King's Man

by Tim Severin

  'The emperor has renounced his title,' said Psellus urbanely. 'He wishes to retire to a life of peaceful contemplation. He is to become a monk.'

  I must have looked dumbfounded, because Psellus went on, 'he has abdicated in favour of his "mother", the empress Zoe, and her sister, the empress Theodora.'

  'But I thought that Theodora was in a nunnery.'

  'Until yesterday evening,' said Psellus. 'The Patriarch Alexis suggested that she should renounce her vows and enter political life. She is, after all, born to the purple. To Theodora's credit she resisted the idea at first, but was eventually persuaded. The Patriarch crowned her empress a few minutes after midnight. I expect that she and her sister Zoe will be co-rulers of the empire of the Romans as soon as they can come to a suitable arrangement.'

  'What about Michael? Where is he now?' My mind was in a whirl as I tried to grasp the sudden change in the politics of imperial rule.

  'Close by, and that is why I am so pleased to see you and your colleague. Michael and his uncle, the Nobelissimus, are awaiting immediate departure to the monastery of the Studius.'

  By this stage my mind was reeling. 'But isn't the Studius monastery the residence of the Patriarch Alexis? And wasn't he the man who led the uprising against the Basileus?'

  'Thorgils, for a barbarian you are unusually well informed. However, the Studius monastery is the only one which the former Basileus can reach without being molested by the mob, which, as you have observed, is baying for his blood. From the Bucephalon harbour he can reach the monastery by boat before the crowd knows that he has departed. I presume that you can handle a small boat.'

  'Of course.'

  'There will be only three passengers: Michael, his uncle Constantine, and a chamberlain. The rest of his staff will go on foot to the monastery, discreetly and in small groups, so that they can arrange Michael's reception. In recent weeks I have been privileged to act as the Basileus's private secretary, so I see it as my duty to intercede on his behalf with the new empresses and organise a smooth handover of the imperial government. As soon as I have their majesties' decision, I will come to the monastery with the news. In the meantime I know that I can trust you and your colleague to transport their highnesses safely to the Studius.'

  So that is how it came about that I, Thorgils Leifsson, and my company commander, Halfdan, became a boat crew for the former Basileus, Michael V, as he evaded capture by the mob of Constantinople. It felt strange to be rowing a man who, only the previous day, had been considered semi-divine, so that even his closest attendants were obliged to wear gloves when approaching his presence in case they touched his consecrated flesh. Now he and his uncle, disguised as simple monks, sat an arm's length away in the stern of the small rowing boat we commandeered for the short journey. Their chamberlain was in the bows, directing our course as we picked our way between the mass of fishing boats and the cargo ships at anchor off the city. It seemed that all their crews were ashore, joining the insurrection.

  Throughout our brief journey Michael kept his head down, staring silently into the bilge of the boat, and I noticed that water was soaking into his purple boots, which he had not yet removed. His uncle, by contrast, took a more intelligent interest in our surroundings. Surreptitiously I watched him as I heaved on the loom of the oar. There was no mistaking his resemblance to his brother, the Orphanotrophus. They both had the same deep-sunk eyes and shrewd gaze, and they shared an aura of knowing exactly how to set about obtaining what they wanted. What a remarkably talented family, I thought to myself. It had supplied an emperor, a Nobelissimus, and, in the Orphanotrophus, a gifted civil administrator. The mob was wrong to dismiss them as nobodies. The family were adventurers, certainly, but no more so than the giant Maniakes whom the citizenry adored. Only Michael the nephew, sitting in a fog of self-pity, had let them down. He had thrown away his inheritance through inexperience in the wielding of power and his unbridled ambition.

  The chamberlain called out that we were to steer for shore. Glancing over my shoulder I saw that we were level with the Studius monastery. Its massive walls of red and grey brick loomed over the landing place, a complex of chapels and cloisters crowned by an array of tiled domes, each topped by a cross. The monastery had its own landing steps, and Halfdan and I grabbed on to the mooring chains as our passengers disembarked. By force of habit I refrained from reaching out and touching the ex-Basileus, even when he slipped on the weed-covered steps and nearly fell.

  A reception party of monks and courtiers was waiting, and they ushered the two men away.

  'Tie up the boat,' the chamberlain ordered, 'and accompany their highnesses. You may be needed.'

  Halfdan and I followed the little group into the monastery and then on to the great chapel, entering through a side door half hidden within an angle of the wall.

  I gazed around me with interest. The main worship hall was certainly impressive. Above my head rose a great dome, lined with mosaics. Staring down at me from within the vault was a gigantic image of the White Christ, gaunt and stern, with great dark eyes. He looked stiff and sad. In one hand he held his holy book; the other hand was held up in what I supposed was a gesture of blessing or admonition. The light from hundreds of candles in iron holders suspended by chains flickered across his severe expression. The dome rested on great pillars from which hung wooden boards painted with images of the White Christ's most famous followers. The windows were small and set high up in the building, and the shafts of light reached only the upper part of the huge chamber. At ground level illumination depended on many more candles set in huge candlesticks, some as tall as a man, some arranged in banks of at least a hundred at a time. The general impression was of darkness and shadow interspersed with pools of radiant light. The air smelled strongly of incense. At the far end of the church stood the altar, and on each side were yet more masses of candles, as well as two carved and gilded wooden platforms where I supposed the priests of the White Christ stood during their devotions. These two platforms were now occupied by several dozen courtiers, monks, and various bureaucrats. I was reminded of the audience who, in a market square, clamber up on carts to get a better view when jugglers or hucksters perform. They were all looking at Michael and his uncle Constantine as they crossed the floor of the church towards the altar itself.

  'I claim the sanctuary of the monastery!' Michael cried out shrilly. He reached the altar and turned towards a monk standing a little in advance of his fellows. The man was, I presumed, the chief priest.

  'I claim sanctuary,' Michael repeated, 'and wish to offer myself humbly to the service of our Lord.'

  There was a long, long silence, and then the shadows all around the sides of the chapel moved. The walls, I realised, were lined with men. They had been standing there waiting silently, whether in respect or in ambush I could not tell. They stood three or four deep, and now they produced an exasperated sound, a collective, angry muttering. Peering into the shadows I saw that several hundred of the citizens of Constantinople were already in the chapel. They must have been told, or guessed, where the ex-Basileus and his uncle had been heading when they left the palace, and they had got here before us.

  Hearing the sound, Michael gave a frightened glance and edged closer to the altar.

  'Sanctuary,' he cried again, almost shrieking. 'I have a right to sanctuary.'

  Again came angry muttering, and Michael sank to his knees in supplication and seized hold of the cloth that covered the altar. His uncle moved to be beside him, but remained standing.

  'Respect the Church!' cried Michael.

  Then a man stepped out from the crowd. He appeared to be a minor official, a city employee perhaps. Evidently he was a spokesman.

  'You are to stand trial for your crimes—' he began, but Michael interrupted frantically, 'How dare you address me in this fashion?'

  Clearly he had forgotten that he was now meant to be a humble monk. He looked round and saw Halfdan and myself standing there.

  'Guardsmen,' he ordered, h
is voice cracking with fear, 'protect me from this lunatic'

  Halfdan took several paces forward and placed himself between the cringing ex-Basileus and the leader of the crowd. I followed him, thinking to myself how ridiculous it was for just two men to attempt to serve as a shield. But for the moment, at least, our presence was effective. The crowd held back, and to my relief I saw Psellus enter the chapel by the main door and come hurrying towards us. With him was a delegation of officials.

  'With the authority of the empress Zoe,' he announced loudly so all could hear, 'I bring an order for the detention of His Highness Michael and the Nobelissimus. They are to be brought to the palace for due judgement of their actions. They must not be harmed.'

  'He'll only smooth-talk his way out of trouble. Let's deal with him now, our own justice,' an angry voice shouted from the back of the crowd. The onlookers stirred, closing in. Behind us I heard Michael's yelp of fear, and I sensed that the two groups of onlookers on each side of the altar were spellbound by the scene being played out before them.

  Psellus was soothing. 'I assure you, your highness, no harm will come to you if you accompany us,' he told him. Then, addressing the crowd's spokesman, he said, 'I promise you that the people will have justice. The empress Zoe is discussing with her sister Theodora how best to restore peace to the city. The people, through their representatives, will be consulted before any decision is reached. For the moment it would be prudent for His Highness Michael and the Nobelissimus to be held within the palace.'

  After some hesitation the crowd began to move aside so that the group of officials with Psellus could approach the altar. Michael was still petrified. 'They'll kill me if I leave the church,' he sobbed. 'I refuse to go with you. I won't get a fair trial.' Watching his craven response, I remembered how little mercy he had shown his uncle the Orphanotrophus, and thought to myself that though John the Eunuch might have been ruthless and menacing, he at least had had courage. His nephew was a coward.

  'These two guardsmen will accompany us,' said Psellus. 'They will see you safely back to the palace. Just as they brought you here.' He glanced across at me. 'Thorgils, perhaps you and your colleague would be so good as to accompany us on the way to the palace.'

  Reluctantly Michael released his grip on the altar cloth and rose to his feet. Then he and his uncle walked down the length of the chapel, surrounded by Psellus's delegation. I noted that several courtiers descended from their vantage point and joined our little procession. I guessed that they were loyal members of Michael's faction.

  We emerged from the gloom of the chapel and into daylight, and I realised that it was mid-afternoon. The overthrow of the Basileus had taken less than three days from the moment he had unwisely sent his eunuchs to arrest Zoe until his desperate plea for sanctuary in the monastery.

  We started along the broad avenue of the Triumphal Way leading to the heart of the city. I remembered how I had marched the route with the Hetaira, escorting the corpse of Romanus, and later to bid farewell to Maniakes's army as it left for the Sicilian campaign. On the first occasion the crowd had been silent; the second time they had been cheering and shouting encouragement. Now, the crowd was resentful. They pushed in on us from each side, shouting abuse and spitting. We had to thrust our way forward.

  We had got as far as the open space called the Sigma, named because it had the same shape as the Greek letter, when I became aware of another agitated group elbowing its way through the crowd towards us. A few steps later I recognised its leader: Harald. With him were at least a dozen of his men, including Halldor. He was escorting a high official of the court, dressed in his formal silk robe of blue and white and carrying his badge of office, an ivory baton. He made a vivid contrast to the shabby figures of Michael and his uncle in their rumpled monks' gowns.

  Harald and his men barred our path. We halted, and the crowd drew back to give us a little space. The brilliantly clad official stepped forward and opened a scroll. A silver and purple seal dangled from the lower edge.

  'By the authority of their joint Augustae, Zoe and Theodora,' he began. 'Punishment is to be carried out on the former Basileus Michael and the Nobelissimus Constantine.'

  Michael let out a shout of protest. 'You have no right. I was promised safe conduct,' he screamed.

  From the crowd came a muted growl of approval.

  'The punishment is to be carried out with immediate effect,' concluded the official, rolling up his scroll and nodding to his Varangian escort.

  Four of Harald's men stepped forward and took hold of Michael and his uncle by their arms. Halfdan and I did not interfere. We were outnumbered, and besides, I felt exhausted. Events had moved beyond anything I could have imagined, and I was tired of the whole business. I no longer cared who held the reins of power in the Queen of Cities. As far as I was concerned, this was a matter for the Greeks to sort out among themselves.

  Michael continued pleading and sobbing. He was writhing in the grasp of the two Varangians, begging to be spared. 'Let me go! Let me go! I was promised safe conduct,' he repeated over and over again. He knew what would happen next.

  Later it would be said that Harald of Norway carried out the mutilation, but that was not so. The little group had brought their own specialist with them, and he had with him the tools of his trade. A small, rather effeminate-looking man came forward and asked for a brazier.

  We waited for a short while before someone came back with a brazier of the common household sort normally used for cooking. Its embers were glowing and it was placed on the ground. The executioner, for that was his role, I now realised, placed the tip of a long thin iron bar, in the centre of the fire and blew delicately on the embers. The crowd pushed around so closely that he had to ask them to move back to allow him space to work. When the tip of the rod was glowing red-hot, the little man looked up at his victims. He was expressionless. I remembered Pelagia's warning that the torturers and interrogators of the palace took a pride in their work.

  Michael was in hysterics, thrashing from side to side, begging to be spared. His uncle Constantine, the Nobelissimus, calmly took a pace forward.

  'Let me go first,' he said quietly. Then, turning towards the crowd, he said firmly: 'I ask you to step back a little further still, so that there may be sufficient witnesses to the fact that I met my fate with courage.' Then he calmly lay down on the paving slabs, flat on his back, face to the sky, eyes wide open.

  I wanted to look away, but found that I was too appalled. The executioner came forward with his iron rod and deftly pressed the tip into Constantine's right eye. The man's body arched back in agony, and at almost the same moment the iron rod was dipped into the left eye. A little hiss of steam came with each movement. Constantine rolled over on to his front, his hands pressed against his sightless eyes. He let out a deep, agonised groan. Hands reached down to help him back on his feet. Someone had produced a silk scarf, which was quickly bound around his head, and I saw two courtiers, themselves weeping, support the Nobelissimus, who was unable to stand unaided.

  The executioner now turned towards Michael. He was squirming in the grip of the two Varangians and blubbering with terror. His gown was wet where he had soiled himself. The executioner nodded, indicating that the ex-Basileus was to be forced to the ground and held there, face up. The two Varangians pressed Michael to his knees, then pulled him over backwards. Michael still flailed about, twisting and turning, trying to escape. Two more of Harald's men knelt down and took a grip of his legs, pinning them to the paving stones. The Varangians who held his arms pulled them out straight, then pressed down on his wrists so that he was pinioned in the shape of a cross.

  Michael's howls had risen to a desperate pitch, and he whipped his head from side to side. The executioner was reheating the iron, blowing gently on the charcoal. When he was ready, he sidled softly across to the spread-eagled ex-Basileus, and, without bothering to clamp the head steady, he again made a double dart with the burning spit. A sound rose from deep within Michael's throa
t and burst out in a terrible howl.

  The executioner stepped back, his face still expressionless, and the Varangians released their grip. Michael curled up in a sobbing ball, his arms wrapped around his head. Mercifully, his courtiers picked him up. Then they turned and carried him away, as the crowd, silenced by the terrible punishment, parted to let them through.

  NINE

  LIKE A SHIP BUFFETED by a sudden great wave, the empire of the Romans heeled, almost capsized, then began to right itself when the ballast of centuries of obedience to the throne made itself felt. During the days which followed the blinding of Michael and his uncle, there was widespread disquiet in Constantinople. The citizens asked themselves whether it was possible that two elderly women could run an empire. Surely the machinery of the administration would stutter and come to a halt. Foreign foes would then take the chance to attack the imperial frontiers. There would be civil war. But as day followed day and nothing dire occurred, tensions eased. In the chancellery, in the tribunals, and in the myriad offices of state, the bureaucrats returned to their records and ledgers, and the government of the empire resumed its normal course. Yet not everything was quite as it had been before. During the insurrection the mob had broken into the Great Palace. Most of the crowd had hunted for valuables to loot, but a small and determined band had headed for the archives and burned the tax records, as those officials who came back to the treasury discovered.

  'Simeon the money changer suggested that we torch the files,' Halldor told me in the guardroom where the Varangians had once again taken up their duties. 'I doubt that Harald himself would

  have thought of it, but Simeon sought us out during the uproar. He too had been released from jail by the mob, and he gave us directions as to where to find the archives.' And with a chuckle he added, 'It means, of course, that now there is no evidence against those accused of collusion with the tax collectors.'