Byzantium - A Novel

by Michael Ennis

  Theodora laughed. ‘I will let her go,’ she said, but Haraldr was not certain if she was sincere or merely placating him to another end. Theodora became serious again, and Haraldr identified the fear communicated by her small, pinched mouth. ‘This seat is not the most comfortable,’ she told him. ‘It is broad enough but not stable. One expects to fall off at any moment.’ Haraldr nodded. ‘I need a man to steady it for me. A strong and loyal man. I know you have the first-mentioned quality. Maria says you are also the second.’ She looked at him gently. ‘I am not asking you to stay by me for long. My sister will marry again. Soon, I hope, to a man who can govern justly. And then I will return to a more modest yet more secure perch.’

  Haraldr was taken by her directness and apparent guileless-ness, though who could tell with these Romans? ‘Majesty,’ he said, ‘I am more than willing to discuss a temporary service to your person and office. But my strength is twined with another, as you know. And I do not even know her fate now. Can you help me?’

  Theodora’s wincing eyes convinced Haraldr that his concern was shared. ‘I am looking for her as well. But I am also looking for my sister. I believe there may be the same solution to both riddles. Those two know places in this palace that have been forgotten for centuries.’ Theodora looked about uneasily at the representatives of her unlikely coalition. ‘I think Maria is trying to mediate for me. I pray she is, because the success of this enterprise is still in grave doubt.’

  Haraldr bowed, overcome with mere hope. But the idea of Maria having gone to Zoe, if Michael still held Zoe under his sway, was chilling as well. Fate had made this day too long. He looked up at his new Mother. ‘Majesty, I will serve you until such time as you feel this enterprise is no longer in doubt.’

  Haraldr withdrew and was immediately accosted by a member of Alexius’s staff. ‘The Father wishes to see you,’ said the priest, an aggressive-looking young man who might have been a military officer except for his red-and-white vestments. He led Haraldr to the second-storey gallery and then across the sumptuously carpeted walkway to the Patriarchal offices. In spite of his oppressive melancholy, Haraldr could not help but marvel at the richness of the arcades beneath which even ordinary officials worked - and today they seemed to be working extraordinarily feverishly. The walls sparkled with jewelled, gilded and enamelled icons. Writing tables were surfaced in ivory veneer. Mosaics covered the spandrels of the arches.

  After passing through a series of ante-chambers and sitting rooms as splendid as any in the Emperor’s apartments, Haraldr was admitted to the most elegant dining chamber in New Rome. The vaulted room was octagonal, with a gold dome three storeys above the floor. The walls were carved with elaborate arched niches filled with white marble reliefs representing various saints. Alexius sat alone at the end of a table covered with a red-and-gold cloth. He had removed his towering diadem but wore his usual encrustation of jewels and gold thread.

  The Patriarch gestured for Haraldr to sit in a gilded, backless chair opposite his own. ‘I know you like fish,’ he said. Haraldr had no idea how Alexius presumed to know this. ‘May I offer you some?’ Haraldr was famished and he nodded, though Alexius made him sufficiently uneasy to curb his appetite under ordinary circumstances. Almost immediately a servant set a silver plate embossed with a large Chi-Rho, the monogram of the Christ. A second servant served the fish from a large golden platter, and yet a third ladled the garos sauce from a silver pitcher. Haraldr had to restrain himself from shoving the entire fish into his mouth and swallowing it like a bear.

  ‘You are a Christian?’ asked Alexius. Haraldr nodded. ‘And what is your church like in this Norway?’

  Haraldr’s accelerating pulse registered the warning. He needed to sharpen his wits for this exchange. ‘It is a Christian church, Father.’

  ‘But its bishops hew to the authority of the see of Old Rome and practise the Latin creed, do they not?’

  ‘Father, you must understand that the Christian faith is only a few decades old in my country, and that I left home when I was too young to know that the Christian faith had several factions.’

  Alexius’s wiry eyebrows lowered. ‘There are no factions, my son. There is only the church, the One True Oecumenical, Orthodox and Catholic Faith. And the schismatics who would deny the divinity of the Christ.’ Alexius took a bite of fish and chewed it carefully, then patted his elegant lips with his embroidered napkin. ‘An interesting rumour has emerged from the tumult of this day. It is said that you are in fact the King of this land of Norway.’

  Haraldr dropped his fork in his plate. ‘Father ... I have pledged my loyalty to the Augusta, as I have to all who have worn the Imperial Diadem, at least all who have proved themselves worthy of that office.’

  Alexius raised his hand. ‘My son, I do not accuse you of treason. You could have taken Rome this morning had you that ambition. Yes, there is always a great deal of concern about an invasion from the north, and there are the prophecies as well. I am sure you are quite weary of hearing them. Those are not my concerns. I am only troubled by fair-haired Christians who might embrace the Latin creed and be led to eternal perdition by the pontiff of Old Rome.’

  Alexius ruminated on another bite offish before continuing. ‘I would like to propose this to you. The truth of your lineage is certain to become common knowledge, indeed has already circulated fairly widely. I will pledge to you that I will make certain that no consequence of any sort arises from these revelations. You in turn must promise to me that when you return to rule your Norway, you will permit my priests to bring the One True Faith among your people.’

  Haraldr fought his numbness, trying to tell himself that fate had offered another boon. For the mere price of passage for a few priests, he now had an immensely powerful ally who actually had an interest in seeing to his prompt return to Norway. But was this another mocking mask that destiny wore? What would he return to without Maria? ‘Father,’ he forced himself to reply, ‘I do not see how my people could but benefit from this instruction.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the Patriarch. He pushed his plate away and a servant immediately removed it. ‘We have girded ourselves for the eternal struggle. Now let us consider a conflict of a more immediate and temporal nature.’ Apprehension churned Haraldr’s hasty meal. He realized that this man, like fate, made no easy bargains. ‘Our position is currently very tenuous. Our factions are held together by the hope that the purple-born sisters will rule jointly. Unfortunately Zoe has not appeared before her people with an endorsement of her sister. I fear that she may even have fled with Michael and will attempt to rally her people to his cause.’

  ‘I have the same fear, Father.’

  ‘I now know where the tyrant has fled, although I do not as yet know if Zoe is with him or whether she has assisted his escape. The Emperor and his uncle are petitioning the monks of the Holy Studite Monastery to accept them into their keeping. I need not tell you that our Emperor’s sudden piety will last only until he can arrive at some new scheme for seducing Zoe to his purpose.’

  Haraldr saw the awful dimensions of this bargain taking shape. He remembered his strange covenant with Michael on the ambo at the Hagia Sophia. He forced himself to challenge Alexius’s pacing eyes. ‘So. If the tyrant is to be killed, better that the deed be done by a man who has the support of the people, yet represents no particular faction. A Varangian.’

  Alexius did not humour Haraldr with a smile. ‘I want you to perform an execution. Not of death, however. We are a Christian nation. Blinding should be sufficient to render Michael’s . . .vision harmless.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Haraldr, ‘I should like him to enjoy the fate he intended for me. But have you considered that I might also have reason to kill him?’

  ‘The matter of your . . . betrothed? I think he has been too busy with other worries to have harmed her.’

  ‘And if he has?’

  ‘As I say, it would be better for our Christian nation not to be tainted with the blood of the Pantocrator’s Vice-R
egent on Earth. And of course the boy’s death might unduly prejudice Zoe against our cause, though the Empress has displayed a remarkable capacity to embrace life again after the deaths of her previous lovers.’ Alexius paused and then uncaged his menacing black eyes. ‘Let me offer you this, King Haraldr, if I may call you that. It is not unknown for the sentence of blinding to wound a man so severely that he dies shortly afterwards, sometimes within the very hour. But in that case the sentence of death would have been pronounced and executed by the Heavenly Tribunal, and not by this corrupt flesh here below.’

  The first shadows of twilight painted the Mese a melancholy purple tint. Clouds in neat, cobbled formations crept across the sky from the north. Cold gusts stinging with dust ripped along the filthy side streets and swirled to meet the horsemen head on as they turned south-east towards the Golden Gate.

  Haraldr had taken only Halldor and Ulfr on this ugly journey. Whether one believed that kings were descended from gods or were simply endowed on earth with the sanction of God, the killing of a king was a challenge to the gods.

  The horsemen passed four men and a woman running south; their coarse tunics were whipped by the wind. The citizens cheered the Varangians as they galloped past. ‘Michael! Michael! Upside down . . .’ they shouted, their words fading behind the flying horses.

  ‘At least you offer him mercy!’ Halldor shouted into the wind. ‘The citizens want to chain him upside down to a column and take him apart piece by piece!’

  ‘Let us hope they have not already!’ shouted Haraldr. ‘We confront the gods in this. Let us not profane them as well!’ The avenue quarter-turned to the east, and the three Varangians rode between ageing but clean tenements. People stood on the balconies and cheered as they passed; it was almost as if they were waiting for the Emperor in procession. And perhaps they were.

  The groups on the street increased in size as the Varangians approached the Sigma, a marginal district on the borders of the festering Studion. Well-kept tenements rose next to gutted wooden shells. Some of the shuttered shops and inns had signs with bright new paint, while other arcades gaped dark and empty and drew packs of dogs. Vegetable gardens grew in the cleared lots. The rushing crowds had new verses to their ditty, recounting their successful assault of the palace. One group still carried their spears and hollered, ‘Haraldr! Haraldr! Emperor slayer . . .’

  Near the west end of the Sigma, the Mese ran directly through a broad, poorly kept park. Noxious grit howling up from the Studion filled the air with a dull, sandy haze and obscured the spring verdancy of the vast lawn. Haraldr called for Halldor and Ulfr to slow; he lowered his head to blink away the scouring grit. When he had cleared his eyes, he squinted obliquely into the wind. An enormous crowd was spilling into the park from the west end. The vanguard of this throng, their individual features blurred by the haze, danced in rough circles and chanted raucous ditties.

  The crowd surged forward and soon surrounded the three Varangians. They cheered the Norsemen furiously and sang a fractured verse about Haraldr sending the hated Mar off as a messenger pigeon to his Emperor, but that this bird had failed to take wing. The prostitutes who had fought in the morning had painted their faces again and came forward and kissed the Varangians’ legs and offered them a lifetime of gratis pleasures. The cutpurses and petty thieves had exchanged their spears for wine bags and sang and hopped about with flushed faces and wine-stained teeth and chins. A chorus of preening thugs battled forward for an impromptu performance. ‘Michael stuck it in Zoe, he stuck it in us, now we’ll stick it in his mouth!’ they shouted with appropriately obscene gestures. Haraldr wished the Blue Star was not back at the Hagia Sophia. Her people had become a mob now, as intoxicated with their power as Michael had been with his.

  Haraldr pushed on towards the vortex of the celebration. He was relieved to find that the centre of this storm was relatively calm; more responsible men, wearing the threadbare but clean linen tunics of the labourers who worked honestly to rise above the squalor of the Studion, moved along with controlled malice in their eyes. They paused when they saw Haraldr, as if awaiting his authority in whatever matter they were about, and stood respectfully away from his horse. A young man in an official silk robe got through and anxiously confronted the Varangians. Haraldr recognized him: Michael Psellus, a young Hellenistic scholar and Imperial secretary who had not had a hand in Michael’s crimes. ‘Sir,’ called up Psellus, ‘the mob has driven them from the Holy Studite Monastery! They mean to rip their very limbs apart!’ Psellus, unlike such presumptuous Hellenes as Senator Scylitzes, was a man of true learning, but panic had clearly overcome his usually carefully considered Attic eloquence.

  The Varangians dismounted. ‘Where is the Emperor, Psellus?’ asked Haraldr. The labourers stepped aside as Psellus preceded the Varangians into their midst. Masses of men, women and children continued to flood into the park, and already the crowd was so enormous that the distant outer perimeter was masked in choking ochre dust.

  Haraldr was rendered numb by the apparitions at the very epicentre of the whirlwind. He recognized Constantine, though the Nobilissimus had exchanged his purple robes for the sackcloth of a monk. Constantine looked defiantly at Haraldr, his care-hollowed countenance so much like his brother Joannes’s that Haraldr was momentarily startled into thinking that some monstrous transmutation had taken place.

  There was nothing left of the Emperor, Autocrator and Basileus of the Romans. The boy who stood next to Constantine was beardless, his dark curls shorn like a novitiate’s. Michael’s head bowed, his shoulders trembled, and he whimpered like a wounded dog. His entire body seemed drawn in, as if fear had eaten away his internal organs.

  ‘They have petitioned to take the vows,’ said Psellus. ‘Can you appeal to the crowd to spare them and allow them to return to their sanctuary?’

  Haraldr looked at the young scholar and realized that for all his classical erudition, there were things that Psellus could learn from even the sotted derelicts of the Studion. ‘And how long would Michael and Constantine wait to discard these monastic robes and take up their former purple when this danger has passed?’

  Psellus collected himself and nodded. ‘Of course. It is simply that to see the power of our glorious Empire degraded in this way moves me to compassion. And such spectacles can only inflame a lust for rebellion among the people. What are your orders?’ Haraldr showed Psellus the order, signed by Theodora, commanding him to blind both Michael and Constantine. ‘I think that sentence will assuage their lust,’ said Psellus. ‘I also think you had better show that order to them.’ Psellus gestured to the crowding labourers.

  Haraldr nodded, his estimate of Psellus’s wisdom rapidly rising. He passed the order among the labourers. As the purple-tinted document circulated, they began to voice agreement. ‘Yes, that is just. Theodora is right in this.’

  Michael’s head lifted. ‘I will carry my cross.’ Haraldr looked into the eyes he had been sent to destroy. ‘He suffered these scourges as well. He wants me to carry my cross as he did. What? What?’ Michael’s words were barely distinguishable above the clamour of the mob.

  He is completely mad, thought Haraldr. Will he even remember Maria? ‘Majesty,’ said Haraldr evenly, afraid that a stern tone might precipitate a hysteria from which no answers would be forthcoming, ‘where is Maria?’

  Michael stared into the void only he occupied. ‘With my Marys.’ He cocked his head. ‘They don’t like her. Even the Magdalen repented. No, I have rather decided that White Mary will be my mother.’

  Haraldr was chilled almost beyond hope. The nature of the sentence Theodora had pronounced sizzled through the crowd like liquid fire. Evidently few in the outer circles approved of the new Empress’s leniency. ‘Michael, Michael, upside down!’ came the thundering chants. ‘Death to the tyrant!’ ‘Skin him!’ ‘Crown his arse!’

  Michael clutched Haraldr with claw-like hands. ‘Nordbrikt! What can the bitches offer you that I cannot?’ His eyes were suddenly brilliant and aware
. ‘Together we will conquer the earth from the Pillars of Heracles to the Gates of Dionysus. They will call you the Macedonian, after Alexander. You will have a hundred tributary kingdoms and a thousand Marys. You have proved yourself worthy. I have tested you, Nordbrikt, and you alone are the man who can bring these victories to Rome. Rule with me, Nordbrikt. You the Autocrator, I the Caesar. My Father in Heaven sanctions it.’

  Haraldr clutched Michael’s shoulders, and the Emperor recoiled with pain and fear. ‘Where is Maria?’

  Michael collapsed to his knees. ‘Oh, Father!’ he wailed. ‘Oh, Father!’ He pounded the earth. ‘Father, you have forsaken me. Oh, Holy Spirit, smite my foes!’ Michael tore at the sparse clumps of grass and tossed handfuls of dust and chaff in the air. ‘My Father, why have you forsaken me!’ He wailed hysterically, his shorn boy’s face livid with distress, his eyes luminous with tears that left dusty tracks on his face. He sobbed and then shrieked, ‘I cannot forgive them and neither could you! Don’t lie to me! Don’t lie to me! You always lied, didn’t you? You are Satan. You are Satan! You tricked me!’

  The crowd surged inward and the vortex compressed. Constantine was pushed into Haraldr. ‘Oh, Lord, have mercy on us sinners,’ Constantine sobbed. The crowd hurled oaths wildly. ‘Skin them!’ ‘Cut their throats!’ ‘Death to the tyrant! Death! Death!’ Haraldr remembered Maria’s description of her dream in every chilling detail. She had the gift, and yet fate did not always obey her. ‘Death to the tyrant!’ shouted the mob again and again. The sun had set and there was a final coppery tint in the thickening, swirling dust.

  ‘You must act!’ shouted Psellus. ‘In a moment the mob will have its way. That lust must never be consummated or all Rome will perish in its heat.’ Halldor held up the sharpened spikes and looked grimly at Haraldr. ‘Psellus is right. You must act now if you wish to spare them.’