‘Yes. But I also saw him cringe once. That morning when Joannes sailed into the harbour. Ever since then he has looked at me as if he fears I will reveal his secret shame.’
‘I know that he harbours guilt about that day. I see it in his eyes as well. But I have also in my life suffered from that guilt, and I understand how it can rend a man’s soul. He will outgrow it.’
‘I don’t trust him.’
Haraldr realized he had pursued his argument to outpace some of the same doubts. But then there were few men in Rome one could not doubt in some fashion. ‘Most of the men I have talked to at court feel that Michael may be the most able Emperor since the Bulgar-Slayer. He is clearly dedicated to the Empire above all else; he dismissed his own father, the Droungarios Stephan Kalaphates, as commander in Sicily, and the man he appointed in his father’s stead, Maniakes, has dramatically improved the situation. He is Zoe’s lover again, I am almost certain, so he obviously has her interests at heart. And while Rome enjoys this good fortune, Norway now suffers under the boot of King Knut’s son, Sven. It is Norway, not Rome, that I am now concerned about.’
‘I am aware of that.’
Haraldr looked south to open water, as if the city that was clearly his rival offended his sight. He had forgotten that a woman could love her too. ‘This is your fashion of refusing me, is it not? I understand if you are frightened of the journey north. I am frightened myself, and certainly I fear for you. But you must refuse me in your own words, from your own breast.’
‘You are an enormous pig, Prince-King Haraldr!’ Maria pounded the railing with her fists. ‘I said I wanted to leave as quickly as it can be arranged!’
‘And leave your mother with this man you cannot trust.’
‘She is not my mother, pig head!’ Tears glimmered on Maria’s lashes.
Leave her to her anger, thought Haraldr. The scar from a deep wound takes many years to heal. Haraldr stepped away, having learned that intimacies only fanned the flames at these times. ‘Very well, Maria. I am going to ask to see the Empress tomorrow. I am going to discuss with her in terms of greatest candour her dealings with Michael, suggest the possibility that he may pose some threat to her, and discuss any fears or even intimations she may have. But if she assures me that she has no reservations concerning the Emperor - and I believe she is in a far better position to divine his intentions than you or I - then I am going to the Emperor and make arrangements for my leave-taking. It is not necessary for me to say that my heart cannot leave without you. But it is necessary for me to tell you that I am going to leave, and I will leave with my heart torn from my breast if that is how it must be.’
Maria did not answer, and her blue eyes blazed back at the City.
‘You are certain I cannot interest you in breakfast?’ Alexius, Patriarch of the One True Oecumenical, Orthodox and Catholic Faith, gestured towards the silver double doors of his private dining chamber.
‘No, Father,’ replied the Emperor Michael. ‘I am more in need of spiritual nourishment. Might we walk together in the Mother Church?’
Alexius’s dark eyes sparkled. ‘Indeed we might, Majesty. I completed the morning Mass only an hour ago, and yet I already long for her. And unlike physical nourishment, which when consumed in excess can encumber the flesh with corpulence and corruption, each spiritual repast lightens our burden and cleanses our souls.’
Alexius escorted Michael through the various ante-chambers and sitting rooms of his personal apartments, through the Patriarchal offices, across the carpeted causeway to the second-floor gallery of the Hagia Sophia, and then down the stairs at the south-east corner of the enormous cathedral. They walked out into the nave. In the morning light the central dome shimmered as if it would break loose and float into the heavens. Polyphonies drifted gently through the light-filled ether; the white robes of the chanting priests could be glimpsed behind the two-storey latticed screens of green Thessalian marble that shielded the altar. The two most powerful men in the world were a strange and marvellous sight as they strolled side by side, both of them swathed from chin to ankle in layers of metallic silk; the Patriarch predominantly in white, with embroideries of gold crosses; the Emperor in vivid claret purple sprinkled with golden eagles. In the golden light of the Mother Church they seemed more akin to the glittering mosaic deities floating high above them than to human figures.
Alexius took Michael’s arm. ‘Our Lord transformed His Word into the light of the world, yet here in our Mother Church, I often feel that the primordial light is transmuted back in the Word. Does that sound strange to Your Majesty?’
Michael’s face twitched curiously, first the lips and then the eyebrows. ‘That fascinates me, Father. Do you refer to the hosannas and holy sacraments with which our church is even now redolent?’
‘That, certainly, Majesty. But also the Word of Our Lord without the intervening medium of human voices. When I am here, I often have private, intimate conversation with the Pantocrator.’
Michael skipped forward a step, as if seized by some irrepressible impulse. ‘Father, is ... is it possible that the Pantocrator would speak to me in that fashion?’
‘But most certainly. You are his Vice-Regent on Earth. I would be disturbed to know that Our Lord had not communicated His wishes to you.’
‘He has communicated His wishes, Father. He spoke to me for the first time on the ambo when you crowned me Caesar. Now we converse frequently. Even in my own chambers.’
Alexius squeezed Michael’s arm in a gesture of encouragement. ‘And what are the Pantocrator’s wishes, Majesty?’
Michael’s eyebrows twitched quite noticeably. ‘He has asked me to go forth and multiply.’
Alexius’s eyes paced rapidly. ‘Indeed. Is it our Empress He has asked you to wed so that you may bring forth this fruit?’
Michael tilted his face slightly upward, as if basking in the light from the dome. ‘No. That lovely blossom has not borne fruit all these years, and it most certainly will not now.’
‘You are correct in that assumption, Majesty. While our Empress has preserved the exquisite bloom of her youth, she has passed the age of fertility. However, Majesty, you must know that while you are the adopted son of the Empress, you are in the eyes of her people her consort. You might compromise that relationship if you were to take a bride.’
‘But if my bride were also purple-born?’
It was as if Alexius could scarcely restrain his eyes from leaping out of his head. ‘I am afraid the Augusta Theodora is no more likely to bear fruit than is her sister, Majesty.’
‘I have heard an interesting rumour, Father. That the purple-born Eudocia gave birth to a daughter in a convent somewhere. It is presumed that the child died. But what if the child had been adopted and lived somewhere, unaware of her noble Macedonian lineage? She would be of childbearing age now.’
Alexius hoped his pounding breast would not give him away. ‘I have heard those rumours, too, and think there is some truth to them, at least where the birth is concerned. But we cannot presume that the child was born alive, or, if it was, is still alive. And if that Imperial progeny were alive, how can we presume that it is of the female gender?’
‘But if Eudocia’s child could be found, and if it were a woman in good health, would you object to this marriage, Father?’
Alexius commanded his arm not to tremble. The lineage of the child would be suspect, Majesty. She would not have been born in the porphyry chamber of the Imperial Palace, so she would not be a true purple-born. And of course the child was born outside the sacrament of marriage.’
‘But if the Patriarch of the One True Faith, knowing of the legitimacy of the Macedonian blood in those veins regardless of the circumstances of birth, were to assure his people that the necessary conditions for purple-born status had been met, the lineage would no longer be suspect.’
Alexius’s shoulders arched from the burden of self-control. ‘But I could not give my people those assurances of my own volition. I would have to
wait and receive the Pantocrator’s instructions on such a vital matter. But of course this is all speculation, and most likely will remain so.’
Michael seemed to listen to someone else for a moment. ‘Yes. Quite. Father, let me ask you to speculate on another subject. Let us presume that when the Christ lived on earth as a man--’
‘You mean when the Holy Spirit took on the form of the Christ. You must not become careless and lapse into the Latin error by denying the procession of the Holy Spirit from the Father through the Son. If you do so, you deny Christ the Pantocrator His divinity. And you know what a scourge that heresy has become.’
Michael nodded impatiently. ‘When the Holy Spirit occupied the body of the Christ, He had an earthly father: Joseph. Now this Joseph was a virtuous man. But let us assume for the purpose of speculation that Joseph was in fact an evil man. Let us assume that he mocked the Christ as did Caiaphas, that he scourged Him as did the soldiers of Pilate. Let us assume that he brought shame to the Holy Family. Let us assume that he fouled the Mother of God with his lust and corrupted Her virtue.’
Alexius raised both wiry eyebrows. ‘Do not let speculation lead you into blasphemy, Majesty. You must remember that the Fallen Archangel can often speak to us in the guise of the Pantocrator, and convince the unwary that Satan’s beguilements are the words of the Christ.’
Michael’s entire body went rigid, and his eyes darted for a moment. Then he almost convulsively relaxed; Alexius could feel the tremor. ‘But let us assume that these crimes did take place. Who would be the agent of retribution in this case? Would it be the Holy Spirit in the form of the Father, or of the Son?’
‘Christ the Pantocrator would offer this corrupt Joseph the opportunity to repent and earn forgiveness. And then this corrupt Joseph would be judged at the Heavenly Tribunal alongside all souls, and held accountable for any sins of which he had not been cleansed. And at that Tribunal the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit will all three preside.’
Michael pondered this information for a moment. ‘I must return to the duties with which Christ the Pantocrator has charged me, Father. But I feel a remarkable spiritual satiation after your wise and loving counsel. Indeed, I felt that even as you spoke, the Christ was whispering in my ear.’
The Patriarch Alexius greeted the Augusta Theodora by signing the cross on her forehead. She had been got out of bed and now wore a plain purple robe; her lustreless brown hair was set in a single braid.
‘It is time, my child,’ said Alexius.
Theodora calmly showed Alexius to a couch and signalled her eunuch to offer him wine. ‘What has happened, Father?’
‘I had an extraordinary conversation with our Emperor this morning. I am certain that madness is the will of Divine Providence, and is given us either to scourge us or to allow us to enter into a state where we can more closely know God. Yet I also think madness is sometimes passed in the blood, from generation to generation of the same family. The Emperor’s uncles were both mad, though in one case it was a demonic possession, while the other was a fury of true repentance. But this Emperor is quite the maddest of all. And the most adept at concealing his madness behind the masks of reason, intellect and dissimulation. Quite extraordinary. He has embraced the most profound heresies. Even the Bishop of Rome would consider our Emperor a heretic. The Emperor insisted in the Mother Church that Joseph might have attempted carnal congress with the Mother of God.’
‘But you did not awaken me in the middle of the night to tell me of this heresy, did you, Father?’
‘No, child. Today our Emperor revealed to me that the child born to your sister Eudocia on Porte was a daughter.’
Theodora leaned forward so abruptly that it seemed she was going to leap at Alexius. ‘He knows?’
Alexius smiled thinly. ‘I think he does. He pretended to know only the rumours of the birth. But he posited that the child was a daughter, and now you have confirmed it.’
Theodora flushed with anger and embarrassment; Alexius was maddeningly clever. ‘Perhaps he was only playing the same guessing game that you are, Father.’
‘Perhaps. We had better hope that he is. It is clear that he intends to marry the last Macedonian and bring forth his own dynasty, something his equally mad relatives were unable to do.’ Theodora was so pale, her face seemed tinted with blue. ‘Yes, my child, I think that you will soon have to shoulder your cross. And while I do not think it is time for your climb to Golgotha to begin, I think it is time that we prepare for your entry into Jerusalem.’
The dhromon of the Thematic Fleet of Sicily approached the harbour boom in the moonless night. The captain ordered the oars shipped, and the huge vessel drifted sideways and thudded against the log bumpers. The prisoner, chained and gagged, a black sack over his head, was loaded into a skiff along with an escort of six thematic marines. The small boat was lowered on the other side of the boom. With four of the marines at the oars, the skiff moved away towards Neorion Harbour. It came alongside a small dock just inside the boom; the dhromons of the Imperial Fleet were dark silhouettes off to the right of the little-used stone jetty. Four Khazar guards waiting on the quay communicated the correct password and hoisted the passive body up onto the dock. The prisoner, still attired in the now-fouled silk tunic of his rank, resisted briefly when the Khazar guards slipped a large leather bag over his entire body and carried him off on their shoulders. The four Khazars carried their package quickly through the streets that angled among the military warehouses of the Neorion district. Twice the escort was confronted, then passed along by sentries. The Khazars came around the back of Neorion Tower and halted before the black steel gates. Their pass was accepted and they moved their prisoner up the dank, reeking stairs to the interrogation rooms on the tenth level. The prisoner was tied face up on a wheel-like wooden rack, and the Khazar guards left the prisoner with the interrogators, two smooth-faced Pechenegs who worked-silently over their instruments at an adjacent table, honing blades and setting out leather straps.
The Emperor Michael arrived a quarter of an hour later. He wore the scaramangium, pallium and diadem of his rank. When the Pecheneg interrogators had finished their prostrations, the Emperor signalled for them to leave. The huge steel doors slid and clanked. The prisoner breathed in even, shallow wheezes. Michael walked round the wheel for a moment; as he did, he placed his hands in front of his chest and touched the tips of his fingers together again and again in light, rapid movements. He closed his eyes and became very still and his entire head and torso inclined forward very slowly, as if he were a wax sculptor’s model gradually slumping in a fierce heat. Then his eyes popped open and his dark irises struck out at the bloodstained floor, as if the shafts of pure malevolence they projected were all that prevented his collapse. He stared for a long moment, and then his hand shot out and jerked the sack from the prisoner’s head. The prisoner’s eyes blinked in the lamplight. ‘Father,’ whispered the Emperor. ‘It is time for you to repent.’
Stephan Kalaphates, recently recalled Droungarios of the theme of Sicily, was a small, paunchy man; his belly, distended over the rack, quivered like an aspic. He was tightly gagged, but his dark eyes, writhing head, and gurgling throat conveyed the terror, outrage and astonishment of his strangled words.
Michael prodded his father’s bound hand with trembling fingers. ‘Look, Father, your hands are still dirty.’ Stephan stopped writhing and merely glared at his son in mute fury. ‘I remember how you used to take me down to the shipyards, as if to see you smear pitch on the sides of boats was some great marvel, like watching the Emperor in procession. I hated the pitch. I could not get the stink of it off no matter how I washed. Those men and you stank of it. Those men and you showed me the stinking vat of hot pitch and said I would burn in it because I touched myself. And then you tarred it! You tarred it!’ Michael’s face was livid, and he grabbed his crotch violently. ‘Because I did that! For doing that! I do it all the time, Father, and God has not punished me. I touch it all the time, Father! I touch i
t in God’s presence. I place the Pantocrator’s hand on it!’ Michael leered over his father like a drunken man, and Stephan’s head jerked up and down, cracking against the hard wooden wheel. ‘Mother touched it too. Mother cleansed me. Mother still touches it. And I still touch her.’
Michael ran his hands down his stiff, jewel-studded pallium, his fingertips grazing the raised gems as if they were women’s nipples. ‘I am a splendid Emperor, am I not, Father? My people love me. They do not call me, as they do you, “the pygmy playing Heracles” or “the ass costumed as a Droungarios”. They call me their father. Their beloved father. The light of their world.’ Michael stared into the oil lamps on the grim stone wall behind the rack. He cocked his head once to each side. The Pantocrator and I are together inside a light. Do you know that we have talked about our fathers, not the Holy Spirit who begat us, but our worldly fathers. His father was a tradesman, a good carpenter who loved his son and never fouled His mother. I told Him how you had scourged and mocked me and what you had done to my mother, and He told me what I should do so that you might repent and be cleansed. So that you will no longer stink of pitch.’
The Emperor exhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Stephan’s head resumed its grotesque protest, pounding the wheel with sickening thuds and hideous, thwarted cries. ‘Shut up, Father!’ Michael blinked his eyes in furious concentration. He turned away from the struggling figure on the rack. ‘I know he isn’t the only unclean father,’ he said to someone else. ‘I know that the other father tried to trick me. He tried to get me to tell him our secret. He thought he was so clever. He doesn’t want me to have my new mother.’ Michael leaned his head back and issued a strange, barking laugh. ‘He tried to tell me that you lied to me! He tried to tell me that you are Satan!’ The strange laugh again. ‘He is Satan! They are all Satan! They don’t want me to have my new mother! They are all going to have to be cleansed!’
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