Later, thought Harald, even Romanus Arghyros could not have stayed blind. But the tale was that he had let the liaison become almost official, lest Zoe roll into still greater scandal. There had been no need to murder him.
"When they took him from his bath, he was dying," said Michael crazily. "He tried to speak and could not. Zoe went in and saw his condition and left again; she did not even wait for the end. Then, they say, he turned his face to the wall and died. It was Zoe! Do You hear me, God? It was Zoe! My God, my God, I am trying to save Your Church and Your Empire, why have You forsaken me?"
His eyeballs swiveled back. His legs kicked. Harald seized a spoon and thrust it into the bubbling mouth lest the tongue be bitten off. Michael arched his spine, gasping. Outside, the rain roared.
Harald held the Emperor in his arms till the fit was over and sleep had come. Then he left and called the physicians. The next day the march went on.
Chapter IX:
How the Caulker Reigned
1
With the rebellion at last put down, the army traveled home overland. Late that year, Michael entered the city in a triumphant clamor of bells. Roses were rained on his head, the Patriarch met him outside Hagia Sophia with a chant of thanksgiving, his Empress watched with shining eyes. Through it all he crouched small and shivering. When he bestowed on Harald the exalted title of Spatharokandidatos, officer of the swordsmen, his voice could scarcely be heard. Not long afterward he retired to the monastery of St. Anarghyros, taking the vows and habit of a monk. A few days later, early in the month of December, bells tolled throughout the city and men knew that the Emperor was dead.
Courtiers related that when Zoe heard Michael had entered the monastery to die she ran on foot, weeping, to see him a final time. He coldly refused to receive her. She shuffled back to the palace and summoned John.
"Now, you dog, it is time for a reckoning," she said.
The eunuch threw himself at her feet in a storm of words. "Mother of Empire! Without Your Sacred Majesty we are lost. . . . Take the power, gracious one; rule for us. . . . Your holy will be done." By the time he finished, Zoe was smiling foolishly. She agreed to spare his life.
The old Emperor's nephew, her adopted son, Caesar Michael Calaphates, mounted the throne. So little trust had been placed in this young man that no work of state whatsoever had been allowed to go through his hands. Zoe made him swear he would ever regard her as his mother and would banish John and John's brothers.
Harald was not much surprised when, shortly afterward, Michael Calaphates recalled the Orphanotrophos to the palace and conferred on him the high rank of Despot.
Some weeks later, the Norseman went to visit Maria. He entered the house with long, impatient strides. Now that war and succession and distribution of offices and such time-devouring nonsense were past, the setting of a new date for his wedding was long overdue. But when he was shown into the atrium, his intention was cut off. Nicephorus sat waiting beside Maria. His countenance was haggard. The maiden ran to her betrothed with that lightness he would never forget—they had not been able to meet for more than a week—and caught his hands in hers.
"Oh, Harald," she exclaimed, "I've been dismissed!"
His first thought was: light candles to St. Olaf! Then some of the meaning struck him. "Eh?" he said blankly.
Nicephorus nodded, stroking his beard with a nervous hand. "All the Empress' women have been sent home," he said.
"How's that? What's come upon her?"
"Not her own free will. You know how the new Emperor has been steadily gnawing at Zoe's power, diminishing her allowance, refusing her the due honors, openly mocking her."
"It was ugly to watch." Maria's eyes clouded over. "The poor old soul!"
"Now her ladies are taken away," Nicephorus said. "She is being strictly guarded in the Gynaeceum. Her only attendants are creatures of Michael's. It cannot be long before he dethrones her and sends her to a convent."
"As she did to her own sister," said Harald unfeelingly. "Michael IV was more a man than I knew, but as for the rest of that pack. ..." He checked himself.
"It is not so well for us, my own family and myself, that we have been associated with Zoe," said Nicephorus. "The great branches of the Skleros, Phokas, Dalassenos, and other gentes can look after themselves, but the minor bearers of such a name, only distantly related, may come to feel the Imperial malice. And ... I have sons in provincial service."
Harald let Maria go, lifted his head, and answered, "But you are associated with the captain of the Varangians. Presently you will be associated with a king. I do not think you need fear."
Blood flew into Maria's cheeks. "So would Achilles have spoken!" she cried.
"The sooner I become your son-in-law, then, the better for you," Harald went on.
Nicephorus seemed oddly reluctant. "If you are going home with the Russian traders this summer, he said, "you will have much to do beforehand. A suitable wedding takes more time than you perhaps know."
"What of it?" Harald knotted one fist. "Before God, I've lost a year already!"
"And so have I," murmured Maria.
Nicephorus looked up at their two tall forms and down again. "Well," he said slowly, as if dragging the words from himself, "that is true. I have no right to . . ."
His daughter went to him. Her voice was not altogether steady. "I know what you think, Father."
"What?" asked Harald. Unease touched him.
She gave him a torn look. "That when we depart, you and I, he will never see us again."
After a long while: "Harald, will you understand it if I ask we not be wedded until just before we depart north?"
He did not, entirely; but he could ill say so when she was that close to tears. "Let it be thus," he yielded. She wept in her father's arms.
Nicephorus regarded Harald over her shoulder and said softly. "Now my last fears on her behalf have been removed, Araltes."
In the time that followed, Harald found himself busy indeed. Much of his work was ceremonial, for the handsome, dissolute, sulky-lipped Emperor was great for show. The Norseman's gloom was lightened somewhat as he watched the second banishment of John. Michael V repaid his benefactor as he did all;
John was sent away, and the last sight Harald had of him was as he stalked through a long marble corridor toward the palace gates.
His face was held wooden, save for a jag of pain now and then from the cancer that was growing on it; but the jet eyes remained steadfastly baleful. He left as he had come, in the humble garb of a monk, and Halldor said: "So God does act justly."
"But the Devil looks after his own," said Ulf.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, John has stolen enough wealth for a king, and now retires to an easy life, far from the witch's cauldron brewing here. You should come with me to the stews and listen to the anger of the folk."
"Well," said Harald, "it's a hard punishment that he can no longer play at almightiness."
"Maybe so," Ulf grinned. "How now can such a gelding pass the years?"
Halldor rubbed his chin. "Had men done that to me," he murmured, "I might also have made my life one long revenge."
The dismissal of John changed nothing at court. His rank as prime minister, with elevation to Nobilissimus, was given his brother Constantine, who still stood in favor. This Constantine was a eunuch too, but tall and vigorous. Corruption bloomed on a yet grander scale.
When Harald led the Varangians in the Easter procession, he saw how the crowds along the avenues cheered and how costly rugs were spread for Michael's horse to walk on. The young man puffed himself up like a toad. He did not hear the note of mockery in those hurrahs.
Well, thought Harald, erelong I will be out of this. With Maria!
On Sunday night, the eighteenth day of April, he went to bed with no thought save of her. In the misty chill of Monday before dawn, Ulf came in and shook him awake.
"Rise, Spatharokandidatos!" The Icelander was in full mail. His eyes burned wolf
green under the plumed helmet. "We've work to do!"
Harald sat up. Sleep drained from him. "What is this?"
"Last night dear Emperor Michael Calaphates had his beloved adoptive mother Zoe arrested on a charge she tried to poison him. She was taken to the convent on Prince's Island, stuffed into a nun's habit, her hair sheared off. The Senate will be gathered this morning to pronounce her dethroned."
"Well?"
"Well, the news is already loose and the mobs have begun to form. We must guard him well, or Michael's loyal subjects will rip his guts out!"
2
"Death to the Caulker!" "Bring back our mother!"
From a wall of the palace, looking toward the Hippodrome, Harald saw the city boil with revolt. The crowd was jammed and screaming below him. His eye fell on a woman who clawed the air as if it were the Emperor's face; on an aproned carpenter waving an adze like a weapon; on a beggar with wild white beard who ranted from a ladder and was answered by howls of hate.
Eight years of oppression and savage taxes had come back to roost on the golden domes. To those down there, commoners, workers, shopkeepers, servants, thieves and whores—the swarmers in the streets—Zoe stood as a sign. She also was weak, she also was vain and lustful and stupid, and now when she also became the prey of the Paphlagonian house, it was too much. The mob arose and yelled for blood.
Stones rattled against the wall below Harald. Ulf came to join him. ''We're ready to go," said the Icelander. "Whoof, what a stroll this will be!" They descended to an inner court where their men were ranked. Michael stood there, mouth aquiver, skin shiny with sweat. Constantine loomed in gorgeous robes of state, evil and indomitable. The new-made nun Zoe taunted them from beneath her coif. "It did not work, Calaphates!" she kept shouting. "You could not undo me. You, treacherous apes!" The Emperor seemed too frightened to hear her.
Harald led the guards of the party through the tunnel from palace to Hippodrome. It boomed and echoed under the Varangian boots, candles smoked and streamed in slave hands. At the end, they mounted the stairs to the Imperial box. Harald drew the purple curtains and looked out upon an arena seething with folk. One big laborer was so close that his teeth could be seen, he threw a club that almost entered the box, then a tide in the throng whirled him away. Their clamor filled the bowl of the sky.
Trumpets bellowed from guard posts, hoo, hoo, silence, the Emperor is going to speak. "Bugger the Emperor! Death to the Caulker! Zoe, mother Zoe, come back to us!"
"Go on." Roughly, Constantine pushed his shaking nephew forward. "Tell them we've recalled her. Else we're done."
Michael wet his lips. A stone went over the rail and clunked at his feet. "Go on, you whelp!" snarled Constantine.
Slowly, Michael Calaphates went to the edge of the box. He leaned on it as if his knees had folded. "My people—people of city and Empire—Romans—" His thin tones were lost. Not even the professional stentor who repeated his words could make headway against that din.
"People . . . see, the Empress is here, safe. . . ."
Zoe laughed with hatred. "A nun!" she shrieked. "A shorn nun! Think you that sight will pacify them?"
Stones were flying thick. Harald held his shield upraised, peering over the rim. One missile clashed on the metal.
"It's no use!" Tears ran from Michael's eyes. "Uncle, they won't listen!" "Death to the Caulker!"
"We must flee," Michael babbled. "A monastery . . . refuge ..."
Constantine turned his back on the Emperor. "We will stay in the palace," he declared. "The Varangians and our household troops can keep it until this dies down. Katakalon, do you take charge of our defenses."
The governor who had held Messina when the rest of Sicily was lost nodded. "Just so, despotes. Once the rabble have cooled off, they'll skulk home, each one vowing he had nothing to do with this."
''Uncle, it's death to stay here," Michael sobbed.
Constantine seized his dalmatic and shook him. "It's death to leave," he said between clenched jaws. "Know you what's happening at Hagia Sophia? I've had spies out; I'll tell you. There's an assembly there which has proclaimed itself the new government and read you off the throne. It's fetched Zoe's sister Theodora from the Petrion convent, named her co-Empress . . . and you know what our family has done to Theodora!"
Michael buried his face in a sleeve. The walk back to the palace was silent.
Harald posted a strong guard at the tunnel and mounted the walls anew. Spires and domes were black against a bloody sunset. Down in the crowd he saw not only sharp tools but swords. Rich tapestries were waved as banners, gold clinked on the paving, gaunt men lifted wrists from which dangled broken chains. The folk were pillaging now, opening the prisons, putting houses to the torch.
"And the worst of it is," muttered Halldor beside him, "they act with justice."
"Well, then, I've a more tasteful task for you than fighting them" said Harald rapidly, through dry lips. "Take some trusty men and slip out a lesser gate ere Katakalon inspects us. Go to the home of Nicephorus Skleros and defend it like your own."
Halldor gave him a long look. "Would you not liefer do that yourself?"
"God help me, I cannot," groaned Harald. "She and I are both ruined if I absent myself. But . . . Halldor, if you save her, everything I've hoarded up is yours."
"Keep it," said Halldor shortly. "I need no pay to be a man." He turned on his heel and walked off.
3
All that night, the guards on the walls saw flames flapping above city roofs and heard the mob prowling. Smoke was bitter in their nostrils. Harald paced among his men, seeing to the posts, feeling the edges of their weapons. Often he went into the chapel and begged St. Olaf to watch over Maria.
The assault came on Tuesday morning. Someone had gotten the rioters organized, with leaders and arms, for they stormed the palace from three sides at once.
Harald stood with a hundred Varangians before a major gate, hoping to keep it from being rammed in. He watched coldly as the folk moved closer, yelping insults and throwing stones. Those swine dared imperil Maria! Then a tall man shouted and charged.
Harald saw how his rags fluttered in the morning wind and how sunlight ran off his lifted ax. The Norseman raised his sword, but the Byzantine went down with an arrow in him. His ax clattered on the pavement. The rioters came after, a human landslide driven by its own weight, and trampled him flat.
Spears, arrows, quarrels hailed on them, but their dead could no longer fall, the press was so thick that a corpse was borne along. Harald lifted his shield. At least no more rocks and filth would be thrown. His sword flickered out and clove a skull.
Another man leaped over the fallen one, screaming. His club shocked on Harald's shield. The Norseman took a leg off him. Someone else behind, one to the right and one to the left, hew, hew, hew, three down and a thousand more coming!
There was one in armor, an Imperial trooper fighting for Theodora. He struck at Harald with skill. The Norseman beat down the round shield and buried his long sword in the jaws. As the soldier died, Harald had time to wonder if they had been together in Greece last year.
From the red welter below, a knife stabbed upward. He felt a blade slide along his greave and stamped on the hand of the wounded man. Bones crunched. The man sighed wearily and died.
A sledge crashed on Harald's helmet. Lights glared through a brief darkness. As his guard dropped, two men sprang over the heaped dead and fell upon him. He kicked one in the belly and knocked the other down with the boss of his shield. His sword finished them.
In the end, the mob drew back and cursed the Varangians from beneath the Hippodrome. Harald sucked breath into starved lungs and looked about. The pavement gleamed with the lurid brightness of new blood. Dead men sprawled and stared, wounded men moaned and tried horribly to crawl away. No few of his own were down too, heads cracked open, steel in their throats, limbs broken. The faces of the hale were gray with weariness. Harald's hands were red and slippery. He wiped them on a slain man's tunic,
leaned on his sword and panted.
"Shall we follow and scatter them?" asked Ulf.
"'No. They are too many. They'll come back." As his heartbeat waned, Harald heard noises from the court, struggles of the guard and the tchukanisterion. Assaults were still being mounted. He glanced at the sun and was dimly surprised to see that it stood almost at noon. Had the fight lasted so long? Or . . . rather . . . only one morning?
Servants slipped through the gates at his back to remove the casualties and bring food and drink. He tore the bread with his teeth, not hungry but knowing he would need strength. Over by the Hippodrome, a wagon laden with wine barrels was trundled forth. The enemy yowled around it. They would return here full of wet courage.
That was after an hour of haranguing. Again it was smite, hack, hew, a whirl and a roar and a final withdrawal. Harald felt giddy, his helmet was a bake oven, sweat runneled through the scutes of his armor. The Varangian line had been gruesomely thinned.
"One more such attack, Ulf, and they'll have us," he croaked. "Prepare the men to retreat into the palace grounds. After that we can only try to hold the halls until . . ."He sighed. "Until everybody is dead on one side or another, I suppose."
Maria's image seemed very faint, he knew only the drag of iron from his shoulders, the bite of wounds in legs and arms.
As the sun declined, the rioters stormed once more. Harald stood fast, taking a storm of blows on his shield, striking with a sword grown dull from slaughter. One by one the Varangians went through the gates. "Now, then, forward!" A last brief rage of axes, the front ranks of the enemy cut down and their advance stopped, a moment's pause gained for Harald to lead his rear guard inside and bar the gates.
Beyond, the garden was cool. There were clipped hedges and ordered flowerbeds, trees that rustled in the evening wind. Harald sat on the grass, gulping what wine he could get, while the gates buckled and groaned. Out there a hundred men wielded a log, drumming down the portal and the throne of Michael.
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