Byzantium - A Novel

by Michael Ennis

  ‘So a peasant feels his lot is bettered by becoming a serf on the estate of a Dhynatoi rather than owning his own farm.’ Ostenson shook his head. ‘Then this tax gatherer is one of the bloodsuckers who are turning these soldier-farmers into slaves. No wonder the Emperor wishes to make an example of him.’

  Mar grinned. In the matter of thinking like a Roman, Ostenson was a newborn. ‘The obvious deduction, which you must never make if you wish to fathom the Roman mind. It is not the Emperor but the Dhynatoi who have sent this wretch to us, bundled up with a dozen more tax officers from other districts and themes. The Dhynatoi wish to make an example of them.’

  ‘Why?’ Ostenson looked like a boy playing his first game of draughts with a man.

  Mar’s lips contorted with sarcasm. ‘This pathetic fool officially protested that the two largest estates in his district were harbouring former peasant freeholders, now serfs on these estates, who had illegally surrendered their farms to the Dhynatoi. The local judge quickly convicted this troublemaker of fraud and extortion, and then the Dhynatoi sent him along to the Great City for Punishment, so that the message might be spread to overzealous tax officers throughout the Empire.’

  Ostenson was astute enough not to have to ask why the Emperor permitted the Dhynatoi to cheat him of taxes and soldiers. Instead he raised the less obvious question. ‘I’m not certain what our interest is in serving the Dhynatoi.’

  Mar nodded soberly. ‘As the thematic armies are inevitably weakened by the disappearance of the military freeholds, the Imperial Taghmata will increasingly require the support of foreign mercenaries in times of great need. And with my devotion to our Father the Emperor, and indeed to the ideals of Rome itself, I would like to see that the Roman army is served by nothing less than the finest warriors on the world-orb.’ Mar paused and flashed his perfect teeth. ‘Norsemen.’

  Ostenson looked down on the quaking back of John Choniates. ‘Then there is great worth in the punishment of this doubly cursed villain. What is the disposition of his sentence, Hetairarch?’

  Mar forked two fingers and pointed them to his eyes. ‘Take him to the basement of Numera Prison and blind him with irons. Then transport him to the Augusteion, chain him upside down between the pillars, and let the simple folk of the Great City show him their charity.’

  Ostenson jerked the whimpering tax collector to his feet and dragged him off. This departure was immediately followed by the appearance of a decurion of the Grand Hetairia who handed Mar a rolled and sealed document. Mar looked carefully at the lead seal dangling from the cord. When he identified the author of the missive, he flipped the seal contemptuously.

  Mar considered the Grand Domestic Bardas Dalassena, Commander of the Imperial Taghmata, to be, as Mar had once said, ‘a puffed-up, strutting cock who holds his position only because of the position he holds - bent over with his hands on his ankles - whenever the Dhynatoi request protection for their estates.’ The Grand Domestic had vehemently resisted Mar’s initiatives to recruit more Norsemen into the Roman army; his opposition not only reflected the traditional interests of his Dhynatoi sponsors but also his own conservative, defensively orientated approach to battle tactics. As Mar had put it, ‘Dalassena’s idea of an aggressive campaign is to bribe the opposing commander not to transgress Roman borders for a period of six months.’

  Mar ripped the seal off with irritation, expecting another protest about his petitions to expand the Varangian Guard. But his face settled into intense concentration as he unrolled the document and began to read. What was this? The Grand Domestic was proposing that he and Mar put aside their animosities and join forces to counter the precipitous ascent of Mar’s fellow Tauro-Scythian, Haraldr Nordbrikt. What? Mar had been nothing less than delighted by Haraldr Sigurdarson’s success; now the fugitive princeling could not only contribute his title to Mar’s ambitions but also his fortune. And why deprive the lad of any incentive to fatten his already considerable purse? Whatever the slave earns, the master keeps. Mar shook his head. Dalassena, he told himself, is a bigger fool than I had thought.

  No. No man rises to the rank of Magister without a modicum of cunning, even if he has only acquired his guile by aping the patrons whom he serves. No, Dalassena was not a complete buffoon; was he privileged to information Mar was not? Or was the intent here simply to burden Mar with suspicion? No, Dalassena was not that clever. The Grand Domestic’s concern probably could be taken on the face of it. But then who would be sponsoring Mar’s pet princeling behind his back? Not Nicephorus Argyrus; he was merely a grotesquely inflated merchant masquerading as a Dhynatoi.

  Well, such speculation was at this moment pointless. Mar did not want to be like one of these so-called Hellenists at court who read the ancient Greek philosophers and postulated endlessly on ultimate causes; a Hellenist would stay rooted in the path of a runaway horse, debating over the great forces that set the event in motion, rather than just simply getting out of the way. Or better still, taking a horse staff and goading the beast back into its stable. Indeed. If the fugitive princeling was perhaps soaring too high, this would be the time to remind him of the chains that held him to earth.

  Mar remained fixed in thought for some time, then took up his quill pen and dipped into the gold ink pot given to him by Romanus on the occasion of the late and emphatically unlamented Emperor’s last Easter among them. He wrote at length, checking the details carefully. Then he removed his ring, lit the red candle he had taken from his writing cabinet, and applied his personal seal to the paper. He clapped his hands with pleasure; in the Imperial Palace a bowshot was not well aimed unless it brought down two birds at once. And this single arrow might just skewer three fat, unwary fowl.

  ‘These are instructions for our friend on the Street of St Polyeuktos.’ Mars handed the sealed document to the waiting decurion. ‘Double his usual fee. Make certain that he understands everything. And tell him that his brother, who unfortunately has come to lodge in Numera Prison, is well cared for. We have petitioned for his release, and he may be free before he has to spend the winter there.’

  The decurion bowed, turned briskly, and headed towards the palace gate. Mar Hunrodarson looked through the large, vaguely green-tinted, arched windows that illuminated his third-storey office; he had set his writing table so that he faced north. There was a uniform greyness to the view; even the great silver dome of the Church of Hagia Sophia was dulled by leaden skies that here and there dipped to earth in wispy, ashen shafts of rain. The waters of the Bosporus, sprinkled with white, resembled gouged pewter. How gentle those waves lulled next to the memories of the vast, furious northern ocean that had tested Mar as a boy and had brought him to manhood. Mar opened the doors to his colonnaded balcony and walked outside. A north wind carrying the first intimations of winter funnelled through the marble portico. Mar savoured the refreshing gust; the air seemed cleansed of the appalling fetor of the long, sweltering southern summer. What these Romans have built is magnificent, Mar told himself as he surveyed the Great City. But think how much more magnificent all this will be when it has been scoured by the tempest that rages out of the north.

  ‘He assures this price is below the cost to him, Haraldr Nordbrikt. He only begs you accept because of the prestige your patronage will bring to him.’ Marmot-Man paused and reflected that this hand-wringing rug merchant, with his oiled brow and desperate eyes, had neglected to add a tip to the minimum fee that Nicephorus Argyrus, via his representative, Marmot-Man, was collecting for arranging audiences with the fabulously wealthy barbaros pirate-slayer. Besides, the perplexingly tight-fisted barbaros had already refused a number of tempting propositions from agents representing Nicephorus Argyrus’s own business concerns, and some of the proposals even offered legitimate profits! There wasn’t time to waste with this greasy carpet peddlar. Marmot-Man waved aside the scrofulous boy and crooked-backed old man who had carried in the merchant’s wares. ‘No, Haraldr Nordbrikt, slayer of Saracens, this merchandise is inferior, indeed to such a degree t
hat this purveyor might well be reported to the Prefect.’

  ‘No more merchants!’ growled Haraldr in the passable Greek Marmot-Man had taught him during their long voyage.

  ‘Yes, I’ve asked him to go, Haraldr Nordbrikt.’

  ‘Not him only! All! All merchants!’ This time Haraldr drew his finger across his neck.

  Marmot-Man nervously stroked his new robe of Syrian silk as he surveyed the mob of dealers in precious gems, icons, glass vases, carved ivories, Egyptian carpets, chased silver and gold serving vessels, furniture, polo mounts, and even concrete-and-steel strongboxes. The merchants waited impatiently in the courtyard of the Norse compound, bobbing up and down to practise their shrillest solicitations or jostling as they fought for position; there had already been several bloody noses and one attempted stabbing. And these were supposedly proprietors of the most respectable shops on the Mese, men who wore embroidered Hellas silk to work! Marmot-Man shook his head and calculated that there were thirty-five, forty tips still to be collected. And four - no, five - that would have to be refunded. And here was Haraldr Nordbrikt making like Christ the King expurgating the moneylenders from the temple! Still, had not Haraldr Nordbrikt given Marmot-Man a full Varangian’s share of his booty, which was ten times what Nicephorus Argyrus had paid him? Marmot-Man quickly decided where his true allegiance lay. He raised his hands and flew at the merchants like a peasant woman shooing a herd of lumbering oxen out of her herb garden. ‘Out! Out! Be gone quickly! Quickly! The Slayer of Saracens casts you out! He casts you out! You have angered him with tawdry wares and meretricious claims! Be gone quickly, before you bring his magical sword from his scabbard! Out! Save yourselves!’

  Haraldr put his hands over his ears to block the unearthly wails of protest and withdrew into the barracks.

  ‘Marmot-Man described these for me.’ Halldor was sitting on his cot leafing through a sheaf of parchments. ‘A shipyard in Langobard-land, or as the Romans say, Italia. An estate, in a place called Melitene, which is somewhere off in Serkland. This estate encompasses ten entire villages. There are at least three score opportunities right here in Constantinople. A candle factory. A palace not one street from Nicephorus Argyrus’s. A home for black-frocks, or “monastery”, that includes a newly constructed “mortuary”, which is a building where corpses can be prepared for burial.’ Halldor looked up. ‘I think we could make some money on this.’

  Haraldr simply groaned and sat on his cot. How many agents for such properties had already assailed them in the two days since they had docked and returned to their St Mama’s Quarter barracks? One hundred, perhaps, another hundred right now howling outside the compound gate like a starving wolf pack with an elk in sight. And then there were the merely curious, conducting some sort of strange vigil outside. Thorir from Uppsala had gone through the gate to fetch a ball he had kicked over the wall, and so many of the men, women and children of a half dozen nationalities had crowded forward to touch his cloak that he had nearly died of fright; apparently they had thought that the towering, moonfaced Swede was the famous Haraldr, Slayer of Saracens.

  ‘We are invited to purchase other properties as well,’ said Ulfr, who had just descended the stairs that led to the second-storey gallery. ‘The Romans call them “ladies of the roof”, though I hardly know why, since they are always on the streets. At least they are all on our street. Right now there are three painted whores outside for every man inside. You would not believe it. The traffic is entirely blocked.’ Ulfr did not need to add that the noise from the street made the din of battle seem like the music of a mountain rivulet.

  ‘Well, let the whores in,’ said Halldor matter-of-factly.

  ‘Halldor may be right, Haraldr.’ Ulfr looked out into the courtyard where the Varangians were squabbling over the trinkets they had purchased, playing dice, wrestling, and throwing knives and axes. ‘Besides, breaking up all the fights over the belly plunder would give us something to do.’

  Haraldr looked down at the cracked marble paving stones. If Odin and Kristr had not favoured him with his successful stunt in the oceans of Blaland, he already would have lost the confidence of his pledge-men. He shook his head at his two friends. ‘I don’t understand. Nothing. No word from the Imperial authorities, other than that eunuch tax gatherer who came to count our gold. Nicephorus Argyrus sends only this plague of merchants, most of them probably representing his own businesses, as if it is now our duty to serve ourselves up to these gold devourers like trussed pigs. Not even any word from rivals of Nicephorus Argyrus hoping to hire our services away from him.’

  ‘Believe me,’ said Ulfr, ‘you still have the absolute allegiance of your pledge-men.’

  Haraldr smiled, grateful for his friends but unable to share their belief in him. He had thought that his newly won wealth would open the gates to the Imperial Palace immediately, and it was his secret, desperate hope that even Mar would be so impressed by his coup that he would accept him as a valued and respected ally. Mar. No word from him, either. The knifing guilt that he had not, could not, tell everything to his pledge-men. And each passing hour tightened the fetters of anxiety. Haraldr could almost sense his destiny being determined by forces beyond his reach, perhaps even beyond his knowing. Was Mar himself devising his use for Haraldr, or were others now taking up the threads of his fate, and those of the five hundred he had pledged to lead? Two days ago he had been a triumphant god. Now, waiting outside the walls of the Empress City like the mendicants outside his own gate, he was but an infant desperate for his mother’s breast.

  ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt! Haraldr Nordbrikt!’ Marmot-Man tugged on Haraldr’s sleeve. ‘You must talk to Euthymius!’

  Haraldr took his sword from his scabbard and checked its polish and edge against the light from the freshly lit oil-light. Night was falling quickly, and the sky smelled almost like damp earth. ‘Is a Euthymius a merchant?’ he snapped. ‘An agent for some property owner? A tax collector? A whore? If it is any of those, I’d like to test my blade on this Euthymius.’

  ‘No, no, Haraldr Nordbrikt, indeed he is not, indeed. He is Euthymius. The Euthymius. You can’t imagine what his coming here means. Quickly, Haraldr Nordbrikt, quickly!’

  The man who strode jauntily through the doorway was tall, perceptibly bony even in his stiff robe of damson silk, and he moved so strangely that Haraldr wondered for a moment if a Euthymius was another of the Emperor’s magical metal beings. This note of artificiality was heightened by the man’s face, which lay beneath more paint than Haraldr had ever seen on man or woman; it was as if Euthymius had been lacquered and dipped in wax. His long, sweeping golden hair scarcely seemed more real - had it been hammered from brass? - and his equally golden, pointed beard might have been bevelled with a chisel. He spoke, in Greek, without prompting, and sounded as if he were projecting his words through a large tin funnel.

  ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt, Slayer of Saracens, to whom brilliant Achilleus and resourceful Odysseus and indeed the entire host of strong-greaved Achaians are but phantom mists seared to oblivion in the withering sunburst of your fame! Rise up, O former denizens of Olympus, a man lives among us who would be our successor to your Heracles! Rise up, O Christendom, embrace your new champion! Rise up, O ye firmament that doth illuminate our flickering lives. A new beacon is set among you!’

  Euthymius advanced, fell to the floor, and threw his arms around Haraldr’s new leather boots. ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt, I greet you with as much felicity as can surmount the towering edifice of reverence already constructed to your immortal memory!’

  Haraldr understood only a fragment of this; he had been told of Odysseus and Achilleus and Heracles, heroes of the ancient Greeks, and he knew the terms for ghosts and sun. But he hardly needed a complete translation to understand what a Euthymius was; he had finally met a Roman skald.

  ‘Tell him I thank him for his verses,’ Haraldr told Marmot-Man, ‘Unfortunately I have both Ulfr and Thorfinn the Otter to serve me in the role of skald, and possibly Grettir before too lon
g. Besides, from the look of him, even now I could not afford his upkeep. But tell him his verses would surely please Odin, our patron of poets.’

  ‘No, no, Haraldr Nordbrikt, this is the Euthymius, as he urges me to tell you, “impresario of entertainments, husbander of amusements, commander of an army of mirth”. He offers you one of his amusements, celebrated in the Hippodrome and throughout the Empire. Theatre. Dance. Song. Comedy. Drama. All specially created for the entertainment of you and your men. Believe me, Haraldr Nordbrikt, this is an honour you will enjoy beyond all others!’

  ‘I will be all right, Nicetas.’ Maria whisked her hands gracefully at the concerned-looking eunuch. He bowed and retreated into the villa.

  Maria turned to Giorgios. ‘How did you find me?’

  Giorgios’s face was flushed from his run up the flight of marble steps, and contorted with pain. ‘I followed the Imperial galley. I thought you might be on it.’ He did not need to remind her that he had been trying to see her for weeks, and that her servants and guards had rebuffed every attempt.

  ‘This is my villa,’ Maria said. She stood on the portico with her arms folded beneath her breasts, as if defending it. Behind her, the great cities on either shore of the Bosporus were framed by scudding rain clouds and metal-hued water; her villa was on the Asian side, to the north of Chrysopolis. ‘I don’t want you here.’

  Giorgios’s brown eyes were wet with confusion and sincerity. ‘I can’t play this game any longer. I am useless without you. You must . . . please.’

  Maria stepped towards him, her jaw tensed. ‘I know more amusing games. This is not love play, little boy. I have refused to see you because I do not want to see you.’

  Giorgios swallowed as if preparing to attempt some athletic feat. ‘You said you loved me. The things we have done . . .’