Byzantium - A Novel

by Michael Ennis

  Maria looked up at him and sobbed. ‘How will you . . . escape?’

  ‘I cannot go down with you,’ said Haraldr. ‘There will be too many guards. They still think you are a priest and a nun. They know I am not supposed to be leaving.’ He looked around the room, studying the ropes and various paraphernalia of torture. ‘I have to go up.’ He let go of Maria and began gathering supplies. As he worked, Maria and Symeon told him of the incredible events that had ensued in his absence: the banishment of Zoe and the charges against the Patriarch; the rising of the city; the encampment of his Varangians and a citizen army in the Hippodrome.

  When Haraldr had assembled his gear, he bagged it in one of the Pecheneg’s tunics. Then he led Maria and Symeon back into the stairwell. ‘Go now,’ he whispered. Maria hesitated. She threw her arms around him and clung fiercely. ‘We are taunting destiny with these farewells,’ she whispered harshly. ‘Fate will not always give you back to me; it cannot be that generous.’ Haraldr took her arms from him and looked into her blazing eyes. ‘The gods serve those who obey their summons. You have proved that by giving me back my life.’ His voice rose in the dismal shaft. ‘Go. Go.’ She turned, looked back at him again, and then Symeon gently urged her down the stairs. She was gone before the gods whispered that he might never see her again.

  Haraldr ascended the last flight. As he had expected, the stairwell ended at a steel trapdoor. He crushed the padlock with the steel mallet he had found in the interrogation chamber. He climbed out onto the roof. The wind whistled and he immediately saw the conflagrations along the spine of the city. He paused for a moment, rapt with the spectacle. The palaces of the Dhynatoi were crumbling into gutted hulks. To the south, thousands of torchlights moved in and around the Hippodrome.

  Haraldr looked over the low parapet that ringed the roof. The pavement was twelve storeys below; the intervening walls of Neorion were sheer grey rock articulated with only a single band of small windows on the lowest level. Haraldr used the mallet to drive a steel spike - one of the brands intended for his eyes - into the stone. He looped a length of rope over the spike and fastened the other end under his arms. He slung his gear over his back and crawled over the wall. Odin, Christ, he prayed. He let go of the parapet and allowed the rope to take all his weight. Iron and stone screeched faintly, like an insect dying.

  Driving spikes as needed and reusing his short lengths of rope, Haraldr rappelled to within a dozen ells of the pavement before his spikes ran out. He jumped the rest of the way, landing hard. He heard shouts from the road to the west: Khazars, about a dozen. He did not wait to satisfy their curiosity. To his left was a small wooded area that ran south towards the Church of St Irene. The cool fragrance of the trees engulfed him. He heard shouts and realized that the Khazars had followed. He thrashed through several rows of shrubs and saw the huge, brightly lit apse windows at the eastern end of St Irene. He crossed the lawn that bordered the church; off to his left, the windows of the neighbouring Hagia Sophia glowed like golden studs set into the night. Shouts came from the walled courtyard on the south side of the church. He looked back; Khazars had followed him across the lawn. He heard more of them coming around the apse from the north. They seemed to be everywhere.

  Haraldr leapt to the ledge beneath the towering apse windows. He kicked out glass panes and wooden lattice and jumped. He landed in the midst of a group of exclaiming, fervently praying priests; they had been seated, as was customary, in tiers just behind the altar. Haraldr clutched the robe of the first priest he could get his hands on. ‘Where is your underground!’ he bellowed at the dazed cleric; the entire palace complex was linked by a network of subterranean passageways.

  ‘If it is sanctuary--’ began a white-haired old priest.

  ‘Show me the passage!’ shouted Haraldr. A young priest rushed forward and pulled him to a small door set into the wall behind the altar. They ducked into the dark storeroom as the Khazars climbed through the shattered window. The priest threw open a wooden hatch set into the floor. ‘Bless you, Father!’ shouted Haraldr as he descended the steps into the darkness.

  Haraldr navigated the abrupt turns of the damp-smelling passageway; he had to duck his head to keep from hitting it on the low ceiling. After a while he could see the slight illumination of his pursuers’ torches. The passage forked. Which way? He was uncertain now if he was pointed south or east. Or west? One fork led to the Hagia Sophia, he reasoned; the priests there, no doubt still led by their besieged Patriarch, would surely conceal him and show him a way out into the city. Fate instructed him and he took the left fork.

  The passageway lowered and he had to crouch. He could hear the Khazars shout to one another. He scuttled along desperately through the claustrophobic tunnel. And on and on. He realized that the Mother Church was not this far from St Irene, but he was beyond turning back. He remembered the cul-de-sac in the Bulgar-Slayer’s galleries and wondered when he would encounter a similar dead end and have to turn and face the Khazars.

  The floor became slick and he could smell the water. Not just seepage, but oppressive, cold, dank, a wetness that thickened the air like a wind off an icy lake. The passageway ended beneath an arcade. Flares a good bowshot away rippled in golden rivulets across an onyx-black underground lake, illuminating the hundreds of columns and brick vaults of the Cisterna Basilica. Haraldr gasped with involuntary wonder; he had heard of the great ‘sunken palace’ but had never before seen it. He could not appreciate the beauty of the intricately carved floral capitals that thrust up the honeycomb of groined vaults; the cistern seemed only like a vast stone forest rising from a Stygian swamp.

  Haraldr sheathed his blade in his burlap loincloth and lowered himself into the icy water. The submersion of his chest left him gasping for breath. He stroked furiously. A third of the way across, he heard the shouts roll through the vaults and looked back to see the Khazar torches in the arcade from which he had embarked. As he approached the far end of the cistern he paused and treaded water while he studied the guards on the small landing ahead of him. Khazars. Four of them; they were obviously standing guard over an entry point from the city. A rowing-boat was tied up at one end of the wooden landing; Haraldr hoped that the Khazars would be foolish enough to paddle out after him. But the Khazars simply unsheathed their swords and waited for the inevitable finish of his swim.

  Haraldr paddled to within fifty ells of the landing. He continued to tread water and taunted the Khazars in Greek. They responded with curses in their own language. One of them sheathed his sword, swung his bow off his back, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and took aim. Haraldr ducked under the water and swam forward. When he came up for air, he was only twenty ells away. Another Khazar aimed at him and he took two quick breaths and ducked under again.

  The two other Khazars quickly sheathed their swords, strung their bows, and joined in the sport; all four of them crowded towards the edge of the landing and began wagering on who would hit the ‘big white fish’ first. They studied the surface intently, arrows drawn. Nothing. Then the water splashed right in front of them, and one of the guards pitched forward into the inky void, immediately disappeared, and a moment later bobbed up, his neck tilted unnaturally. The astonished bowmen shouted and fired aimlessly into the dark water. More thrashing at the end of the landing. They turned.

  Haraldr was already on the dock. He decapitated the nearest Khazar and with a single swat sent another sprawling into the water. The third Khazar dropped his bow and went to his knees on his own accord. ‘You know who I am?’ Haraldr said in Greek. The trembling Khazar nodded. ‘I let you live.’ He pointed to the boat. ‘Go back to your unit and tell them that Haraldr Nordbrikt and his Varangians will come against them soon, and there will be no mercy for those who oppose us. But there will be amnesty for all who refuse to take arms against us and the Empress of Rome.’ The Khazar dipped his head to the wooden slats. Then, still crouched and looking back at Haraldr like a frightened cur, he crawled to the boat, tumbled in, and paddled back towards t
he palace.

  ‘I am ... inspired, Uncle,’ said Michael, flourishing his gem-encrusted pallium. His dark eyes flashed beneath the blazing candelabra of the Chrysotriklinos. ‘I am not a fool. The employment of Hunrodarson is merely expedient. I have no more intention of making him Basileus than I do of placing a dead fish on our glorious throne. Do you think the Pantocrator would continue to sanction me if I were that foolish? No, Mar Hunrodarson will serve his purpose and then join his former accomplice, Haraldr Nordbrikt, in the Neorion.’ Michael’s lips quivered and his teeth flashed momentarily. ‘I rather fancy that little girl he has abducted. She is so ... pristine. I quite see her as my mistress. My virgin Magdalen. “White Mary” is what her name means.’

  Constantine’s forehead prickled and his stomach roiled. How had his nephew fooled him for so long? Or, perhaps, why had he for so long dismissed his nephew’s obvious symptoms as mere impetuosity or youthful caprice? But he should have known, he should have been alarmed, he should have slowed things down. But Michael could be so brilliant, so able. Was it a family curse, or was it in the nature of the Imperial Office to drive men mad? Perhaps the man supplied the madness, but the office supplied the form of that madness. The endless enactment of the Pantocrator’s life in the ritual at court, with each journey through the city a restaging of Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem, with each state banquet a repetition of the symbolism of the Last Supper; the implication, by the very breadth of the Imperial Throne, that the Pantocrator himself sat next to the Emperor. Little wonder that Michael had come to believe he knew the Pantocrator intimately; it was perhaps a tribute to Michael’s qualities that he did not yet believe he was the Pantocrator. Perhaps it was Christian Rome itself that suffered from the delusion, and Michael was only afflicted with the contagion of that hubris. Or perhaps it was true that Satan himself did dispense the keys to the kingdoms of the world.

  ‘Majesty,’ said Constantine delicately, ‘I fear that the Pantocrator is ... testing us with yet another travail in this enterprise of ours. I am informed that both the Tauro-Scythian Haraldr Nordbrikt and the woman Maria have escaped from their respective confinements.’

  Michael’s eyes widened for a moment. He tilted his head slightly, listening. ‘My mistake was in choosing a Magdalen who was both sullied and unrepentant. That is why my White Mary has now been sent to me.’ His gaze was distant, as if he looked off towards the vast, shimmering golden domes of new Jerusalem. ‘My mother must be a virgin. I know that now.’

  ‘Nephew!’ snapped Constantine in desperation. ‘If Haraldr Nordbrikt has escaped to lead the citizen rabble, the consequences could be grave. You, yourself, have said never to bet against a man who has won so many times that it seems he cannot possibly win again. Haraldr Nordbrikt has cheated destiny so often, I am most reluctant to wager against him now.’

  ‘Mar Hunrodarson is also a man favoured by fortune. I rather think that the good fortunes of both brutes will quite cancel each other.’

  Constantine nodded, grateful that the Pantocrator’s companion still enjoyed moments of lucidity. ‘Still, Nephew, even if the Tauro-Scythians neutralize each other, we are confronted with the unabated wrath of the rabble.’ Constantine steeled himself and offered the only counsel that a man of reason and ability could in a situation like this. ‘Majesty, I think we should call the Empress back from the convent at Principio. We merely need have her read a proclamation to the citizen rabble, and then maintain her under house arrest, as your predecessor did. I am certain she will be amenable. They say she was entirely undone with the prospect of leaving her city when she was taken aboard ship.’

  Michael paused and waved his hand airily. ‘Oh, that, Uncle. Yes, quite. I have already dispatched four of my fastest galleys of the ousiai class towards Principio, with extra complements of rowers and relays waiting for the return voyage. The Empress will be here shortly before cock-crow. And after the Tauro-Scythians have successfully eliminated each other in the morning’s combat, I will produce her to quiet the rabble.’

  Constantine bowed. ‘Majesty,’ he whispered with relief, ‘I believe you are indeed inspired.’

  ‘So I will place my linen weavers and bakers and grocers here,’ said John, a thick-armed, short-haired leather cutter who had emerged as the leader of the guildsmen. He knelt and pointed at the rough map Halldor had sketched in the sand of the Hippodrome track. Halldor forced himself to concentrate, as he had all evening.

  He was certain now that Haraldr was dead, and his implacable shell was beginning to crack. But he had to hold himself together until tomorrow. Until the day of vengeance. He prodded the indicated place in the sand with the point of his sword. ‘Yes. Tell them that the diversionary attack at the Chalke Gate is of crucial importance. And if they can force the gate, all the better. Our success here depends on the vigour of their assault there.’ Halldor turned to the Blue Star’s son, who leaned over the scrawls in the sand and studied them so intently that it seemed his jutting beard would erase the plan. ‘Nicetas,’ said Halldor, ‘your . . . associates will be the first to strike. Just before dawn, at the Bucoleon gates. That is the last quarter from which they expect an attack. You will probably achieve initial success and then meet strong resistance. Remember that holding your ground is just as important to us as an advance.’ Halldor looked at the Blue Star, who stood with her arms folded and a keen, steely look in her eyes, as if she heard the echoes of her earlier triumphs on this track. ‘Your attack is the most important, Madame. Especially since we know that Mar Hunrodarson’s Varangians are coming against us tomorrow. I am certain that they will defend the Imperial Box. It is imperative that the Imperial Taghmata is not permitted to come down into the stadium and encircle my Varangians while we assault the Imperial Box.’

  ‘Tomorrow the high and mighty will reap the whirlwind of the Studion,’ said the Blue Star. ‘There are accounts to be settled.’

  Halldor dismissed his curious assortment of officers and looked up to the Imperial Box. ‘Mar will have the advantage of high ground and numbers,’ he told Ulfr. ‘When Odin sends me a Valkyrja, I hope she is tight and wicked.’

  ‘The web of man is now being woven,’ said Ulfr sombrely. ‘The Valkyrja will cross it with their blood-red weft.’ He looked at the stars, only faintly visible through the pall from the fires and torches. ‘We have an account to settle as well. I hope Odin will spare me long enough for that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Halldor, his voice breaking for the first time in Ulfr’s memory. ‘We will never see our comrade again in the middle realm. But tomorrow we will see him in the Valhol. If there is joy in this, it is that I will drain Odin’s mead trenches with Haraldr tomorrow.’ Halldor’s voice firmed again. ‘And bring him a thousand souls as a gesture of my love and respect.’

  Ulfr manfully grimaced to stop his tears and pointed down the track where a contingent of guildsmen were practising their spear assault. ‘We will bring many souls with us. Your idea of forming units according to profession was a good one. These guildsmen are already becoming an adequate army. And what the folk of the Studion lack in tactics they will make up for in ferocity and courage.’

  ‘And I have never seen Varangians so thirsty for the eagle’s brew. It is as if every man has Odin’s Rage.’ Halldor nodded to the groups of Varangians, many already in full armour -they would sleep tonight with their helmets as pillows - as they worked over their blades or assembled siege ladders. Halldor turned and observed a Varangian in a ridiculously undersize rough wool tunic stagger through the ranks of the drilling guildsmen. ‘All eager except this sot,’ said Halldor with mild derision. ‘He must have found the only inn open in the city. Tomorrow he will think that someone is pounding his helm with a broad-axe before he even sees Mar’s men.’ Halldor squinted into the flickering light provided by hundreds of torches. ‘Who is that? Erlend?’

  Ulfr lurched forward as if drawn by a stunning vision. He stopped after a few steps and an incoherent sound came from his throat. Then he dashed towards the
stumblebum Varangian and almost knocked him down with a frantic embrace. He sobbed like a woman. The drunken Varangian pulled Ulfr to his feet and virtually carried him over to Halldor.

  Halldor grinned broadly in spite of his effort not to. ‘Haraldr,’ he said, his impassive voice betrayed by the tears in his eyes, ‘I thought that was you. You look like something a gull has dropped. No wonder the black-bitch Valkyrja sent you back to us.’

  The quiet seemed supernatural, a thick, soundless ether that lay over the great city, disturbed only by an occasional haunting animal sound, a distant cock-crow, or dog’s bark quickly muted by the grey pre-dawn haze. It was as if the human inhabitants of the city obeyed a single collective fear, that in speaking or moving they would set in motion the terrible day that lay ahead.

  In the Imperial Gynaeceum, Michael, Emperor, Autocrator and Basileus of Rome, clutched the hands of the Empress Zoe, a communion as silent as the city. He could not confront her haggard, black-rimmed eyes and shorn hair, and so his bare head slumped in apology. The darkness of Zoe’s bedchamber hid his tear-coursed face. Finally Zoe separated her fingers from his. She reached out and stroked his dark curls. ‘I forgive you, my little boy,’ she whispered. And with those words the huge engines of destiny began the new day.

  Mar Hunrodarson stood on the catwalk atop the roof of the Imperial Box, a living titan among the immortal statues that ringed the highest level of the Hippodrome. Mar’s Varangians were a dull grey shield wall surrounding the Imperial Box. Archers and javelin throwers of the Imperial Taghmata, also a wall of faint pewter in their steel breastplates and helmets, had crept over the highest tiers on the north side of the Imperial Box and waited for the slaughter that would fill the scores of rows of empty seats below. On the track directly beneath them, the ragtag army of the Studion had assembled; they wore almost uniform brown tunics and were armed with wicker shields and an assortment of clubs, tools, spears and knives. The women among them could be identified by the coarse linen veils that concealed their hair. Haraldr’s Varangians stood in full armoured formation in front of the stadium’s central spina; wooden siege ladders threaded their ranks.