Halldor threw the body onto the tiles and took the lady in his arms. She cried for a moment and then kissed him, smiling through her tears. ‘Who wants ... to kill you?’ he asked. ‘Your husband?’
‘No. He is happy for me to have lovers since it relieves him of a duty he finds--’ She broke off in alarm.
Halldor looked towards the rinsing tub in sickening astonishment. Two more killers . . . where was that knife! Through the rapidly clearing steam he recognized Haraldr and Mar.
‘Halldor!’ yelled Haraldr; he jumped in the water and embraced his friend. Mar disappeared for a moment.
‘What happened?’ asked Haraldr.
Halldor casually pointed to the shattered oculus in the dome. ‘A spectacular leap. For some reason he wanted to kill this beautiful lady.’ The lady smiled at Haraldr, apparently concerned about neither her recent peril nor her present state of undress.
Mar reappeared with Flower and led her to the body. ‘It is the man I saw,’ she said immediately.
Haraldr shook his head and began to reconstruct the bizarre chain of events, theorizing aloud. ‘So Joannes learns that Halldor is going to visit this lady’s house - the entire court has known for several days - and sends his man Gabras - my chamberlain, Nicetas Gabras - to arrange an assassination. But the assassin intends to kill the lady. Why?’ He was posing the question to himself as well as to Mar.
Mar set his lips grimly. ‘Because that is the way the Roman mind works. And it is in particular the way our Orphanotrophus Joannes’s works. This highly placed lady is murdered, and the accused, the obvious assailant, is the Komes Halldor Snorrason of the Middle Hetairia. Joannes coerces Haraldr with his comrade’s scandal. Or perhaps he has a broader objective. I believe that in spite of his temporary build-up of your unit, his interest in the long run is eliminating the Varangian Guard entirely, so that no Emperor could enjoy the security we provide. As you well know, there are several factions at court, most notably the Dhynatoi, who share this objective. They would be only too happy to use this scandal to reduce numbers in both the Middle and Grand Hetairia. If Joannes goes directly after you or one of your men, he signals his intentions and invites your just retaliation. This way he forces you to defend yourself against the indignation of others. That the lady is dead is of no account. For Joannes, any treachery is conceivable, and any innocent life merely expedient.’
Haraldr examined the face of the assassin again, then looked among the faces of the living, one by one. It was preposterous that Mar would have arranged such an elaborate drama -including an attack on himself - to make such an oblique point. And Gabras was a certain link to Joannes. This was not the kind of proof he had expected, which made it all the more convincing. Yes, Joannes was his enemy, an enemy far more devious and ruthless than he could have imagined just a few hours ago. And while that still did not make Mar his friend, he realized another essential truth. To fight this demon-monk Joannes, he would need Mar just as badly as Mar needed him.
The lady reached out and touched Haraldr on his arm, a look of concern on her face. ‘We are fine,’ she said. ‘We have not been hurt.’ She displayed a beautiful wet smile and looked over at Mar and Flower. ‘Since you are all here, why don’t you stay?’
The Komes of the Khazar guard looked at the list and frowned. ‘I am certain there must be some mistake, Manglavite. I don’t have your name here.’ The Komes looked up and shrugged sympathetically. ‘I could send a man to the Orphanotrophus’s office and find out why. Most likely they are still working. As I say, I am certain there wouldn’t be a problem for you.’
‘I appreciate your offer, Komes,’ said Haraldr, ‘but don’t concern yourself with the matter. My business can wait.’ Haraldr nodded politely, turned, and walked back down the steps leading to the massive bronze doors of the Imperial Gynaeceum. He felt both relieved and ashamed: relieved that the Khazar guards at the entrance to the Gynaeceum had been unable to admit him - only the select few on Joannes’s list were now allowed access to the Imperial women’s quarters -and ashamed with himself for even trying to see Maria.
He wandered without direction among the terraced gardens beneath the Hippodrome. Lacquered with moonlight and beaded with lamps, the intricate architecture of the palace complex revealed a geometry concealed by the day’s dazzling polychromes. Tonight he had given fate yet one more toss and had decided to confront Maria, to find out if she had meant Joannes or the Emperor, and in whose name she had asked her deadly question, and if his life had been of any consequence in the matter. But now fate had signalled agreement with what reason had told him all along: forget her. It was of no consequence whether she had employed the ruse of love to kill a good man or an evil man. Not where love was concerned. He thought of what Mar had said the previous night about the ‘Roman mind’. He had not until then fully understood the complexity - and cruelty - of that mind, and now he knew that if he was to leave here with his life and that of his pledge-men, he would need to anticipate and to an extent acquire that convoluted habit of thought. But one could not love with a Roman mind. The heart could not wear veils, could not embrace one thing as a means to acquire another. He had at least confessed to her that he concealed a secret in his breast. She had worn a mask from the beginning. And he hated her for that as much as he had once thought he loved her.
He stopped by one of the little pools, ringed by trees and bordered with stone benches. He sat and watched the fish slide silently through their pearled domain, their orange scales dull gold in the moonlight. Something in the faint phosphorus of the water made him think of Norway, of standing high above Trondheimfjord, the water like a slab of polished lapis lazuli beneath him; farther to the west, the wind-textured, blue-green expanse of the open sea, scattered with silver shavings by a setting sun. Norway. He had the wealth now, he had the dedicated nucleus of an army. Go home. And yet with that same thought he realized he could not. At the very least he had considerable doubt that the soul of his pledge-man, Asbjorn Ingvarson, had in fact been avenged. But now there were other souls crying out to him. Studion. The images of the wretches leapt at him like the fearless rats that would prey on their moribund flesh. He could not deal with those images. He could not leave them behind, either.
A bug rippled the water, and several fish thrashed to the surface in response. Destroy Joannes: Haraldr realized he could not help heal Rome or begin to assuage his own troubled soul without accomplishing that. And to destroy Joannes he would need to think with the Roman mind. To begin with, he would need Mar. Not a reluctant, grudging, boyish collaboration with Mar but a difficult, yet necessary, partnership with an ally he could not trust. Yes, he would embrace Mar; he would embrace the devil to slay the beast at Rome’s dark heart. And when Joannes had been destroyed, perhaps he and Mar could part comrades, and perhaps they would have to ask Odin to choose between them. And should that turn out to be the case, the best way to learn how to defeat a man in single combat was to second him.
He could not sleep; his mind raced with the purpose before him. He took the route he and Mar had taken the night before and emerged onto the curious landscape beneath the Hippodrome. It was much like the previous night, the circus animals and the sad, tawdry performers, the booths of the palmists and the diviners. But tonight he was unaccompanied by the fearsome Hetairarch, and the people came out to meet him. ‘Saracen-Slayer!’ ‘Manglavite!’ Little boys rushed up to touch his cloak and scurry away. Two stooped old men scuttled along beside him, not daring to look up, satisfied with some silent conversation. A prostitute ran her fingers lightly over his sleeve, tilted her head, and cocked an eyebrow; she was dark-haired and very pale and young enough still to be pretty, and for some reason he was moved by her. But he walked on, for a moment thinking he would actually go all the way to Studion and greet the people there.
The torso and head of a small boy rolled up to him in a little wooden cart. Haraldr looked into the brown eyes of this partially disembodied waif; they were frightening in their voracious, almost fer
al need, and yet their honesty affected Haraldr more than fawn-eyed supplication. He reached into his purse and gave the boy a silver nomismata; suddenly the boy’s eyes had a heart-breaking innocence. As if by magic, a dozen boys appeared. Haraldr quickly distributed the rest of his coins, finally holding up his empty purse to show he had no more. The boys vanished, quarrelling among themselves.
Haraldr remembered the way, the alley behind the row of wooden buildings. Why was he going here? he wondered briefly. But he knew. Maria had left his heart wounded and withdrawn, but she had left his body eager and questing. The sexuality of the Empress City was not hers alone; she had only initiated his seduction, not consummated it. And every woman he held in his arms from this moment on would be the answer to Maria’s treachery, the denial of fate’s caprice, reducing her at last to the anonymity of remembered flesh, and that alone. He exited the alley and saw the large, freshly plastered facade straight ahead. He went to the dark wooden door and knocked. The viewing grate slid aside. He had to wait for a while, and considered leaving. Then the locks rattled and Anatellon the charioteer virtually exploded in his face.
‘Haraldr Nordbrikt! Esteemed Manglavite and Slayer of Saracens!’ Anatellon took Haraldr’s arms in his rock-hard fists. ‘You honour us, sir! Please, please come in!’ As Anatellon ushered Haraldr inside, he giggled in his curious, genial fashion. ‘You don’t even need to tell me, esteemed sir. You’ve come for my Alan girl.’
‘I don’t care who was at fault here. This should have been brought to me. This is something the Manglavite and I should have settled among ourselves.’ Mar slapped his hands flat against his writing table. He looked at Centurion Thorvald Ostenson, and then addressed the uniformed Varangian standing next to Ostenson. ‘It’s fortunate for you that no one was seriously hurt. But I need to impose some kind of penalty because I simply cannot afford to have the men of the Grand Hetairia quarrelling with the men of the Middle Hetairia. I’m going to confine you for two weeks and fine you five silver nomismata. And you can tell your comrades that the penalties for future violations will be considerably more onerous. We are not here to settle personal grudges.’ Mar gestured at Ostenson to show the Varangian out.
When the Varangian had left, Ostenson closed the door again and studied Mar, frank, farm-boy astonishment on his ruddy face. ‘May I speak, Hetairarch?’
‘I didn’t appoint you Centurion because I thought you were a fool. Go ahead.’
‘Hetairarch, that was a very minor incident, and one that did not take place in the palace precincts. Some Varangians of both the Middle and Grand Hetairia were drinking at the same inn, and one of the Manglavite’s men lured this man’s whore away by flaunting the gold in his purse. And it wasn’t just the whore they were fighting over. The men resent that the members of the Middle Hetairia are in most cases wealthier than them.’
‘I am aware of that, Centurion. That is why I want to make certain that whatever feelings of ill will that presently exist are not exacerbated.’
Ostenson still looked astonished. ‘Hetairarch, I don’t see how our interests are served by allowing the Middle Hetairia and the Manglavite to presume such importance.’
‘We are working with the Middle Hetairia towards a common objective. As soon as my plans are complete, I will explain them to you fully, and you will understand. In the meantime I need harmony among the two divisions of the Varangian Guard, and I am charging you with that responsibility. I myself will be working closely with the Manglavite Haraldr Nordbrikt.’
‘Hetairarch.’ Ostenson paused and then decided to test the limits of his relationship with his commander. ‘Hetairarch, when this common objective is achieved, won’t it be dangerous to have so strengthened Haraldr Nordbrikt? He is already a hero in the city. You cannot drink anywhere without hearing his name. Saracen-Slayer. Saracen-Slayer. I think he has the potential to be a dangerous rival to you, and you are merely encouraging his rise.’
It happened too fast for Ostenson’s comprehension. He saw Mar leap to his feet and lunge towards him, and then felt the huge force of inertia as he flew into the wall behind him.
When he came to, he was leaning against the wall, his feet outstretched, his head hammering. Mar was sponging the back of his neck.
Mar pulled Ostenson to his feet. ‘Never presume what I am or am not doing, Centurion,’ he said evenly.
The Bogomil twisted a lock of his long stringy hair and looked earnestly at Maria, with all sincerity trying to avoid so much as a glance at the jewelled icon of the Virgin hanging on the wall behind her; he regarded such images as manifestations placed upon this earth by Satanael, the eldest son of God, to confound those who truly believed in God and his two younger sons, Christ and the Holy Spirit. ‘The Antichrist,’ the Bogomil intoned in response to her question, ‘will be Satanael in his final form. When he is vanquished, the entire world will blaze with flame and a hurricane of wind and dust will scour the earth and raze the very mountains and obliterate the valleys, and all that will remain will be as flat and white as a sheet of parchment.’
‘How marvellous.’ Maria tried to envision that glazed, featureless, bone-white surface. Perhaps death was an all-consuming white light, she fancied to herself, not the darkness she had so often imagined. But of course these were the fables of heretics. She smiled at the gentle fanatic who sat on the carpet opposite her; before his conversion to the Bogomil sect the young man had been an idle Dhynatoi scion whose only passions were dice, polo horses and betting on races in the Hippodrome; he had often kept company with Ignatius Attalietes. ‘So why do you Bogomils oppose the sacrament of marriage?’ she asked, steering the impromptu sermon towards another of her favourite subjects.
‘It is impure. The unchaste love of a man for a woman is an act of obeisance to Satanael, who created the physical world.’
‘But if God perfected Adam, who gave life to Eve, who was seduced by Satanael and gave birth to Cain and a daughter you Bogomils call Perfection ... I am correctly stating your beliefs, am I not?’
The Bogomil nodded. His placid, dreamy eyes blinked once, then twice, suddenly wary.
‘So if a perfect woman resulted from the illicit union of Satanael and Eve, was there not an element of purity in their congress?’
‘But Satanael and Eve were not joined in the sacrement of marriage. Nor was there love between them.’
‘Exactly. So Eve and Satanael fornicated as beasts do, and yet their spawn was a perfect woman child.’
‘And accursed Cain.’
‘I am only suggesting that the woman fornicated and conceived a daughter who was without sin. I do not care what crimes your Satanael urges men to commit.’
‘Satanael is prompting you to say that.’
Zoe appeared beneath the carved stone lintel of the door that connected Maria’s ante-chamber to the Imperial apartments. She clapped her hands. ‘Little daughter! You have confounded the heretic!’ The Empress walked over and rustled the Bogomil’s hair; he shrank away from her as if Satanael himself had reached forth his hand. ‘You would do better with the Euchitae, my darling,’ Zoe said to Maria. ‘They abhor the world of the flesh while permitting every kind of sexual excess.’ The Bogomil shot to his feet and scurried out of the room without another word. Zoe looked after him with mock despair. ‘Why is it that our invitations to Paradise are invariably extended by men with a peculiar, one would almost say, unnatural, horror of women?’
‘Perhaps they remember that it was a woman’s crimes for which they lost Eden.’ Her tone was suddenly wistful.
Zoe frowned slightly; even this casual distressing of her features seemed to age her dramatically. ‘Little daughter, you are not still reflecting upon the fruit you did not succeed in offering to your . . . companion, Haraldr Saracen-Slayer or whatever. I really believe that of all the melancholies you have nursed over the years, this is the most severe and worrisome. I can’t imagine that you still dote on him. Perhaps he has not forgiven you your little betrayal of his earnest Tauro-Scythian pass
ions, but he has certainly forgiven our sex. You do know that he has become a frantic devotee of Priapus in the months we have been confined here, do you not? Apparently he is intent on impaling a new woman each day; perhaps it is some Tauro-Scythian custom. He has taken a whore to live in his palace, and do you know Danielis, the wife of the Curator of the Magnara? She is one of his conquests as well. Can you imagine her? I always considered her to be so ... conventional. When I heard of the two of them, I conjured the most remarkable image. And of course you have heard about our dear little Anna. I must say there is a point at which we must be just a bit ... censorious of these affairs. She is just a girl.’
‘She is not a virgin,’ said Maria sullenly.
‘Oh, dear. I seem to have missed that. When was it?’
Maria looked at Zoe as if reproaching her for her high spirits. Zoe frowned again and sat next to her; she stroked Maria’s sable-soft black hair like an admiring suitor. ‘I am not mocking you out of spite or even boredom, my little darling. You know that in my heart you are my first-born, the dearest child of my soul, if not of my loins. This melancholy of yours, which has apparently driven you to interviews with Bogomils, has rended my own heart. So I have . . . negotiated on your behalf.’ Zoe kissed Maria on the cheek. ‘I have won your freedom to come and go as you please.’
‘Mother!’ Maria threw her arms around Zoe. ‘So that is why you were teasing me!’ She hesitated. ‘But I will not leave you here alone.’
‘You are not leaving me alone.’ Zoe’s smile was enigmatic. Maria presumed that Zoe had taken a lover; she was often closeted in her sealed apartments late at night. ‘I think you should go out tonight,’ said Zoe. ‘Your friend Nicephorus Argyrus has initiated another clever enterprise. He has opened a hostel for the sumptuous lodging and extravagant entertainment of visiting merchants and embassies, this because he now has exclusive agreements with most of our major trading partners; I believe Genoa is the only substantial monopoly that has as yet eluded his grasp. His establishment has quickly become indecently fashionable; Symeon says that on any evening you could find enough Roman dignitaries there to convene the Senate, conduct the Palm Sunday procession, and conquer the caliphates. Argyrus has provided a dining room and boxes at the theatre, suitable even for ladies of your class, and Symeon says the merchant invites scandal by encouraging the sexes to mix discreetly.’
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