Byzantium - A Novel

by Michael Ennis

  The monk helped him over the ledge. Constantine guessed, from the condition of the ladder, that Brother Symeon was a true eremite who never ventured from his cone cell. He probably raised his food and water up with a rope.

  ‘Brother Symeon,’ called the noseless monk as he stopped beneath the tiny hewn door. ‘Brother Symeon ... I have brought... a man ... to help you. A man from . . . Constantinople . . . Brother Symeon?’ Constantine heard no answer. ‘Brother,’ called the monk to Constantine, ‘come. Brother Symeon . . . will see you.’ Constantine ducked beneath the entrance, scraping his head against the rough lintel. He could straighten up inside the cell. The noseless monk held his taper out so that Constantine could see Brother Symeon. Constantine moaned with shock and despair and his knees went out from under him, pitching him to the rough stone floor.

  The fountain resembled an enormous pine-cone; the surrounding cypresses echoed the intricately perforated marble shape. Water bubbled with a musical, faintly chiming sound. Maria was standing in the pool, her chiffon underskirt pulled up to her knees.

  ‘Maria.’

  Maria turned. Her eyes seemed shrouded, swollen. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘You asked me once why I wanted to cause you pain. Now I ask you. Why?’ She thumped her breast with a tight fist and glared. ‘If there is some vengeance that you want now, my breast has no more armour. No need of armour. The knife is in it. Twist it if you want.’

  Haraldr waded in after her and she stood erect with her breast out, as if challenging him to a combat. He put his arms around her and pressed her warm cheek to his. Then he held her away and found her eyes.

  ‘I told you once I was from an important family in Norway. That was no lie, but not all the truth. I am the rightful King of Norway, uncrowned only because I have not returned to claim what is mine.’

  Maria held him as if he were the last thing she would ever hold in her life. She kissed his face and neck with wet passion, her tears spilling onto his robe. ‘I knew you were no land man, no mere nobleman,’ she whispered. ‘I knew it the first time we talked. I knew you bowed to no one.’ Then Maria stiffened with shock. ‘Mother of God,’ she murmured as if greeting death. ‘When must you leave?’ Just as suddenly, she smothered him again. ‘I will go to this Norway with you,’ she murmured hotly. ‘I will be anything. If you have a queen, I will be your concubine. . . .’

  Haraldr held her to him and looked up at the brilliant mantle of stars. They were falling now, the two of them, falling from those heights, and while there was fear, there was also a joy he had never imagined. ‘I have no queen. And everything in my soul wants to make you my queen.’ He paused and stroked her hair lightly and listened to the sibilance of fate’s warning as he plunged through the stars; could she hear it? ‘But there would be terrible dangers for you on the journey. And I see you here, in the light and sun and beauty of Rome, and it breaks my heart to see you there, in a night that lasts for months, with the rough men of my court, in the shrieking cold of our winter. I would die to see the light go out of your eyes.’

  She clutched his robe and looked at him with a new blue flame. ‘Would I have a life here without you? I have seen the beauty of Norway in your eyes, and there is no place on earth where winter is not followed by Persephone’s return. There are rough men in our court, too, Hetairarch, even if their words are oiled.’ She pulled his mouth to hers and whispered before she let their lips touch. ‘And if the night is long, then we will kindle a fire inside it that will burn for ever.’

  Maria pressed her breast tightly to Haraldr’s, and he could already feel her naked body next to him, beneath thick down covers, in the Royal Hall of Norway at Nidaros.

  ‘Brother Symeon . . . has not . . . been well.’

  Constantine gasped and clutched at his throbbing chest. Not well? Brother Symeon, who sat against the wall opposite the door, his legs crossed in front of him, was a pile of bones to which still clung not even a few desiccated shreds of flesh; apparently mice were agile enough to scale these heights even if dogs weren’t. The scavengers had left some tattered fragments of the late Chartophylax’s coarse wool habit. Constantine watched in astonishment as the noseless monk ladled water into the skull’s gaping, intact jaws; apparently the demented monk had tied the bones together with leather cords as his skeletal companion had begun to fall apart, sinew by rotting sinew. Constantine recovered his wits quickly enough to decide on a course of action. ‘Do you think Brother Symeon is well enough to talk to me?’ he asked the monk. ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb him.’

  ‘He’s . . . expecting you,’ said the monk somewhat irritably, as if this were a fact any fool should have known.

  ‘Brother Symeon,’ said Constantine, ‘I believe that I can help you if I may presume to examine your correspondence.’ Constantine hoped that the monk would communicate Brother Symeon’s assent. But after a moment the monk turned to him and stared, as if Constantine’s reply were now expected. ‘I seem to be having difficulty hearing Brother Symeon,’ Constantine told the monk. ‘If you could perhaps help me by relaying his words . . .’ The monk swivelled his head to Brother Symeon and shrugged. He waited a moment and turned back to Constantine. ‘He’s talking as loud as he can!’ shouted the monk to deafening effect in the bell-shaped cell. ‘Can’t you hear him!’

  Constantine reflexively put his hands over his brutalized ears and whispered, ‘Yes. Yes, I heard him. That was quite loud enough. Brother Symeon, thank you for your gracious invitation to examine your documents.’ He began to cast his eyes about the cell - whatever possessions the Chartophylax had left behind surely would be easy enough to locate -and hoped that he had not overestimated Brother Symeon’s hospitality. Apparently he had not; the monk said nothing as Constantine walked over and picked up the simple wooden box that rested on the floor just to the right of Brother Symeon. Despite an unadorned exterior, the little casket was sealed with heavy, engraved bronze hinges and a sturdy bronze padlock. Constantine paused and considered his words very carefully. Finally he said, ‘Brother Symeon, if you please, would you ask your brother there to hand me the key to this lock?’

  The monk swept dust from the floor, pried up a little stone slab, plucked the key out, and delivered it to Constantine. Praying fervently to the Pantocrator, Constantine inserted the key and turned the lock and was rewarded with the firm unlatching of the mechanism.

  The box was lined with lead sheets and the papers were loose inside it. Constantine sat on the floor and held the taper so that he could read. After a long while he shifted and said, ‘Interesting, Brother Symeon. I can see that you were quite blameless in that matter. And I can assure you that the responsible authorities in Constantinople will soon know of your innocence.’ Indeed they will, thought Constantine. In addition to the usual eremite meanderings about ‘the uncreated Light’ and other such theological musings, Brother Symeon had chosen to preserve an account of his own fall from grace. Apparently he had discovered the evidence of the ‘bastard child’ and communicated the secret to Father Katalakon, who had gone to Joannes with the information, apparently over the objections of Brother Symeon. Joannes had immediately incarcerated Father Katalakon in the Neorion and had dispatched some thugs to transport poor Brother Symeon to the same location. But Brother Symeon had been hidden by his brethren and then spirited off to the sanctuary where he had ended his days.

  Constantine went back through the parchments, certain that the crucial letter had to be among these documents. But no. He peeled away the lead lining and found nothing. He went through the parchments again. Then he almost burst into a sob at the realization. Joannes had the letter. Still, all was not lost. It was conceivable that Father Katalakon still lived. No. But just the knowledge of the crime Joannes had committed, and the secret he suppressed, would be useful. No. Suddenly Constantine knew the utter despair of his position, sitting here in the hot Cappadocian night with an addle-brained, noseless monk trying to pull secrets from a pile of stinking bones, while his nephew might already be chanting the Ps
alter on some distant island. He wanted to let soothing, desperate tears flow, and yet he told himself that a man of ability does not succumb to such predicaments.

  Constantine thrust his taper out into the cell; were there perhaps other caskets? No. Then something glimmered in Brother Symeon’s tattered habit. There. Behind the empty rib cage. Yes, it was large enough. Yes. Indeed, yes! ‘Brother Symeon,’ began Constantine, his voice tremulous with excitement, ‘I am ready to return to Constantinople to plead your case. But in order to do so, I must take with me that letter you have sealed in lead sheets and sewn into the lining of your frock. Please excuse me while I remove it.’ Constantine crawled over beside the skeleton and reached warily; he prayed to the Pantocrator that he would not knock Brother Symeon’s skull off its perch of strung-together vertebrae. The thin lead container came away easily, and with trembling hands Constantine peeled the pliable metal sheets apart. He saw immediately that the parchment was inscribed with the critical file numbers above the top margin. He rose to his feet as he read in the eerie torchlight. Incredible. It was all here. The name, the disposition of the child. Incredible. Had they ever told the child? Perhaps, but perhaps not. No wonder Joannes wanted this secret buried. It would change everything.

  ‘Brother Symeon,’ said Constantine, bowing before the open-mouthed skull, ‘these documents have convinced me that the entire Roman Empire will soon be indebted to your scrupulous regard for the truth.’

  ‘Each time will be better from now on,’ whispered Maria. ‘This was the beginning.’ Her wet body pressed against Haraldr’s, and she kissed him on the neck. Their love-making had been different from before, with none of the sudden violence or exhausting ritual that had marked their passion in the past. Tonight had been tender and intimate in a casual, endearing way. They no longer clutched for each other in the huge vortex of fate but simply felt their closeness in the quiet room.

  Maria propped herself up on her elbow. ‘I want to wait until we return to Norway to marry you,’ she said. ‘I want to become your wife in your land, by your custom. I want Norway to be my home.’

  ‘No, I want to marry you here as quickly as custom permits. I want you in my bed every night.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I will live with you. As your mistress.’

  Haraldr leaned his head up and looked at her. ‘Are you telling me that your Orthodox Church would object to our marriage?’

  ‘No, but they would submit you to excruciating rites of instruction in the One True Faith. May the Holy Mother forgive me, but I would rather have your heathen body next to me than have you off in the Hagia Sophia chanting with the priests. I will marry you in your church. It is Christ’s church, is it not? I don’t think I want this Odin to bless my marriage bed.’

  ‘Yes. My brother left a strong Christian church. I may have to rebuild it, but we will be wed as Christians.’

  ‘So that is settled.’

  ‘You will find churches in Norway very small. Palaces even smaller.’

  This room is small, this bed smaller still.’ They began to kiss, simple kisses punctuated with whispered confidences, and slowly they made love again. And when they were done, they lay so close together that each seemed to be breathing for the other. But between them there were still secrets.

  VII

  ‘Hetairarch.’ Joannes bowed and gestured for the Senators to remove Haraldr’s drenched cloak. The cold December wind flung the rain at their faces like bits of scree. ‘I’m sorry that it is not a good day to be out, but then it is worse for them.’ Joannes nodded at the enormous crowd of miserable, soaked indigents who clustered outside the portal of the new Redemption of the World Charity Hospital. ‘You were correct, Hetairarch,’ said Joannes as he looked out over the sodden, dull-coloured throng. ‘This was a shame that Rome could not long have suffered.’ Joannes took Haraldr by the arm and led him down the arcaded walkway to the street. ‘May I show you to them? You are a popular man here since you began distributing free food in the Studion.’

  And it will do you well to be seen with me, thought Haraldr. As he walked beside the giant monk, Haraldr glanced at the deformed face and thought of the vision Joannes had revealed deep in the Bulgar-Slayer’s empty treasury. Could Joannes ever find in that vision a just Rome that served all its citizens? Unlikely, and that was why Haraldr would have to deal with him before he - and Maria - could in good conscience leave Rome. But the Emperor, despite a minor setback earlier in the autumn (no doubt prompted by an overly hasty resumption of his duties after the Bulgarian campaign) grew stronger each day. He had exercised with the men of the Grand Hetairia two days ago, and it seemed likely that he would soon return to his wife’s bed. Perhaps the Emperor could give Joannes’s vision the depth it was missing. Perhaps Joannes would be forced by the sheer momentum of gestures like this to change his policies. A man could be ensnared by his good deeds as easily as he could by his sins. Haraldr entertained his own vision: being able to leave Rome without the blood-bath that would follow the final judgement of the Orphanotrophus Joannes.

  ‘Your Hetairarch!’ boomed Joannes. The crowd was mad with delight. ‘Hetairarch! Hetairarch! Hetairarch!’ they chanted, waving their arms high. ‘I detest ceremony,’ said Joannes somewhat sourly as the acclaim finally ebbed, ‘or I would have arranged something. As it is, it seems that the appearance of the Hetairarch is quite enough ceremony for them.’ He urged Haraldr back from the street. ‘You must see it. I readily confess to sinful pride over it. It is a marvel. No facet of the healing arts has been left unpolished, no comfort for the ailing neglected.’

  Joannes, the obligatory Senators trailing behind him like whipped dogs, was greeted at the entrance to the hospital by many of the staff of physicians, which included half a dozen women in long linen robes. Joannes gestured down the long, vaulted hallway to his left. ‘The dictates of modesty prevent us from visiting the women’s wards. But I assure you that they are as well equipped and staffed as the men’s facilities that we will see. Needless to say, our women physicians are a great comfort to the infirm of their own gender, for they allow our female patients to discuss freely symptoms peculiar to their sex, and submit to examination without exposing their female organs and their inherent delicacy to their opposite gender.’ Haraldr wanted to guffaw in open derision at Joannes’s sudden concern for female delicacy - no such gender distinctions were made in Neorion - but it had long ago become clear to him that Rome was an empire built on saying one thing and doing another.

  It is also an empire built on astonishing knowledge and achievement, thought Haraldr as the chief physician, a sagacious-looking man with a long silver beard and wide, worried eyes, led them through the wards. Row after row of beds - all occupied - with clean linen mattresses and pillows stuffed with wool, not straw, and with clean mats on the swept floors beneath them. Quilts covered most of the patients, and a hypocaust system just like those in the palace circulated hot air beneath the floor, providing a clean, dry heat; the chief physician explained that the different wards were kept at various temperatures depending on the nature of the ailment and which humours were contributing to the symptoms.

  Joannes’s entourage paused by the bed of a man with a face as yellow as Syrian silk. The chief physician pointed out the toilet that the man had been provided, the same as was furnished to all the patients: his own sponge, basin, towels and soap for bathing, arranged neatly by the bed; and a chamber pot set at the end of the bed. An assistant brought the chief physician a copper basin full of steaming water, and the chief physician carefully soaped, rinsed and dried his hands on a clean towel. The chief physician then pulled back the batted quilt, lifted the yellow-faced man’s robe, and pressed his abdomen with long, searching fingers. He looked up at the group around him. The rheumatics have yet to be evacuated,’ he said. ‘As there is danger that they may lodge in the body and be transported into the heart, I will ask the apothecary here’ - he gestured to a younger, black-bearded physician - ‘to prescribe an herbal purgative.’ The
chief physician stood and pointed to a pasty-looking wretch sleeping two beds down from the yellow-faced man; another physician held the man’s elbow over a small copper bowl and collected blood from a slit just inside the crook of the arm. ‘If the purgatives do not induce the evacuation, then we will have recourse to a phlebotomy, as you see practised there.’

  Six enormous wards of perhaps a hundred beds each occupied the main rooms of the hospital; subsidiary chambers housed a bakery, baths, a kitchen, and chemists’ laboratories for the production of medicinal potions and salves. There was even a tool room where the dignitaries were shown a grindstone ingeniously attached to a whirling lathe for the purpose of meticulously sharpening surgical blades. Joannes watched the surgeon’s assistant hone a small steel instrument. When the screeching of the grindstone stopped, Joannes turned and whispered to Haraldr, ‘I am beginning to understand your Northman’s wisdom, Hetairarch. These blades’ - he gestured at the shining rows of surgical instruments on the workman’s bench - ‘will do far more to ensure the peace and stability of the Studion than the blades I have used in Neorion.’

  ‘I would like to believe that you have learned that lesson, Orphanotrophus,’ Haraldr whispered back. ‘You would save me the effort of putting a particularly keen edge on my own blade.’

  Joannes continued to study the immaculately boned scalpels. But he nodded his understanding.

  ‘You must enjoy this while you can,’ said Maria. ‘It is not seemly for a man to bathe with his wife.’ She playfully splashed the cool but comfortable water in his face.

  ‘Perhaps that is your custom. I will make the Queen of Norway sit in the sauna with me until she is as red as a lobster, and then take her outside and rub snow all over her myself.’