‘I do not wish to scandalize your people.’
Haraldr pulled her almost weightless, floating body towards him and felt her hot, silky breast like a rare oil spread on his skin. ‘So a man troths you and suddenly you have become a woman of convention like Lady Attalietes.’
Maria rose above him like a sea nymph, her wet breasts shimmering in the light. ‘Did you imagine that you made love to Theophano Attalietes last night? I am only concerned that my children do not have a mother of bad reputation.’
Haraldr kissed her deeply and imagined the kings she would bear him - and Norway: fierce, powerful, with the passion to lead and the intelligence to mediate. Kings who would marry the strengths of Norway and Rome, and perhaps some day, even rule over both.
Finally Maria pulled away and hung her arm round Haraldr’s shoulder; her legs fluttered above the tiled bottom of the deep pool. ‘I am concerned about your reaction to Joannes’s latest contribution to the welfare of his brother’s subjects,’ she said; his enthusiasm had troubled her since he had returned home that evening with tales of quite ordinary healing arts. ‘He has built several of these hospitals already, usually coercing various dignitaries into financing them, and he always ends up appropriating most of the operating capital to his own coffers while the institution quickly declines into a putrid alms house. Or even a brothel.’
‘Yes, but that has always been in the middle-class precincts where the need for such care is not desperate. Believe me, little light, I have no illusions about the character of the Orphanotrophus. But now that he has extended his arms to the people of the Studion, the people are not likely to allow so easily those arms to be withdrawn. And the Emperor is, I believe, almost fit enough to impose his own stamp on the business of the Empire. Joannes will soon find himself wedged in on both top and bottom, and forced to make far more sweeping accommodations. If Joannes can be coerced into saving lives and offering hope, isn’t that vastly preferable to the lives that would be lost if I were to attack him? Perhaps I am becoming too much like a Roman, but can’t a better vengeance sometimes be achieved simply by the threat of vengeance?’
Maria let her body drift to face Haraldr and put her other arm round him. ‘I think it is dangerous for you to assume you have learned to think in the Roman fashion. There are layers of that mind which you do not understand. And I hope you never will. I will not share your optimism until the Emperor has acknowledged the wife who has given him and his brother their power.’
‘I can assure you that is imminent. Can you promise not to reveal this to her Majesty? I would not want her to know and then find that I am mistaken.’
‘Of course.’ She laughed. ‘You are my Majesty. She is just the Empress.’
‘I heard the Emperor discuss with one of his chamberlains the movement of some of his robes to rooms adjacent to Her Majesty’s winter apartments.’
‘Oh, Theotokos, bless you,’ said Maria. ‘I am going to go to the church tomorrow and leave candles on the altar and pray that it is true.’
‘It means that you may soon have to leave her,’ said Haraldr soberly, looking at her directly. ‘Perhaps for ever.’
‘I know,’ said Maria, her eyes already tearing. ‘But when she has her husband back, she will no longer need me so much. Besides, I heard a Venetian discuss a route through the Frankish lands that seems much safer than the one you took through Rus. I think we could return sometime on a pilgrimage.’
Haraldr hoped they would able to return. He would not want to leave, thinking he would never see the Empress City again. He pressed Maria’s head against his. ‘I will bring you back.’
Maria nuzzled his cheek. ‘Do you understand why I cannot leave Zoe until her husband returns to her?’ she asked, even though they had already come to that agreement.
‘Of course,’ said Haraldr. ‘I would not leave myself unless that matter was resolved. I have great devotion to our Empress as well.’
Maria wrapped her smooth, strong legs tightly round Haraldr’s waist and slid her arms round his neck. ‘Let me show you something,’ she growled sensually, ‘that would be quite beyond Lady Attalietes’s comprehension.’
Michael Kalaphates watched the servant ladle pungent garos sauce over his roast mutton. ‘Uncle, I hope you are pleased with the new cook. I imagine I haven’t told you yet how his predecessor was afflicted. He maintains that a serving girl gave him the infection. So he has lodged himself in a room near St Artemius, and goes there daily to coat the diseased member with wax melted from cakes bearing the saint’s likeness. It sounds to me like a case of the cure being rather more excruciating than the disease. In any event, I should like this new cook to compensate for the deprivations you suffered on your surpassingly arduous and fateful journey. Although I must say that I have never seen such health and vigour on your face, my dear Uncle. You look quite like an Emperor with the lustre of a successful campaign in the field about him. Uncle, forgive me if I do go on. You have no notion of how lonely it has been here without you. This is a miserable season here in the north. To think that Antioch is still simmering in autumn’s radiance.’
Constantine smiled at his nephew across a table-cloth embroidered with gold peacocks. ‘I can assure you, Nephew, there were many evenings on the road between here and Cappadocia when I more than empathized with your loneliness. But I don’t think you need to concern yourself with the fate of isolation any longer.’
Michael squirmed in his seat like a small child anticipating his Easter treats. ‘You have no idea how madly I want to ride into the Forum of Constantine and proclaim the secret you have so assiduously uncovered. But I quite defer to your judgement in the matter. You have been unerring in your perceptions so far. I learned long ago that the time to bet with a man is when he seems to have won so many precarious wagers in a row that he cannot possibly win the next throw. When I hear about your ghastly adventures and think how close you came to not returning at all, I quite lose my appetite. I truly believe, Uncle, that it was the hand of the Pantocrator that brought you back to me.’ Michael paused and sopped up the thin, vinegary garos sauce with a piece of mutton. ‘Still, Uncle, I must remind you that all runs of luck inevitably come to an end. Even Alexander of Macedon was felled, just when he seemed invincible. I have to confess to a certain disquietude despite our extraordinary good fortune.’
Constantine wiped his mouth with a crisp linen napkin.
‘We must proceed very carefully, Nephew. I need to return to my putative office in the palace and begin deliberating on who shall be the first initiate into our exclusive little cabal. That is a very important selection. It is tantamount to naming your Chief Minister. Also remember this, because I consider this caution to be of utmost importance to your success in the office to which you will now unquestionably accede. Rome is like a horse, or let us say a team of four that has grown accustomed to a certain hand on the reins. If a new driver desires to race this team, he should first stand beside the old driver and observe his techniques in handling this team, his idiosyncrasies and use of the whip, before attempting to take the reins, and whip, in his own hands.’
‘Believe me, Uncle, I am quite accommodated to the temporary usefulness of Joannes in our scheme. I sincerely think that there is a great deal to be learned in watching him. He certainly knows how to wield the whip effectively. He has erred, I think, in never allowing the beast a lick of salt or a soothing word and pat on the neck. Both are necessary to produce a swift team.’
‘Astutely put, Nephew. But I think Joannes may be realizing that. I have heard that the hospital he has endowed in the Studion is now accepting the wretches for treatment.’
‘Yes, it is reported to me that he had the mob assembled today despite the wretched weather. He even brought out the rabble’s hero, our friend the Hetairarch--’ Michael broke off as his chamberlain scurried into the room. He looked up quizzically at the slender eunuch’s blanched face. ‘What is it, man?’
The komes of the Imperial Khazar Guard entered the
room to the rattling of his armour and squeaking of his wet boots and leather fittings. He bowed. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Majesty,’ he said to Michael, ‘but the Emperor has summoned you to the palace. He has provided you with escort for your immediate departure. Your uncle is to accompany you.’ The komes stepped forward to present the purple-tinted document. Michael rose and accepted the paper like a man walking in his own nightmare. His hands trembled and his face was the colour of wet chalk. He stared at the purple text with wide black eyes. ‘God save us, Uncle,’ he whispered. ‘It appears our luck has already turned.’
‘What is that?’ whispered Maria drowsily. Haraldr sat up and listened. A door closed downstairs and he heard someone clanking through the halls. ‘One of my men,’ said Haraldr. ‘Damn. I hope it is not something that will require my presence in the palace.’
‘I hope not too,’ said Maria, wrapping her warm arms round his waist. ‘It is sad enough to say farewell in the dawn light. At this hour of the night--’
The chamberlain knocked on the ante-chamber door and Haraldr called out to him to enter. The light from the oil lamp glowed through the archway that separated the two rooms. ‘What is it, John?’ asked Haraldr.
‘Haraldr.’ It was Ulfr’s voice. ‘I am sorry, but the Emperor has requested that you attend him. He wants to be escorted to the Monastery of the Anargyroi.’
‘What?’ whispered Maria to Haraldr. ‘I thought he was spending less time with his holy men. To go off at this hour, in this weather, will only make him ill again.’
‘I think this may be the day we have waited for,’ said Haraldr. ‘The Emperor is going to Anargyroi to ask the saints’ forgiveness for once more entering his wife’s bedchamber.’ Haraldr kissed Maria and got out of bed with a sudden eagerness to meet the cold, wet dawn.
‘I don’t want any more pastries, and I don’t care for any more wine!’ shouted Michael Kalaphates. ‘I am the Caesar, and I demand to know why I have been summoned here in the name of the Emperor and have travelled most of the wretched night only to be greeted by chamberlains offering me pastries and wine! I demand to know when I can expect his Majesty to receive me! My uncle and I have waited for what I count as three hours now. We did not come here to mince pastries and sip wine to the accompaniment of cockcrow!’ Michael stood and glared at the trembling chamberlain, satisfied that his outburst had conveyed the importance of his abused Imperial dignity. The chamberlain bowed and retreated with his arms crossed over his breast.
Constantine looked around the sumptuously appointed ante-chamber; green Thessalian marble revetted the walls, and a silver candelabra illuminated the complex opus-sectile patterns on the floor. He plumped the scarlet silk pillow against which he was reclining, and fingered a gold tassel. ‘We are in the same building as the Imperial Apartments,’ he said. ‘As you know, I have never been invited there, but I have been privileged to familiarize myself with the location. Apparently our informal reception is in keeping with my Imperial brother’s regard for our importance. When I think that he has not even had the courtesy born of blood to greet me in the time I have been here.’
‘Well, this is preferable to Neorion,’ said Michael with false bravado. ‘When the simpering chamberlain reappears, I think I will have more of that wine. It is quite a bit better than I am getting . . .ah!’ Michael turned to the swishing of a silk robe but saw that it was not the chamberlain. The elegant, silver-headed Parakoimomenos entered the room and fell on his knees before the Caesar, as prescribed by protocol.
‘Well, at last - someone who can tell us what is going on here,’ said Constantine.
The Parakoimomenos stood and bowed. ‘Majesty. Eminent sir. The Emperor has commanded that you be lodged here in the Imperial Apartments until such time as he asks for you. Please send for me personally if you feel that any courtesy has been withheld from you. I will now direct the chamberlain to assist you to your bedchambers.’ The Parakoimomenos bowed and retreated as prescribed.
The renovation and expansion of the Monastery of the Anargyroi was still under way; a lattice of wooden scaffolding, visible in the first faint lightening of the sullen, wet sky, surrounded the unfinished west wing, and several broad areas of graded earth flanked the walls, awaiting the spring plantings. The reception portal in front had been finished, and the intricately foliate arches had a lustre of newly cut stone that even the lingering night could not conceal. The Emperor’s curtained litter was borne quickly through the south wing of the monastic complex and out into the newly landscaped courtyard in front of the church.
‘Why the secrecy?’ whispered Ulfr as the litter, carried by burly Khazars, halted beneath the open arcade in front of the church. ‘There is hardly anyone about in the city at this hour to see him. And I am certain he does not need to fear an assassin from among his people.’
‘I think,’ said Haraldr, ‘that he is overcome by a certain modesty, if I am correct as to what he is about. He has led a rather saintly life for many months, and now he is returning to more secular pursuits.’ Haraldr could not help but remember, with both acute guilt and pleasure, his night with the Empress. The Emperor would soon forget his saints and holy men.
The monk Cosmas Tzintzuluces looked inquiringly at the Hetairarch; Haraldr nodded for the monk to assist the Emperor from his litter. Haraldr liked Tzintzuluces, though he did not quite understand him; the monk truly loved the Emperor, and his ardent if extreme piety was, unlike that of most monks one encountered at court, unquestionably sincere. Haraldr also felt a certain sympathy for the frail, sad-eyed monk, who would soon have to watch his prize novitiate once again succumb to the perils of the flesh. With trembling fingers Tzintzuluces pulled back the curtain.
Haraldr and Ulfr prostrated themselves. When they rose, they clutched each other’s arms in a desperate reflex. No! Haraldr’s mind screamed. By all the gods, no! I have seen this important imposter before, and he is not my Emperor. By all the gods, no!
Bloated beyond recognition, his purple robes and glittering Imperial Diadem the only indications of who he was, the Emperor, Autocrator and Basileus of the Romans struggled to stand. Haraldr rushed forward to help him and was met with the appalling stench of a corpse. He was aware only of the tear-blurred aura of the brilliant lights and glowing altar as he virtually carried the limp, grotesquely pulpy body into the sanctuary. Tzintzuluces and two priests helped him lower the Emperor to his knees. Haraldr stood, his mind reeling, and backed away. Joannes was beside him. Tears fell from the recessed sockets of Joannes’s eyes and glistened on the smooth slabs of his cheeks. ‘Holy Father,’ Joannes moaned in a weak, almost hysterical voice, a voice Haraldr had never heard before. ‘It was so sudden. The fit came on him two days ago. He suffered as never before. And then yesterday, I thought we had lost him. I thought . . .’ Joannes’s misshapen shoulders jerked spasmodically and he wailed. Tzintzuluces left the Emperor to the attentions of the priests and placed his spindly arms around the huge bulk of the fearsome Orphanotrophus. Joannes bawled like a child.
‘We must allow him to make the sacrifice now,’ said Tzintzuluces gently. ‘We must.’
Joannes fell to his knees and pounded his chest until it seemed the walls would shake. ‘Take me!’ he pleaded to the altar. ‘Take me in his stead!’
Tzintzuluces continued to soothe Joannes. ‘Please. We must. He has so little time.’
Joannes mastered himself with a great effort of will. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, his giant arms trembling with an animation of their own. ‘Yes. We must . . .’ His voice trailed off to a strangled sigh and he slumped to the floor.
Tzintzuluces returned to the kneeling, quaking Emperor and whispered to him. The Emperor began to speak in rattling syllables punctuated by gurgling sounds; it was obvious that the same enormous courage and physical will he had shown against the Bulgars would be necessary simply to complete the ritual he now undertook. ‘Most Holy Lord . . . King of Kings,’ he pronounced torturously, ‘may you find me ... a worthy sacrifice . . . accept me to Your u
nstained Bosom . . . receive me in pure grace . . . when I have achieved ... my consecration.’ The Emperor lifted his bobbing, bloated head to the priests. ‘I am . . . your . . . willing . . . sacrifice.’
The priests simultaneously signed him with the cross and began a long, mournful, slowly rising and falling chant. When they had repeated the invocations of the Lord’s Sacrifice, they gently removed the Emperor’s purple robe and placed over him a rough woollen mantle. They removed the Imperial Diadem from his head and with scissors clipped away his hair and beard. Finally they signed the cross over him again and stood away. It was a miracle of sorts that the bloated corpse could continue to kneel without assistance. And yet as Haraldr watched the shorn face of the former Emperor, Autocrator and Basileus of the Romans, now a simple monk about to humble himself before the Pantocrator to whom all men must bow, he realized that the newly initiated Brother Michael’s eyes glowed with a happiness he had never before seen on the Emperor Michael’s face. ‘I am ... ready ... to begin my . . . journey,’ Michael said raspily, tears of profound joy streaming down his waxy, stubbled, hideously swollen cheeks.
Halldor came to Haraldr’s side; he alone seemed in command of his emotions. His cloak and armour were drenched from a renewed downpour. ‘You had better come,’ he whispered. Haraldr followed him outside into the courtyard.
The woman stood alone in the rain, her fur cape beaten down by the pelting cold drops. Haraldr did not recognize her tortured face until she spoke. ‘I must see him,’ said Zoe. ‘I must see him before--’ The Empress collapsed to her knees and pounded the sodden earth. ‘I must--’ Haraldr lifted Zoe to her feet and brought her beneath the shelter of the narthex arcade. He nodded at Halldor to take care of her while he went back inside the church.
Michael had been moved to a cot, and Haraldr was certain he had already completed his life’s journey. But his head rolled and his gleaming dark eyes opened into the light. ‘Hetairarch,’ he gasped. ‘The Pantocrator . . . asked you ... to give . . . me back . . . my life. Now he has accepted . . . that life. Bless you.’ Haraldr gripped Michael’s monstrous dropsied fingers. ‘Your wife,’ Haraldr whispered to him. ‘Your wife wishes to see you.’
Byzantium - A Novel Page 68