapping it against his saddle.

  ‘Tell him that I have news of Odo the monk.’

  I could see nothing of the barbarian’s thoughts, but I guessed he did not like this errand at all. For long, painful seconds he was silent, doubtless wondering whether he should slaughter our little band and be rid of us. Beside me, I heard the interpreter mumbling a plaintive Kyrie Eleison to himself, heedless of those around him.

  Christ have mercy. Christ have mercy. Christ have mercy.

  Without realising it, I had shut my eyes as I echoed the words of the prayer in my head. I jerked them back open, to see the Frankish leader passing the ring to the man beside him and barking a few short commands. The subordinate nodded, pulled his horse about and kicked her away along the ridge towards the captains’ standards. None of the other Franks moved, and their spear-tips never lowered so much as a finger’s breadth.

  I could not count the time we waited there, for every second seemed an eternity. On the plain before us the barbarian army had withdrawn a little distance, and my hopes rose that perhaps they had learned the futility of their assault, but it was only to regroup. Again they attacked, charging forward under a hail of arrows, their shields flat above their heads. I hoped we had stout men on the walls, for though our archers held back many of the horde, many more managed to raise ladders to the battlements and scale their heights. I imagined the legions drawn up in the city, swords unsheathed and bowstrings tight, waiting on a single command to throw open the gates and join battle. There would be a slaughter indeed if that happened, for even against our unyielding walls the barbarians were fighting like wild dogs.

  The clanking of harnesses on my left drew my attention away from the battle: four horsemen were approaching along the ridge, their leader riding a great bay stallion which I recognised from the ambush in Galata the day before. The Franks who encircled us moved apart as he cantered towards us, spear in hand, and it seemed for a moment he would charge us alone until he reined his beast in just before me, staring at the corpse I carried. Though his helmet covered much of his aspect, the death-pale skin it framed was unmistakable.

  I cut the monk free and let him drop on the ground. ‘This is the man you hoped would murder the Emperor and break open the city,’ I said, ignoring the echo of a hurried translation. ‘He has failed. You have failed.’

  A second man spurred forward. A few locks of fair hair crept from under his mail hood, while his face was grim. He spoke angrily to his companion, making no attempt to disguise his words from the interpreter.

  ‘Is this true, brother? Is this the man you claimed would . . .’ He broke off, aware that his words were heard and understood, and whispered urgently in Baldwin’s ear.

  ‘Duke Godfrey,’ I began. ‘Since you came, the Emperor has desired only peace and alliance, for all Christians to unite against our common enemies. Many voices in the city condemned him for his generosity, but he withstood them against every provocation. Even as your army assaults his walls, he does not retaliate with the full force of his might.’

  ‘Because he is a coward,’ Baldwin spluttered. ‘Because he knows too well the strength of Frankish arms against his rabble of eunuchs and catamites.’

  ‘Silence!’ barked Godfrey. The wind snapped at the great white banner with its blood-red cross which the herald carried behind him. ‘I never sought this battle, even when the king sent his mercenaries to attack us in our camp. For two days I have submitted to your demands, Baldwin, and the gates have not opened as you promised they would.’

  ‘Nor will they open,’ I pressed. ‘The Emperor has survived your plots, and will destroy you from the comfort of his walls if you do not abandon the battle now.’

  Baldwin’s eyes were black with hate, deeper than the depths of Sheol, but his brother was unmoved.

  ‘I will call back my army,’ said Godfrey, ‘if the Emperor will allow me to pass on to the Holy Land, where I have ever sought to go. There have been enough . . . delays.’

  ‘He will not let you pass without the oath,’ I reminded him. ‘But I am not the man to argue that with you. He will send an embassy to your camp tonight. You would be wise to let them approach unharmed.’

  Godfrey nodded, and without a word of farewell turned his horse back towards his captains on the hill. The company who had surrounded us fell in behind him, and I saw several galloping down the slope to take the news to their army.

  Baldwin, though, did not move away. ‘I do not know your name, Greekling,’ he hissed, ‘but I know there is no proof to a word you have said.’

  ‘Your brother’s response gives me proof enough.’ I sensed Sigurd raise his axe a little beside me, and hoped he would be quick enough if Baldwin succumbed to the desire so plain on his face. For the moment, though, the Frank saved his violence for his words.

  ‘My brother is a coward to match your king. Retreat and delay are his only strategies.’

  ‘Then he is a wiser man than you.’

  Baldwin’s spear twitched. ‘As wise as a Greek?’ He sneered. ‘Even if I had found this cruel little monk, and turned h
is murderous thoughts against his king, do you think that he alone could have opened your city? Do you think that I told him when the Emperor might walk within bowshot, or admitted him to the secret doors of the palace? Would he have assumed the throne when the Emperor was dead? Would I have even imagined turning my army against the city unless there were men inside – men of power and stature – who invited me?’ He gave a savage laugh at my stunned confusion, but before I could speak he had stabbed his spear into the monk’s broken corpse, so deep that it stuck in the mud beneath, and kicked his horse away.

  ‘Assume the throne?’ I repeated numbly. A terrible panic broke over me, choking my trembling limbs. ‘So there is an enemy . . .’

  Sigurd’s words echoed my own. ‘. . . in the palace.’

  The wind roared against us as we galloped across the plain, ducking our heads close against the horses’ manes and crouching in our stirrups to smooth our path. The barbarian army was in full retreat now, straggling back towards what remained of their camp. The weariness of failure was all about them, and none troubled us as we skirted their flank, racing towards the palace gate. I scarcely noticed them. One name alone was fixed in my mind, a looming horror of what he might purpose and the chaos which would ensue if he did. Several times my thoughts grew too terrible, and in frustration I kicked my unfortunate mount all the harder.

  ‘Look.’ They were Sigurd’s words, brought back to me on the wind, and I snatched my eyes from the ground before me to look further ahead. We were nearing the walls – I could see the black scorches where the barbarians had tried to burn the gate, the spent arrows and bodies littering the field. Some I recognised as cataphracts, great rents hacked into their armour, but most were Franks.

  ‘At the gates,’ Sigurd called, indicating with his fist. I looked, and for a second thought I would be pitched from my saddle, so slack did I slump. The gates had opened, and a great column of soldiers was marching forth: not stretcher bearers or gravediggers come for the fallen, but a full legion of Immortals arrayed for battle. Some of their out-riders broke ranks to spur towards us, but Sigurd waved his Varangian axe in the air and they slowed, hailing us with urgent shouts.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I demanded. ‘The Emperor gave orders that you should hold at the walls. The barbarians are broken, and you will only antagonise them by appearing in such force.’

  ‘We mean to do more than antagonise them,’ barked one, an officer. ‘The Emperor is dying, and we are commanded to rout the barbarians in their retreat. Against our cavalry, they will be like wheat in the harvest.’

  ‘Does the Sebastokrator command that?’ A great emptiness swelled within me: I had failed. The Emperor would die, and with him all hopes of peace with Franks, Turks, even among the Romans themselves.

  But the officer shook his head. ‘The Sebastokrator remains at the Regia gate, I think, waiting with the Varangians. He has given no orders that I have heard.’

  ‘Then who has . . . ?’

  ‘The chamberlain, or regent as he soon will be. The eunuch Krysaphios.’

  It was as well Sigurd could speak, for I was struck dumb. He pulled off his helmet and stared hard at the Immortal officer. ‘Do you recognise me, Diogenes Sgouros?’

  Though there was not an inch of his body not cased in steel armour, the Immortal still seemed to cringe. ‘You are Sigurd, captain of the Varangians.’

  ‘Do you doubt my loyalty to the Emperor?’

  ‘Never.’ Sgouros’s voice was fainter now. ‘But the Emperor is dying and . . .’

  ‘Dying is not dead.’ Sigurd rested his axe on the pommel of his saddle. ‘Do you remember the legend of the Emperor who feigned death to test the loyalty of his men?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember what he did to those who failed him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then unless you wish a similar fate, Diogenes, draw up your company here and do not move one pace nearer the barbarians until I or the Emperor himself bring word that it pleases him you do so. Do you understand?’

  Sgouros’s helmet seemed fastened too tight under his chin: he struggled to breathe. ‘But . . .’

  ‘If you fail, even witlessly, there will be a terrible vengeance,’ Sigurd warned. ‘And not the vengeance of the Komneni, too quick to forgive their enemies, but the vengeance of Sigurd, who has never yet forgotten a wrong. Will you risk that to prick at the heels of a few broken barbarians?’

  The throne in the great hall of the new palace was empty, the only clear space in the room. Every general and courtier must have had word of the Emperor’s wounds and rushed to stake their place in the succession – or to pray for his healing, as they doubtless later protested – for Sigurd and I could barely pry them far enough apart to push ourselves through. I searched desperately for Krysaphios, trying to pick out one sumptuous head among the golden throng, but it was Sigurd, with his height, who saw him first. He was standing near the throne in a circle of nobles, speaking pointedly and forcefully, though his words were lost in the din. His eyes darted over the surrounding faces, seeking out disagreement or disloyalty, and he did not see our approach until Sigurd pulled away a whimpering acolyte and loomed over him.

  ‘What did you do with the Immortals?’ Sigurd demanded. ‘Why, after the barbarians had surrendered did you order our cavalry to destroy them, when it was the Emperor’s dearest wish that they should be spared?’

  I saw Krysaphios glance to his side and tilt his head a little, as if beckoning someone. Guards, I guessed. ‘The Emperor is dying, and whoever succeeds him will rely greatly on his chamberlain as he accustoms himself to rule. If you disagree with my policy out of sentiment for a weak-willed fool, whose nerve failed in our darkest hour, you would do well to reconsider. I will have need of strong warriors when I serve the new Emperor, but only those who obey.’

  The circle surrounding him had eased a little, for many were clearly uncomfortable with our talk and uncertain where to display their loyalties. I tried to discomfort them further. ‘Did you ally yourselves with the barbarians from the beginning, Krysaphios? Did you really mean to give our empire over to their tyranny, until you saw just now that they were defeated?’

  Krysaphios’ cheeks swelled out like a serpent’s. ‘That is treason, Demetrios Askiates, and you will not escape its penalty this time. Nor will you have even the consolation of righteousness when your daughters are screaming in my dungeon, for none have worked against the barbarians more diligently than I. Would I give over the triumph of our civilisation to a snivelling race of animals, scarce fit to tup in the gutters of this city? I will be remembered as he who saved the empire, while the Emperor Alexios will be anathemised as a godless traitor, a lover of barbarians.’

  I heard a commotion in the crowd behind me: the eunuch’s guards, I presumed, coming to drag me away. Sigurd was lifting his axe, though he could hardly have wielded it in that room, but I was still. The jibe about my daughters had shattered my will, for they were still in the palace, and if I resisted the eunuch he would surely visit unthinkable horrors on them.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said brokenly. ‘Did the Emperor die of his wounds?’

  ‘He will.’ Krysaphios raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘We searched, but his physician could not be found to heal him.’

  The last words of his sentence seemed unnaturally loud, but it was only as he stopped that I realised it was because the rest of the room had fallen silent.

  ‘And who sent my physician away this morning?’ Though slowed with exhaustion, and more strained than before, the voice was undeniable. I forgot Krysaphios, and turned in wonder to the bronze doors. They were flung open, and between their mighty posts, leaning on a stick and with a bandage for a crown, there stood the Emperor Alexios.

  All in the room fell to their knees, then scrambled from his path as he advanced on the throne. He walked stiffly, and his eyes were clenched with pain, but his words rang clear as ever. ‘Who ordered the hipparch to send a hundred men when my brother ordered ten? Who
ordered the Immortals to massacre the barbarians when they had surrendered the field? Who now stands beside my throne and schemes to fill it with his puppets?’ He reached us, and I saw a phalanx of Varangians drawn up beyond the doors behind.

  ‘You are recovered, Lord.’ Krysaphios alone had not bowed to the Emperor, and he did not do so now. ‘Thanks be to God. But your mind is clouded. The daze left by the assassin’s blow cannot be bound up with linen.’

  ‘Nor can his spear-thrust, if there is no physician to call on. If the chamberlain has ordered him to count herbs in the Bucoleon while the Emperor lies bleeding. Thank God indeed that I found another in my palace.’

  At last I understood how the Emperor had outlasted the innumerable reverses of his reign, why his armies’ loyalty had never wavered in defeats which would have ruined his predecessors. Even now, limping and gasping, there was a power in his face which was more than mere authority: perfect certainty, the unanswerable knowledge that he would prevail.

  Even so, Krysaphios resisted it, flicking his eyes over the room in a search for allies. None showed themselves. ‘Lord,’ he pleaded, ‘let us not quarrel in victory. If I have erred, it was in the service of the empire. Surely such sins can be forgiven.’

  ‘You conspired with the barbarians to murder me,’ said Alexios. ‘You of all my counsellors. What did they promise you? That when they had sacked our city, and ravaged our women, and carried off our treasure, you would be left as their regent? Or did you think you could . . .’