Spira Mirabilis

by Aidan Harte

  And if his armour failed to deter, his exkoubitores were fierce enough to daunt any would-be assassin.

  The autokrator was supposed to remain neutral in the rivalry of the racing teams beloved of the rabble, but Jorge’s partisanship was obvious in his lush green cloak fastened at his right shoulder with a gaudy dolphin brooch. The green advertised his affiliation in the hippodrome and the dolphin his success there. If any doubts remained, the golden whip in his belt confirmed that here was an Imperator of the Quadriga as well as the battlefield.

  His every gesture revealed energy and enthusiasm, and all remarked on how different the young hero was to the boorish Prince Andronikos, who had come to Akka to browbeat and overthrow his niece. The queen’s ladies swooned over Jorge’s entourage of young bloods, all, like him, heroes of the tracks, and many of them gamblers too, who’d won their fortunes there. The rumours surrounding Jorge’s ascent added an irresistible hint of danger.

  Grand Master Basilius and Patriarch Chrysoberges ran to the queen to warn her what to expect. Basilius described the strength of the expeditionary force, while the patriarch breathlessly reported that the young prince had brought an army of bureaucrats too.

  ‘Whatever for, I wonder?’ But before Catrina could speculate further, the man himself was announced.

  ‘Queen Catrina, I came as soon as I received your summons.’

  ‘I’m unused to such fidelity in my northern subjects,’ the queen said dryly.

  There was no chink in the young man’s confident smile as he dropped to his knee. ‘You shall find me in every respect loyal.’

  ‘Forgive my scepticism, Prince Jorge, but I heard similar protestations from your predecessor.’

  ‘Forgive my boldness, Majesty, but your uncle lacked the essential skill to be a prince.’

  Catrina looked amused. ‘What skill, pray, is that?’

  ‘How to recognise a queen, of course.’

  ‘How to recognise a queen …’ She turned to the patriarch. ‘I like that.’ Then she returned her gaze to the prince. ‘Tell me, how do you like Akka?’

  ‘Since I was a boy I have heard of its glories.’

  She noted the evasion and said only, ‘I hope we live up to the stories.’

  He smiled blandly. ‘I’m here to assist you with this tribal trouble you’ve been having, but also to make peace between us.’

  ‘Are we at war with Byzant?’ She looked askance at the Grand Master. ‘I was not aware of this, Grand Master – surely I should have been informed of such a thing?’

  Her ladies tittered, but Jorge answered seriously, ‘For decades the energy of our two cities has been wasted in futile rivalry. Empires do not fall at once: they bifurcate, then splinter into a thousand shards until there is nothing left but a rabble of warring states where once was a family, happy and united.’

  Catrina looked at him speculatively before asking, ‘And how do your propose to mend this state of affairs?’

  ‘If you will publicly endorse me, I will recognise Akka’s suzerainty over Byzant.’

  ‘Recognise?’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the patriarch, and the prince at once corrected himself.

  ‘Excuse me – I meant, of course, reaffirm.’

  ‘You ask a lot,’ the queen said. ‘Remind me: what branch of the Guiscards do you come from?’

  ‘An obscure one,’ he answered without embarrassment. ‘I was born in the wilds of Thrace, far from the purple. I do not regret my obscurity.’

  The queen’s curiosity was piqued. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Forgive me – I’ll say no more.’

  ‘I beg you, Prince Jorge, you’ve begun wonderfully. Do not fail at this jump.’ She gestured around at her court as she added, ‘We’ve too much secrecy in Akka already, so I command you: speak freely.’

  His habitual smile reasserted itself. ‘How can I disobey such a command? As soon as your late uncle ascended to the throne, he applied the time-honoured medicine to all close relatives. I escaped the catgut only because I was barely considered noble.’

  ‘Ha! So you did not expect to be a prince – what did you expect to be?’

  ‘You must not laugh, but all I ever wanted was to ride …’

  So began Jorge’s tale of his ascendancy to the purple. Besides his ample charm, he was an able storyteller, and like all Thracians, he knew horses. At first he had put that knowledge to use gambling at the chariot races, but before long, he realised he could earn far more actually riding the quadriga through the blood-soaked dust.

  ‘The crowd called me the Prince of Green. They were the first to crown me,’ he said modestly. ‘They applauded my luck – but the true secret of my success was simply that I was a judge of horseflesh and ran the best stable in the city, I had the pick of the right four horses for any particular day.’

  The queen’s handmaids were not alone as they listened, rapt, to Jorge’s frank confessions, how he’d revelled in the adulation, the taste of strange women, the cold music of silver and gold—

  ‘Alas, winning races is just part of a champion’s duties’ he said. Since the army was restricted from entering the city, ambitious nobles had to make soldiers of the mob. They pitted the Blue and Green factions against each other and armed them with cudgels and blades. As a champion, Jorge found himself unwillingly dragged into these street-fights. He always did what he had to, but never let himself be carried away with the mob – these were just shadow-battles, after all. Knowing that no matter how good an athlete, he would never be more than a pawn without military standing, he determined to acquire some with the same singleminded resolve that had made him a champion.

  He laughed wryly. ‘You will be unsurprised to hear, Majesty, that the hippodrome is a playground compared to the army. Rivalry chokes the ranks. The higher echelons have always been the preserve of the aristocracy, and I fear my popularity with the rabble was, if anything, a discommendation.’

  The queen, a little surprised by his candour, gestured for him to continue.

  ‘The Dalmatian March is Byzant’s most dangerous frontier, but as that was where Prince Andronikos had made his court, that was where I went. I sold my stable and trophies to buy a posting – though my modest fortune was enough only to make me a kentarchos, a piddling rank, I treated it as a foothold.’

  Jorge might have done his duty fighting the interloping Concordians, but courage was common on the March, which meant preferment was as far away as ever – until he realised that the quality that had made his fortune in the hippodrome – judgement – was as rare there as everywhere else. ‘Your uncle found organising things a terrific bore and so he was delighted to find someone willing to do it for him. He made me Master of the Camp, in charge of keeping the army fed, armed and battle-ready. There were many more prestigious positions, but none more influential, for every archēgētēs and kentarchos and tourmarchēs relies on the camp master.’

  The queen was clearly enjoying herself. ‘And when my uncle obligingly got himself killed here—?’

  ‘I was always fast off the mark, Majesty. I called in my debts and rode in strength for Byzant. Two houses, alike in viciousness and ensconced in their respective townhouses, had turned the grand boulevards and piazzas of the Purple City into a battlefield, bringing religious observances, trade, and even the Games to an abrupt halt. Each of the rivals promised to restore order – but that turned out to be something only I could deliver. Faced with my hardened fighters, their respective followings melted away, the church first, then the nobility, and at last sense prevailed.’

  He smiled, and at last Catrina could see the young man’s backbone of steel. ‘The rival factions came and begged me for help – what could I do? Of course I had to be magnanimous, so I bade them publicly embrace and forswear further in-fighting. When the mobs in the streets clamoured that I be made a real prince, the bureaucrats that keep Byzant running – they are nothing if not practical – duly crowned me. I had to think of my people, first and foremost, and th
e pain they had suffered …’

  Which was why Prince Jorge’s first act was to put out the eyes of the rival contenders for the throne, a skilful application of mercy and cruelty that confirmed their excellent choice to the Byzantines.

  ‘I can only agree,’ said the queen. ‘So we’re not that related. I can’t say I’m heartbroken about that. Family has proved such a disappointment.’

  ‘I have heard,’ said Jorge, discreetly lowering his voice, ‘of your son’s infidelity. Unworthy as I am, I offer myself as a replacement.’

  ‘I was blind, as only a mother can be. Alas, his outer corruption was nothing compared to the inner. Your words are some comfort to my grief. Come, let me embrace you then, as a son.’

  The young prince, who had not quailed before the Concordian cavalry or the rioting mobs in the hippodrome, mastered himself and rose to his feet. He took her hand and lowered his head to kiss it, but then paused and sniffed it instead, as if inhaling an odour of sanctity. Suddenly the queen grabbed the hair at the back of his head and pulled him towards her. She kissed him, slowly, ravenously, and Jorge responded, first from chivalrous duty then from awakened passion. Courtiers looked elsewhere in mute mortification until finally the patriarch cleared his throat and the queen broke away.

  She broke away with a dejected moan. ‘I believe we’ll get on famously, my little prince.’

  ‘I earnestly hope so.’ Jorge schooled himself to remain still, not to wipe his mouth. ‘While our clerks parse the details of our new affiliation, you must consider me at your service.’

  He bowed and left, at the head of his retinue and his exkoubitores, and behind them followed a trail of admirers that had been hovering impatiently outside the throne room.

  ‘The bumptious rogue doesn’t just overstep the bounds of decency,’ the patriarch complained. ‘He leaps them! Your grief at your son’s treachery is natural, but he preys upon it.’

  ‘I’ll consider myself warned,’ the queen laughed. ‘And you, Grand Master. Do you too disapprove of this gay young knight?’

  ‘He is a base flatterer,’ Basilius growled. ‘He comes to bolster his position, not help us.’

  ‘Yes – isn’t it wonderful?’

  When Basilius looked askance, the queen said, ‘We’re in no position to bolster anything, but it’s vital that our enemies and our allies think we are. If Byzant knew our true weakness, believe me, tradition would not keep them bound to us.’

  ‘He did offer his service,’ the patriarch remarked.

  ‘Yes, he did. One that free with promises can never expect them to be taken seriously. We will make what use of him we can, while we can.’

  CHAPTER 18

  … and bribery is not considered disgraceful, but common sense. The Byzantines understand that they are buying time, not loyalty – tribal alliances, even the most successful, rarely last longer than a single campaigning season. The fact that Byzant has weathered centuries proves that setting barbarians against barbarians is a sound policy to prevent encirclement. A favourite tactic is to present one chief with a mansion in the capital and wait for his rivals to petition for similar honours. A barbarian out of the saddle is soon domesticated.

  Byzant, a Study in Purple

  by Count Titus Tremellius Pomptinus

  A long mirror faced Fulk’s cell. The queen had it placed there to remind him of his betrayal. He tried not to look at it, but this morning he woke and found a young man standing before it, attentively grooming himself. He looked like he did a lot of that, dressed as he was somewhere between a soldier and a dandy. He spotted Fulk in the reflection and spun around with an open smile.

  ‘Good morning! I apologise for dropping in unannounced. I am—’

  ‘Please. I may be locked in a hole, but I did not grow up here, Prince Jorge. How did you get in here?’

  ‘One of the few boons of fame is that perfect strangers desperately want you to like them. The guard was most obliging.’

  ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I came to Akka for your mother’s blessing,’ Jorge answered.

  ‘I mean what you brings you here. I should think a famous charioteer could find better company—’

  ‘I seek to know the whereabouts of a man, a Northerner like me who was a member of the Order of Saint Lazarus.’

  ‘You had best ask a Lazar then. I’m a whole man, as you can see.’

  ‘I tried, but the Grand Master says he remembers no Lazar by the name of Stephanos.’ He paused to watch Fulk’s reaction, then went on, ‘but then I gather that Basilius has only recently taken office.’ When Fulk remained tight-lipped, Jorge stood up. ‘Well, I can see you’re very busy. I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  ‘He remembers him all right,’ Fulk said at last. ‘Stephanos was seneschal before Basilius. That was about—’

  ‘Ten years ago,’ said Jorge. ‘I expect he’s dead now.’

  Fulk saw the foreigner earnestly wished to be contradicted. ‘So you’ve come all the way from the Purple City? Stephanos used to tell stories about it. He said he’d bring me to see the hippodrome one day. That … wasn’t to be.’

  ‘He’s dead then.’

  After Jorge was quiet a spell, Fulk said, ‘I can tell you about him if you’d—’

  ‘I’d be very grateful.’

  Fulk looked up at the sliver of daylight that was allowed to penetrate his cell. He didn’t need to cast his mind back. ‘He wasn’t born into death like most of us – you know that, of course. So he had to work hard to acquire the skills the rest of us learn from boyhood. He never did master the axe, but he was always an excellent horseman and he built up an impressive stable.’

  ‘A gentle old fellow called Gustav showed it to me – you have some excellent animals, some really splendid form.’

  ‘They’re nothing like they were. We were still using heavy Europans when he came. He thought that foolish, since knights no longer wear all the iron they did in the time of Tancred. He introduced lighter, hardier animals, horses with better stamina for the Sands.’

  ‘Ebionite breeds. How did he get their cooperation?

  ‘He was a stranger, and he had no blood-grudges. He knew enough about horses to win the respect of the nesi’im – no easy thing in itself – and he had the tact to keep them happy.’ Fulk turned away from the window. ‘He taught me many things.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Like I said, he kept the tribes happy. The queen prefers them set against each other and she got her way. I only realised how skilfully Stephanos had kept the peace when I saw how quickly things fell apart. By the time I became Grand Master, the days of tribal councils and talking grievances through were long gone. Bridges take time to build. Burning them can be the work of a day.’

  ‘I meant, what happened to Stephanos?’

  ‘What always happens when someone disagrees with her.’

  ‘I heard,’ said Jorge, straining to keep his voice level, ‘that a Sicarii assassin killed him.’

  Fulk glanced over the neighbouring cells to see if anyone was listening. ‘That’s the story certainly,’ he agreed, his voice lowered. ‘But I’ve hunted Sicarii for years. For all the noise they make, they’ve never been especially skilful at concealment. Whoever got to Stephanos would have had to get close. He’d never let his guard down to a stranger.’

  Jorge took that in silence.

  Finally, Fulk asked, ‘May I ask how you knew him?’

  ‘I competed against him in the hippodrome.’

  ‘Stephanos was a quadriga racer? I never knew.’

  ‘He taught me everything. I think he liked me because I was a decent judge of form and had my eyes on something bigger than racing, just as he did. He always regretted being born too late for the great Crusade. He said there were no great fights left, just wall-building. Then he contracted leprosy. Before he left for Akka, he said to me, “You don’t choose your Crusade, it chooses you.”’

  In the silence that followed, they remembered their m
utual friend. Presently, Jorge unpinned a medal from his chest. ‘I’ve taken many prizes in the hippodrome, but the medal I’m proudest of is the one I won in Dalmatia.’

  Fulk caught it and looked at it. It was an eagle with two equally fierce heads.

  ‘Byzant is surrounded by enemies. It had to learn to look east and west at once. Stephanos died because he forgot that.’

  Fulk rattled his chains wryly. ‘I guess I did too. I won’t be here much longer. The queen is queasy about executing family, but she’ll let herself be persuaded eventually. Here, take this.’ In Fulk’s hand beside the medal was a ring. ‘Stephanos gave me that when I became a journeyman. He was a good man; I’d like to think there’s someone left who remembers his name.’

  ‘I’ll remember two good men,’ Jorge said. ‘Can I give you anything in return?’

  ‘The truth: why did you really come to Akka? You don’t need the queen to bless your accession.’

  Jorge levelled a hard stare at him. ‘My predecessor met his end here. I wanted to know if I need to watch my back.’

  ‘I don’t believe that either. You knew Prince Andronikos. A fool like that was always going to get himself killed sooner or later.’

  ‘He was a fool, but it wasn’t mere power-lust that made him try to take over Akka. A war is coming – one that will make your disputes with the tribes look like schoolboy quarrels. I don’t expect help from Akka, but its weakness is a vulnerability the enemy could exploit. Concord has already tried the Dalmatian March and been rebuffed. The logical next step is to establish a foothold here.’

  ‘So,’ said Fulk, ‘you’re here to study our form.’

  CHAPTER 19

  Roe de Nail agreed with undignified haste to Bakhbukh’s plan: hosting a tribal council in his territory brought prestige to the Benjaminite. The nesi’im of those tribes who had already joined the Sicarii answered the invitation. So did those who had not.