Byzantium - A Novel

by Michael Ennis

  Attalietes dabbed his mouth with his lace linen napkin. ‘I am certain that is a comfort to the girl. I know how devoutly you prayed for the health of your late husband. May Christ the King--’

  ‘Strategus, your tongue is not so glib that I could not have it removed.’ Zoe’s voice was a dagger in each heart within hearing. Haraldr could scarcely believe her screaming eyes; this was an Empress who could daunt any king he had ever known. He almost flinched as she gestured towards him. ‘You have met the homes of my guard, have you not, Strategus? He has hewn suffer stuff than your neck.’ Zoe fixed Attalietes for a moment, then turned and with absolutely deft fingers selected another tiny olive. Her eyes wandered again, to Attalietes. ‘Strategus, I suddenly realize that naughty Symeon must have failed to communicate to you the proper attire for our dining. Symeon, you must make amends. Take our Strategus to the kitchen and find him a garment in a more . . . harmonious hue.’

  Symeon came up behind Attalietes; the Strategus coloured like a maiden but his haughty eyes were unrepentant. The wrinkles at the corners of Zoe’s eyes twitched slightly.

  Haraldr quickly rose and stepped over his couch. One of the eunuchs handed him his single-bladed axe. Haraldr slammed the blade flat against his chest with a resonant thud.

  Attalietes’s jaw quivered with astonishment and anger. He rose reluctantly and Haraldr stepped closer. Attalietes turned to the urging of Symeon’s withered hand on his arm. Haraldr wheeled to follow.

  ‘No, Komes Haraldr,’ said the Empress. ‘I assure you Symeon has the strength to provide a suitable escort for our Strategus. Besides, you would leave my darlings bereft of company. Resume your place.’

  Haraldr returned his axe to the eunuch and settled back onto his couch. He knew he had made an enemy but he had realized an inescapable truth. He was at the Empress’s beck and call, and like her husband, no matter what rumours one heard of her, she was more than capable of that command. Whoever was her enemy was his. A truth, he reflected, that brought him little comfort.

  The second course was a large poached fish smothered in the oily, tart sauce called garos and topped with more tiny fish eggs. Haraldr was pleased with how he had handled the thin, two-pronged silver fork, particularly since he was still rattled by the incident with Attalietes.

  Zoe spoke with Anna for a while; the girl seemed to have taken the outburst with aplomb. Haraldr found this attractive; she seemed so young and blushing, yet she had a woman’s grace. When he had finished his fish, he kept glancing at her until he caught her eye. She looked at him and cocked her head slightly. ‘Komes?’

  Odin. No, Homer. Gregory had set him upon the study of the famous ancient Greek skald, saying that it reflected well on one to recite his verse. Haraldr frantically reviewed some remembered passages. ‘ “Laodike, loveliest ... of all ... the daughters . . .” ‘

  Constantine’s fork clattered on his silver plate. He stared as if he had heard a dog speak. Even Zoe’s jaw sagged slightly. Anna blushed furiously and fluttered her lashes. Then her eyes widened and her teeth flashed as she spoke.’ “Tall Hektor of the shining helm . . .” ‘ Haraldr understood immediately; Hektor was the hero of Homer’s seemingly endless lay called The Iliad. But wasn’t Hektor killed at the end of this lay?

  Zoe leaned forward, her eyes sweeping from Haraldr to Anna. ‘I have certainly heard many far more subtly . . . allusive citations of the Bard,’ she said, ’but none quite as . . . extraordinary.’ Zoe looked at Maria - Haraldr would not turn to see Maria’s reaction - and then back at him. ‘I had no notion that your . . . inclinations extended to verse.’

  ‘I hope that your Imperial Majesty and this estimable lady do not consider it an indignity. In my own tongue, which has not the grace of the Greek but is not without its own beauties, I have composed verses of my own. And I have three men in my company who record in verse the valour of the Varangians as we serve your Majesty. It is customary for a Norse king never to be far from his poets. We call them skalds.’

  ‘But you are not a king.’

  Haraldr concentrated on not lowering his eyes. ‘No,’ he answered firmly. ‘But then no Norse King has had the privilege to stand next to your throne. Perhaps I imagine myself above them, though I am just the servant at your feet.’

  ‘Anna,’ said Zoe, turning to the rapt girl, ‘I believe you have found a gallant. If he can celebrate your beauty in our tongue, think what glories he might ascribe to you in his own.’

  Haraldr only wished Halldor could hear this. He turned and glanced quickly past Maria, as if he were checking on the eunuch who held his axe. Hah! She was looking at him.

  The second course was a whole goat stuffed with delicate miniature onions and other tiny vegetables. Haraldr was grateful for the distraction, as he realized that Halldor’s first lesson had not included all he needed to know. If he lingered by Anna’s booth too long, pointing and jabbering, then certainly Anna would demand a price he could not meet, or else shoo him away. It was endless.

  Fortunately a dance with men and women in sheer gauzy costumes gyrating madly to wild, ringing, circular music followed the dinner. Haraldr watched the Empress for a moment; her eyes seemed to fill with the music and sinuous movements as if they gulped the pleasure of love. She devoured with those eyes, the dancers, Kalaphates. The Strategus Meletius Attalietes, now wearing white, was readmitted to the table. Maria began to converse animatedly with him.

  When the dancers were finished, Haraldr drank deeply and met Anna across the table. He desired her now; he felt she desired him, and there seemed to be no caveats against a woman of the court freely enjoying a man, even a barbaros. She raised her goblet to him, he to her. They remained locked, sipping, their eyes like stroking fingers, their tongues darting over silver. Haraldr’s head dizzied; they no longer mixed the wine with water. He signalled the eunuch and told him that Ulfr should assume command of the Varangians for the rest of the night.

  Zoe rose and drank toasts, and the voukaloi chanted. First to Constantine, then to Kalaphates. Shockingly Kalaphates came beside her. He sat on the couch next to her. ‘Nephew,’ she said, and she pressed her wine-dark lips to his forehead and touched his hair. Haraldr felt the seduction around him like a great, hot, yet fragrant wind, sweeping, sucking. It was their perfumed scent, the vague outline of nipples beneath silk, perhaps the air of this place. He desired.

  The voukaloi celebrated the pastries and fruits. Haraldr took a fig. Someone was on the rope high above again. Anna nodded, eyes heavy with desire. She bared her teeth, she . . . Kristr! Anna’s head bobbed and then plunged to the table, nearly crushing a silver-wreathed pastry. She raised her head again, but the eunuchs were around her like white spume and whisked her away like a white cloud riding the wind. The Empress had not even noticed. Haraldr steadied himself. Halldor, he lamented dizzily, now there is only one booth open.

  Citron was at his side like an answered prayer. Her gauzy robe hid little more than her working costume had; the nipples were dark. Citron sat, bringing a mist of rose and pine with her. Her arm was smooth and cool around his neck, her breath hot on his ear. Another white arm drew her back.

  So. Haraldr turned and met Maria’s eyes; it was she who had taken Citron away from him. Even with the herons fluttering in his head she was as detailed as one of the Empress’s jewel-like icons. The scroll of her lips, seemingly painted with blood; the slight flare of the delicate nostrils and the chiselled tip of her nose; the gull-wing brows. She did not flinch from his rapture, nor did her blue silk irises flare with jealousy. She stared at him for a moment and then her glistening lips descended on Citron’s ear, almost as if she, too, desired the lithe acrobat. But Maria only whispered something, then drew away. A eunuch bent to Maria, listened for a moment, and nodded to Citron.

  Citron almost imperceptibly tilted her head. Then she wrapped Haraldr like a hot breeze, like cool marble, her fevered lips on his.

  John Chimachus, Turmarch of the first Brigade of the Imperial Thematic Army of Antioch, waited al
one in the darkness. He watched as the pearl-faced moon settled just above the eerily luminous crest of Mount Silpius. He did not like it on this side of the mountain, with Antioch hidden to the west. Silpius was the city’s great natural shield, and on this eastern slope of the peak he felt about as safe as he would were he advancing into battle with his shield behind his back.

  Something rattled, and Chimachus gripped the pommel of his sword. He looked back at the skewing arms of the thick-trunked old tree, isolated in a rock-strewn pasture. The peasants had tied talismans in the branches, bits of cloth, bells, entire weather-shredded garments hanging like moss. To appease the djinn of the place, thought Chimachus. He wished there was some djinn he could appeal to; things had been so much easier when he was a mere koines in command of a vanda. Then he simply had to worry about fighting Saracens. Not about making deliveries to them in the djinn-haunted night.

  Chimachus looked at the leather bags at his feet. His Strategus, Constantine, ran an army in a queer sort of way, all his letters and dispatches and sealed missives. And for the past two days, Theotokos! Four of the dispatch unit’s fastest horses were lame and a good messenger was even now being treated with St Gregory’s salt in the Brigade hospital. Of course something was up; why else would a Turmarch be standing alone in a Christ-forsaken pasture? But the Strategus who had ordered these strange things was very close to the Imperial Dignity. What he bade was done, and questions were a waste of time.

  Good. He heard the hoofbeats. If they had wanted to come with stealth, he would have seen them first, and by then it would have been too late to outrun the Saracen horses. Then he saw the silhouettes as the horsemen rode over a slight ridge to east, just four of them. Four black horses. They do not like this night, thought Chimachus, and perhaps this errand, any more than I.

  The horses wheezed, sweat lustrous on their necks and flanks. The black robes of their riders concealed all but black faces. White teeth, lit by the moon, appeared with frightening brilliance. ‘Yes?’ asked the black face from atop the largest horse.

  ‘Yes.’ The Turmarch grunted as he handed up the first bag. The other horsemen came forward in turn. After the fourth bag had been laboriously hoisted, the horseman who had spoken nodded, spurred his horse, and led the others galloping into the night.

  The Turmarch returned to his own horse and gently soothed the beast’s sweat-crusted neck. A pack mule would have been better suited to this mission, he thought; fortunately the stallion hadn’t been lamed by the load. The Turmarch looked over his shoulder; he could no longer hear the riders, but he again saw their silhouettes on the ridge; in an instant they were gone. As considerable as that weight had been, it did not warrant the apprehension he still felt. The Turmarch decided he would walk his horse at first. Yes, that had been a great deal of gold. But the Turmarch was certain that it had not been the final payment.

  In the darkness he felt silk on one cheek; something lighter, almost as fine, on the other. ‘Ar-eld?’ she whispered, her hair over him like a shroud. She burrowed beneath him like a silken otter, turning him on his side. It wasn’t dark, he realized as the shroud fell away. His Frey-spike was tempered as hard as Hunland steel, and her hand tightened around it. ‘Citron,’ he mumbled.

  Her dark tresses receded down his gold-flecked, huge torso, her course as direct as it had been all last night. Kristr! Odin! And that had been only the prelude. Citron’s tongue had been insatiable, as if she were a hummingbird who could only take sustenance through that medium. Odin! Kristr! The things she had done with that tongue, he had never imagined. She was doing some of them again. Haraldr moaned and writhed, as if she were sucking the life from him. When she was done, he slept again.

  He awoke. Light filtered around the brocade curtains. He vaguely recalled the room in the palace Citron had taken him to. She was standing by the window, wrapped in a green silk robe. She opened the curtains slightly and returned to him. She bent over and the dark hair fell and she brought her lips to his again. She reached within the sleeve of her robe and took out a white slip of Alexandrian paper and laid it on his chest. Then, springing as lightly as if she were once again cavorting high above the Great Hall, she danced to the door, slid it open, and vanished.

  ‘Citron . . .’ Haraldr lay back on the pillow and looked at the red wax seal. Who would be summoning him here? He decided not to prolong his anxiety and broke the seal.

  The message was written in runes, in Gregory’s hand:

  Sir,

  We game with one another. Such pastimes are for girls like Anna. I hope Citron has reminded you that there are other games. Today we go to Daphne. You will be with me.

  Maria

  ‘Daphne?’ Nicon Blymmedes could in no way believe what he was hearing. ‘You received none of my intelligence? Do you think I employ akrites and a kambidhouter and a mandator because they amuse me with their inventions?’ Blymmedes’s face was ripening rapidly. ‘The indications are unmistakable. We have evidence of very large movements to the west of Aleppo. And one of the brothers at St Symeon was blessed to elude a reconnaissance party.’

  Constantine toyed with the large clamp used to stamp his seal in lead, absently snapping the iron jaws shut several times. Delightful, he thought, the way the birds had added their early-morning chorus to the melody of his fountains. ‘Domestic,’ he said insouciantly, ‘I am most impressed with the fashion in which your barbaric akrites can examine a pile of camel dung and from it deduce the size of the Caliph of Egypt’s army. However’ - Constantine rattled a sheaf of documents - ‘I have here my own intelligence, and it is considerably more eloquent than the carefully studied excrement your akrites offer us.’ He threw the papers down.

  ‘Assurances of safe passage from the Caliph of Egypt, as well as his vassal, the Emir of Tripoli.’

  ‘It is never safe to be careless!’ thundered Blymmedes. ‘All I am requesting is another day or two to send two light cavalry vanda west as far as Harim.’

  ‘Our Mother does not wish to wait a day or two. She wishes to leave for Daphne immediately. She does not wish to await the winter inclemencies while your cavalry collect more droppings to display to you.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Blymmedes, calming and searching for compromise. ‘We will leave today, but we will move quickly and set a proper camp for the night. Daphne is not defensible.’

  The Empress wishes to stay the night there. I am certain that with two thematic armies in her cordon she will not need the warriors of the Domestic of the Imperial Excubitores to safeguard her Blessed Person.’

  Blymmedes saw that there was no hope; even one Strategus outranked him, and apparently the two he now had to contend with agreed on this foolish course. The only other recourse was dangerous insubordination. And these two Strategi, whatever their woeful shortcomings at military command, had the abilities to see that he would be punished promptly and mercilessly for any usurpation of their commands. Well, defending Daphne would at least be a challenging exercise in tactical deployment.

  Blymmedes bowed crisply. ‘We will be ready to leave Antioch within the hour.’

  ‘These, Mistress.’ Symeon’s scarcely living, parchment-like fingers decorously placed the documents, broken seals dangling, next to Zoe. The Empress was stretched out under iridescent purple covers; her ponderous gilt and white-lacquer Imperial sleeping couch required an entire wagon for transport.

  ‘These are the original documents?’ asked Zoe as she read; her varnished fingernails picked at the dried emollient that masked her face.

  ‘Oh, yes, Mistress. After we have opened them we always feel it is better to make an exact copy with a fresh seal and send on the duplicate. A keen eye can detect a seal that has been restored.’

  Zoe continued to read and pick for several minutes. She leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes. Symeon stood patiently, a single bluish vein throbbing just beneath the membrane-like skin of his ancient temple. ‘How interesting,’ said Zoe finally. ‘Do you really think it is Attalietes?’


  ‘No, Mistress,’ said Symeon without hesitation. ‘These came to us too providentially for even Providence to account for reasonably.’

  ‘How interesting. Then it is someone else who wishes to make a fool of a fool. And only our Mother in heaven knows what they plan for us. How very interesting.’ Zoe’s eyes were still closed and she seemed to drift off for a moment.

  ‘Mistress?’ asked Symeon. ‘Is there something you wish done about this?’

  Zoe seemed not to hear at first. ‘Oh, Symeon . . . No, if you please. Nothing. We will do nothing.’

  ‘Blymmedes seemed quite convinced,’ said Ulfr. ‘Of course, we have not surveyed the terrain at this Daphne, but what he told me made sense.’

  ‘I have no doubt we will find the situation as Blymmedes described it,’ mused Haraldr. He looked at the lifelike, almost crocus-golden statue of a woman that stood beside the broad, paved, gently rising avenue. Set well back from the road, a large villa glimmered like ivory behind a screen of cypress trees. Haraldr turned to Ulfr and Halldor. ‘I smell something rank and foul here. I smell a plot.’ He went on to describe the vitriolic exchange between Attalietes and the Empress the previous night.

  ‘Perhaps,’ considered Ulfr. ‘But Blymmedes said the Empress herself had commanded this, and that both the Strategus of Antioch and the Strategus of Cilicia were in agreement.’

  Haraldr thought for a moment. He knew that Attalietes was the Empress’s enemy. If Joannes was also the Empress’s enemy, then Constantine could well be allied with Attalietes, despite the disdain of the Dhynatoi for the eunuch. ‘I think I will find out what the Empress commands with my own ears,’ Haraldr said, motioning to Gregory to join him. He spurred his horse and turned back towards the Imperial carriages.

  The Imperial Chamberlain Symeon rode in his own carriage with his own eunuchs riding in attendance. He pulled back the crimson curtain and peered out; his slightly jaundiced, watery blue eyes looked as if they would slide off his face.