‘Really?’ said Constantine, faintly interested. At least some outrageous rumour would enliven this dirt merchant’s pedestrian presentation. Constantine looked out of the window of the virtually non-functional office he had been so generously granted in the palace complex - the view was of the blank south wall of the Numera - and longed for Antioch.
‘Yes, Eminence. It seems that the Chartophylax of this monastery, an ancient fellow, got it into his head that the Brother Abbot of the establishment was actually a demon. They say this old book-buzzard murdered the Brother Abbot and fled to Cappadocia. I think the sin of Sodom was about the place, and that was the cause of the trouble. But whatever, the Emperor wouldn’t renew the typicon, and the establishment was out of business. But I’ll tell you, Eminence, though the monks have been gone for four or five years, the establishment is a jewel in the diadem of the Pantocrator, so to speak. You’d just have to clear out the bird’s nests and you would be back in business.’
‘So why hasn’t someone already bought it for this “immorally scant” price you have mentioned, arranged for a new typicon, and reaped the bounty of Prote? Surely anyone with even minor influence at court could obtain a new charter.’
‘That’s the trouble, Eminence, and why I see yourself as a prospective purchaser of unusual qualities. It seems that your brother, the esteemed Orphanotrophus Joannes, had mandated that under no circumstances may a new typicon be drafted for the monastery at Prote. I thought that with you being cut from the same bolt, so to speak . . .’
‘Indeed.’ Constantine hoped his flushed forehead would not bead so quickly as to betray his sudden fascination with the monastery at Prote. ‘Well, sir, you are a most persuasive orator. I can hardly see what harm could come from sailing out to view this establishment, particularly since we are enjoying fair weather.’
The Emperor indicated to his chamberlain that he would speak informally with the visitor, and the white-robed eunuch backed away like a statue on wheels. Mar was invited to approach the immense, purple-canopied golden throne. The Emperor had resumed his daily audiences in the Chrysotriklinos, the main throne room for non-diplomatic receptions, and he presided beneath the exact epicentre of a huge golden cupola supported by eight regularly spaced apses; a ring of silver candelabra wreathed the dome with light. The day’s business had run well into the night.
‘Hetairarch.’ The Emperor’s voice betrayed no weariness of his resumed duties. He assumed his usual perfectly erect posture, his hands resting flat on his thighs. His eyes were as hard as the gems of his diadem. ‘You are well?’
‘Yes, Majesty.’ Mar wore no uniform or badges of his office, only a dark wool cape with a cowl he had been ordered to keep over his head. He had been brought from Paristron in a curtained carriage and had been escorted to the Chrysotriklinos as soon as he had arrived in the city.
‘I have learned that you have completed your assignment in Paristron with industry and thoroughness. My children, particularly those of the Paristron theme who were displaced from their homes, are grateful to you, and in the name of the Pantocrator I thank you for them.’
Mar bowed. ‘Majesty.’
The Emperor flexed his fingers and propped his hands lightly on his thighs. ‘I have been considering your next assignment, Hetairarch. In your absence I have reflected upon the performance of the Grand Hetairia in the battle in which we were victorious over the Bulgars. I have concluded that your contribution, both personally and as commander of the Grand Hetairia, was short of the standards expected of a unit commended not only with the protection of Rome’s Autocrator, but with the preservation of the glorious history and legacy of the Grand Hetairia.’ The Emperor leaned forward slightly and stared intensely at Mar, as if looking for something behind his glassy eyes. ‘There are those around me who suggest that the actions of the Grand Hetairia, and principally the Hetairarch, were either treason or cowardice, or both. The man who led us to victory that day, your fellow Tauro-Scythian Haraldr Nordbrikt, is particularly suspicious. Having experienced that battle myself, and having seen the very real difficulty you and your men were in, I think Haraldr Nordbrikt’s interpretation of your actions, while understandable, has been inflected by the loss of his men and the emotions of that day. But since I do understand the feelings of Haraldr Nordbrikt, and since I can hardly afford to have my Varangians fall on one another to settle this matter among themselves, I have made certain that you and Haraldr Nordbrikt have been separated so far, and I intend to continue that separation. Hence your assignment in Paristron, and the secrecy with which you have been brought here. Perhaps at a time when our borders are more secure, I will permit Haraldr Nordbrikt to discuss your actions with you personally. But for the moment I need you both in my service.’
The Emperor allowed his hands to settle slightly. ‘Hetairarch, I know, as perhaps no other man does, that you are an officer who has served me well and faithfully through many campaigns, and who until this regrettable incident has had to apologize to no one for his courage or his loyalty. But you are also an officer who has let his performance erode to the point where comment has been occasioned. As I am certain you understand, such comment cannot be permitted of the Emperor’s personal guard, for it invites active, indeed armed, speculation that could be fatal not only to the Regent of Rome but also to the Empire itself. Accordingly, I have determined to relieve you of your office of Hetairarch, and to transfer you and your men to Italia. Henceforth your title will be Droungarios of the Catapanate of Italia. This new position, as you know, is a significant responsibility.’ In fact, the situation in Italia was critical, and the Emperor considered the dispatch of the suspect Mar a necessary gamble; right now the province was as good as lost to the Saracens, and any treachery of Mar’s could hardly make the situation worse. And perhaps Mar would redeem himself. The Emperor regretted that Haraldr Nordbrikt would not have his vengeance as soon as he had hoped, but the Emperor regretted many of the things this office had forced him to do. ‘I intend that you interpret this appointment as an expression of my confidence that you will regain the discipline and effectiveness that have served your Emperor, and the Roman Empire, so well in the past.’
The Emperor made the sign of the cross, the indication that the audience had ended. Mar crossed his arms over his breast and retreated from the colossal throne. The deposed Hetairarch, concealed within a ring of Khazar guards, was escorted through the silver doors and ushered to the curtained carriage waiting beside the porch of the Chrysotriklinos. Before he was sealed inside, Mar took a final look at the black, light-rimmed Bosporus. The torches of his escort cast an orange reflection in his brooding irises, and for a moment it seemed that Mar was gazing out on a sea of fire.
‘Hetairarch Haraldr, may I fill your goblet,’ said the wife of the Magister whose name Haraldr had not remembered. She fluttered lashes as thick as bowstrings and revealed her fleshy bosom as she filled her own gold cup from a stream of amber-tinted wine flowing from the lips of a bronze ram.
The tribute fame demands, thought Haraldr. He smiled politely and accepted. Above him, the gilded, intricately perforated cone of the Mystic Fountain of the Triconchus rose like a golden cypress; amber-hued wine gurgled from within the elaborate fountain and collected in the bronze pool at the base, then was spouted to the guests via the mouths of various bronze breasts. Plates full of nuts, pastries and fruits surrounded the wine spouts, and marble steps descended to an open plaza crowded with the elite of the Imperial Court: Magisters, Patricians, Proconsular Patricians, Senators. The wives were deployed in force, for these open-air receptions readily encouraged the informal mixing of the sexes.
‘Hetairarch!’ importuned the Logothete of the Dromus, his ragged rodent’s teeth showing. ‘You must come to my offices and furnish me with the most current information on Bulgar infantry tactics. I need to know which of their weapons are most effective, from whence they are obtaining them, that sort of thing. Perhaps we can inhibit the trade in these materials.’ The Logothete peered i
nto Haraldr’s chased golden goblet. ‘Discard that common stuff, Hetairarch. Let me introduce you to a vintage from Italia.’ The Logothete pointed to a cubicularius standing near a larger-than-lifesize water-spouting bronze lion.
The eunuch tipped his silver ewer and poured Haraldr a goblet of ruby-coloured wine. The Logothete looked up at the new Hetairarch with the dark eyes of Asia. ‘I believe there is some misunderstanding between you and the Orphanotrophus Joannes.’
‘No. The Orphanotrophus and I understand each other entirely.’ Haraldr silently reflected on that understanding. He had decided that he would wait and see if the Emperor was as courageous when seated on his throne as he was when slogging over Bulgar corpses, and if so, give him an opportunity to deal with his brother Joannes’s crimes. But this delay did not concern him, because he realized he already had Joannes on the rack, just like one of Joannes’s own victims in the Neorion. And until the Emperor - or, if necessary, Haraldr himself -meted Joannes the ultimate justice he deserved, Haraldr would force Joannes, in his own fashion, to praise the Pantocrator.
The Logothete licked his lips. ‘I would like to mediate your differences. As a servant of Rome, I am concerned with reducing fissures at the level of government you now occupy. And I believe that the Orphanotrophus currently finds himself in a posture that would encourage him to forge alliances on terms quite favourable to his newly won friends.’
Haraldr drained his cup and handed it to the hovering eunuch. Thank you, Logothete. The wine was excellent. At some time I should like you to advise me on how I can import this vintage. You may tell the Orphanotrophus that I have received his ... invitation and am considering a reply.’
Haraldr walked back past the Mystic Fountain; he was detained by the greetings of half a dozen dignitaries along the way. He looked enviously at a gull soaring in the lapis-lazuli sky and wished he could enjoy the beauty of this day and setting without the grasping company of the elite among Rome’s elite, who merely seemed to increase in avarice, insincerity and dissimilitude the higher they rose in their multihued hierarchy. Even the women seemed to have lost the joy of flirtation and approached their prospective liaisons with the grim intensity of grizzled field commanders. Of course, there was a battle to be won on that field as well, Haraldr reminded himself.
‘Hetairarch.’ The wife of the Senator and Proconsular Patrician Romanus Scylitzes ambushed Haraldr in front of the gleaming silver door of the Triconchus, the domed palace that faced the Mystic Fountain on the east. She was blonde, elegant, with small, perfect Grecian features and a beauty curiously enhanced by the evidence, found in small creases about her eyes and lips, that it had recently begun to fade. Her husband was the most notorious windbag at court, reviled by even the pompous Hellenes, with whom he affected intellectual kinship. ‘You will think me silly when I tell you my husband is watching us.’ Haraldr looked around and located the vigilant husband. The white-haired Senator and Proconsular Patrician, surrounded by his posturing cronies in the Attalietes Dhynatoi clique, was indeed conducting a clumsy clandestine surveillance; each time he sipped from his cup his eyes darted over the rim of the goblet and allowed him a glimpse of his wife. ‘Please do not think that I presume,’ she stammered, her cheeks flushed in vivid contrast to the high, pearl-studded white collar of her scaramangium. ‘He is watching to see if I do as I am told. He wants me to thank you profusely for stemming the tide of the Bulgar advance - I’m sorry that I cannot quite remember the phrase that compared your feats to those of Alexander - but I am to thank you because our own estates in Thessalonica theme were spared a great loss by your bravery.’
‘Tell him I accept his gratitude and am greatly pleased by the emissary he has sent to express it.’ Haraldr understood now; the Emperor had granted Haraldr one third of the tax revenues from Paristron, Macedonia and Thessalonica for the next five years, and apparently the land magnate Scylitzes was hoping for some kind of reduction in the amounts his estates owed. ‘However, I cannot intervene in the matter of his taxes, which I understand have already been reduced by various connivances.’
Scylitzes’s wife almost purpled with shame, and Haraldr was sickened by the imminence of her tears. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘You were only performing your filial duty. I should have been more gracious.’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head and appearing to gain control of herself. ‘It is we who should be ashamed. He would not approach you on this issue because he would never deign to speak personally to a--’ She blushed again.
‘Barbaros,’ offered Haraldr. He watched the insufferable Scylitzes spew forth his putative eloquence in accompaniment to the spouting of the fountain. ‘So with all those words at his avail, he must send his wife to speak for him. I appreciate your liberality in delivering his request.’
‘He ... he says I should offer myself to you if necessary.’
‘Would you?’
‘You would not accept.’
‘I would accept your offer. I simply would not agree to reduce his taxes, because I could not in fairness accept so much from him and give back so little in return.’
The woman smiled at the flattering reprieve from both her husband’s demands and the prospect of having this giant rip her in two, although she now wondered if the barbaros’s tongue was capable of other subtleties. ‘You are a kind man, Hetairarch,’ she said, bowing slightly as she returned to her flatulent spouse.
For a barbaros, Haraldr told himself, completing her thought. He was about to find some excuse to make to the Parakoimomenos when he noticed that even Scylitzes had been rendered momentarily speechless. He walked around to the fountain to see what marvel had occasioned this miracle. Maria. He watched her emerge from the ambulatory surrounding the Sigma. She did not wear her usual revealing costume but instead had donned a white scaramangium and pallium in spite of the heat. Still, there was the same sensual, graceful insouciance in her walk that arrested both men and women. Haraldr watched the eyes of the dignitaries as they studied her, and he realized that Maria was considered, much like him, an exotic, undeniably puissant force but also dangerous and unsavoury. Because of her openness and candour, she had come to represent all the secret schemings and scandals locked in their own far less honest breasts.
She saw him and came directly for him, her face glowing and her fierce blue eyes wet. She held out her hands but did not embrace him. ‘I will not burden you with my questionable repute among these august personages,’ she said, smiling radiantly but with tears now rolling off her lashes. Haraldr wanted to hold her but reasoned that she knew the manners of this court far better than he.
‘I am sorry I have not been able to see you,’ Haraldr said. ‘This new office requires all my time. I am fortunate to be able to enjoy - if that is the word - even a quasi-official function such as this. But of course you are always with me. You were with me there.’
She shook her head and the tears ran down her cheeks. ‘I am so glad you are alive. Just knowing that has made each day a joy.’
‘Do you know that you saved my life?’
‘But I didn’t,’ she said happily. ‘You went in spite of my warning, and yet you are alive.’ She looked up at him as if beholding the miracle of his resurrection. ‘My dreams are meaningless.’ She said this with such great happiness and relief that Haraldr decided not to tell her about the creek, and the king who had waited beyond it.
‘You saved me because your soul helped me forward when there was nothing else,’ he improvised, a distortion that was less profound than the truth.
‘You do not have to say that,’ she said. ‘What you told me before you left was enough.’ Suddenly her eyes doubted.
‘That was true,’ he told her,’ and still is. Why, in fact, I survived out there I do not know for certain. But you were indeed with me then.’
‘Yes. That has the resonance of truth,’ she said, drawing herself up and projecting her breast with wry self-confidence. She seemed very girlish and keen, perhaps more like Anna. ‘Since you have b
een gone, I have spent much of my time listening for the truth.’
‘And what have you heard?’
‘A great deal.’
‘Will you tell me?’
Her eyes were utterly clear and guileless, like a completely still fjord. ‘I want to very much. You are the reason I have begun to hear these things, or if not hear them for the first time, at least begin to listen to them.’ She smiled at him and shaded her marble-hued forehead against the sun. ‘One thing I know is that I have always put the act of love - or perhaps in my case, act of hate - before the idea of love. What you said about flesh coming between our hearts is true. You know the love I have here’ - she patted her abdomen with both hands -’but I want you to feel the love I have here.’ She touched her fingers to her breast. ‘And for all my ... experience with the other love, I do not know much of this’ - she pressed her fingers against her heart - ‘love.’
Haraldr was so deeply touched, he doubted that his own sincerity was equal to hers. ‘Perhaps I am no specialist in this’ - he touched his heart - ‘love, either.’
‘I believe it is a study that takes time. Its truths are not arrived at in a night of hot, wet embrace.’ She smiled deliriously but wistfully, as if remembering a pleasure she would not taste again. ‘Our passion was something grand and glorious, but it was a tower that rose too high on a foundation of air. Can we tear it down and begin again, and this time build something solid, even if less brilliant and overwhelming to the senses? Something we can live in?’
Haraldr still could not trust her - or himself - but she offered something that was far more rare than gold, or even Imperial diadems in Rome. Simple friendship, with the prospect of real love. And perhaps - he had wondered at her choice of phrase - they could build a roof beneath which they could live, perhaps together. ‘I want to try,’ he told her. ‘Not as your bedmate, or even as some silly, innocent gallant. You to me, like I am with Halldor and Ulfr. Besides, I am totally occupied with the responsibilities of Hetairarch.’
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