Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  This I told to Harald, who considered the situation for a moment and wondered, “Is it a trap?”

  “I do not think so, Jarl Harald,” I answered. “In any event, you still have the quaestor for a hostage—his life and those of his men remain in your hands whether you hold a sword or not. Truly, I believe you must obey these guards if you wish to see the emperor—and collect your honour-debt.”

  “I will do it,” replied the king, making up his mind at once.

  “Very well,” said Titus, when I had conveyed the king’s words to him. “Tell him to get on with it.”

  Harald commanded the Danes to give their axes, swords, and hammers to the soldiers for safe-keeping, which they did with no little grumbling and suspicion. I noticed, however, that the small knives which all Sea Wolves carry close to their bodies—under their belts, or in their boots—did not appear among the items given over for safe-keeping. Justin then instructed Titus regarding the expected arrival of the surety. That settled, Scholarae Titus signalled the gatemen, who stepped aside and opened the big door, allowing us to pass quickly through, leaving the rabble and noise behind.

  Once inside the walls, we found ourselves in what seemed an enormous garden at one end of a long, tree-lined pathway. High walls divided this palace precinct into several smaller partitions so that wherever one looked the eye met the blank expanse of some wall or other. Rising above the walls, here and there, were the branches of trees and the rounded tops of domes, many with crosses at their peaks.

  The ground rose gently, as the emperor’s palace was situated astride the crown of a hill overlooking the Sea of Marmora, shimmering dull blue to the south. Led by Justin, our motley assembly—consisting now of eight barbarians, nine guards, Justin, Titus, and myself—trooped up the path towards another wall in which was set a gate large enough for horsemen to ride four abreast; what is more, an entire house had been constructed above this enormous portal where guards and watchmen lived.

  Passing through this portal we entered another garden with several more tree-lined marble walkways. There were clusters of buildings scattered haphazardly around this inner compound: kitchens, stores, dwellings of various kinds, and several large chapels. The buildings were mostly of stone—fine coloured marble from the quarries of lands throughout the empire—and most had wide windholes covered with clear glass, and not only this, but also coloured tiles of blue and green affixed to their upper portions, so that the slanting sunlight made the heights of these habitations gleam like gems.

  There were six handsome black horses grazing in the grassy places, untethered and unwatched. When I remarked on this, Justin merely replied that the emperor, a former stableboy, liked his horses.

  Sure, Heaven itself has touched this place with its glory, I thought. The magnificence of these grounds was the envy of the world, and I could scarce believe I was walking in them.

  Within this inner precinct were no fewer than four palaces and three additional chapels. As we walked along, Justin told me which they were. “That is the Octagon,” he said, pointing to one of the structures, “the emperor’s private quarters. And over there,” he pointed to another imposing palace, “is the Pantheon—where the empress and the court ladies stay. And there is the Daphne Palace, and the one beside it is Saint Stephen’s church.”

  “What is that one?” I asked, pointing to a large stone building with a high triple-domed roof of red clay tiles which rose above the tops of the trees.

  “The Triconchus Palace,” replied the guard. “It is the new state throne-room; Theophilus built it. But the emperor prefers the old throne-room in the hall of the Chrysotriclinium.” He indicated yet another enormous building of yellow stone. “We are going to the old throne-room.”

  “And what is beyond that high wall over there?” I wondered, pointing behind the throne hall.

  Justin smiled, “That, my friend, is the Hippodrome. If you survive this day, you may see some races there. The emperor is fond of horses, as I say, and so of racing.”

  Jarl Harald, growing wary of the talk between us, growled at me and demanded that I either translate, or keep silent. I told him that Justin was telling me about the emperor’s liking for horse racing. He snorted at this, saying, “Horses are costly and they eat too much.”

  The array of fine buildings and gardens was staggering. The inner precinct alone was many times larger than the whole of the abbey at Kells and, confronted with so many walls and buildings, I quickly lost any sense of direction. On and on we walked, passing through gates and doorways—one after another, beyond counting—and I began to be aware of a detail that had earlier escaped my notice; the Great Palace, beneath the lustre, was decaying.

  Despite the richness, the precinct wore an air of weariness—as if, beneath the patina of opulence, the buildings were old and tired and sad; the bright fire of their first splendour was faded now to only a glow. The path beneath our feet was white marble, but the expensive stone was discoloured and cracked; tufts of grass grew up through the cracks. The bronze crosses atop the chapels were dull green, not gold, and the colourful façades were missing many of their tiles. Several trees along the pathway were dead.

  Here and there, as if to counter the decrepit appearance, masons were busy at work atop wooden scaffolding, restoring damaged sections of some buildings, and renewing the façades and roofs of others. Indeed, when I listened, the principal sound to meet my ear was that of hammer on chisel.

  The marble walk ended at a large square building of pale yellow stone which supported a huge dome flanked by two smaller domes. Two trees grew on either side of an arched doorway, casting pale blue shadows in the thin autumn light across a paved foreyard. There was a stone water trough shaped like a bowl directly before the door, and here we halted.

  “Tell your king that he may choose two men to come with us,” Titus said, and indicated that the rest were to wait at the entrance with the soldiers. “When the others arrive with the surety, one of my men will alert us.”

  I conveyed these instructions to the king and he chose Hnefi and Gunnar to accompany him, giving instructions to the rest to attack and burn down the palace if the war cry sounded. This they vowed to do and then stretched themselves out on the grass to wait.

  Justin, looking on, said, “Are you certain you wish to proceed? You have much to lose by continuing.”

  I glanced at King Harald, who had quickly mastered his amazement. It would not be long before he was again calculating the extent of his grievance in blood. “We have much to gain, also,” I said. “We will follow wherever the path leads.”

  “It leads through here,” he replied, indicating the massive central doorway deep beneath high stone arches. “Beyond this door beats the heart of the empire.”

  31

  Stepping into the doorway, Titus rapped on the door with his bronze rod. In a moment, a smaller door opened within the larger and a gateman peered out. “Scholarae Titus, Chief Guard of the Bucoleon Gate,” he said. “I am bringing emissaries to the emperor.”

  The gateman regarded the barbarians, then shrugged and opened the door; Titus motioned for us to follow and we were admitted into a stone-paved yard bounded by high walls on all four sides. Thick vines grew on the walls, the leaves of which had coloured and were beginning to fall. The breeze swirled in the square, sending dry leaves rattling across the stone-flagged yard. The sound made the place seem desolate and empty.

  The gateman secured the door behind us and then led us to yet another in one of the walls. This door was also wood, but tightly bound in thick iron bands as wide as a man’s hand and studded with large bronze nails. Blue-cloaked guards with long-bladed lances stood on either side of the door, regarding us with bored curiosity. The gateman took hold of an iron ring and pushed one of the great panels open; stepping aside, he indicated that we should proceed.

  Having done what he promised, Titus left us to our fate. “I will return to the gate and send the surety when it arrives,” he told Justin and departed.
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  The room we entered was immense. Light came in through four round windholes above, illuminating four large paintings: one of Saint Peter, one of Saint Paul, and the other two of royal persons—judging by their purple robes—one male, the other female: an emperor and empress, I supposed, though I could not say who they might have been. The walls were pale red in colour, and the floors white marble.

  Save for low benches which lined the north and south wall, the room was bare of furniture—but not empty, for a goodly number of men in various kinds of dress stood about, some of them talking quietly to one another, others simply looking on. They watched us enter, their glances sharp and unwelcoming. Some had the wan, desperate appearance of men who had spent long years in captivity; others seemed sly and calculating, appraising our potential value. The sight of three barbarians and a travel-worn monk with a guardsman in tow did not excite them, however, and they quickly turned back to their own affairs.

  The room, for all its size, was close, the air heavy and stale, and slightly sour. If ambition has a scent, I thought, then I am smelling it now.

  In the centre of this anteroom stood a pair of great bronze doors, twice a man’s height and covered with images of riders on horseback following the hunt. A huge bronze ring hung in the centre of each door, beneath which stood a man carrying a double-headed axe on a pole. Red horsetails were affixed to the hafts of the axes, and these guards carried small round shields on their shoulders and wore sleeveless red tunics with wide black belts. Their hair was shaved from their heads, save for a single knot which hung down over their temples. The face they presented to the world was fierce indeed, and all who held discourse within that room came under their merciless scrutiny.

  Catching my glance, Justin said, “They are the Farghanese—part of the emperor’s bodyguard.”

  He had just finished speaking when we were approached by a man holding a wax tablet and stylus. He glanced disdainfully at me, and at the barbarians, before turning to the chief guard. “Who are these men and what are they doing here?”

  “This man is a king of his kind, and he comes seeking audience with the emperor.”

  “The emperor grants no one audience today,” replied the pompous man.

  “With all respect, Prefect, there has been trouble at the harbour.”

  “This trouble,” sniffed the prefect, “requires the emperor’s attention? I should have thought it more a matter for the emperor’s guard.”

  “They have made hostages of the Quaestor of Hormisdas Harbour and of his men,” replied Justin. “Any intervention by the guard will result in the deaths of all concerned. As I am only a scholarae, I have no authority to endanger the quaestor’s life. But if you wish to take it upon yourself to settle the matter, Prefect, I bow to your superiority.”

  The official, who had been about to write something on his tablet, raised his eyes and glanced at Justin; his head whipped around and he regarded the barbarians. Weighing the odds, he made up his mind at once. “Guards!” he cried.

  The two Farghanese leapt forward at the prefect’s shout. Harald roared an order, and the Sea Wolves drew knives and prepared to meet the attack. The courtiers in the near vicinity threw up their hands and scattered with a great commotion.

  “Stop!” Justin shouted. Seizing me by the shoulder, he cried, “Make them stop! Tell them it is a mistake!” To the prefect, he shouted, “Do you want to get us all killed? Call them off!”

  Throwing myself before Harald, I said, “Wait! Wait! It is a mistake! Put up your blade, Jarl Harald.”

  “I told you they were in earnest!” Justin hissed in exasperation. “For God’s sake, man, let the emperor deal with them.”

  The prefect seemed to reconsider his hasty action. He spoke a word and the Farghanese relaxed; they raised their axes once more and the danger passed.

  Shaking his robes in agitation, the prefect glared around him like a master who has discovered his servants quarrelling. “I am citing you, scholarae. You know the proper conveyances,” he informed Justin tartly. “I need not remind you that official protocols exist for precisely these occasions. I suggest you remove yourself from here at once and take the barbarians with you.”

  “Yes, prefect. And what of the quaestor?”

  Lowering his eyes to the tablet, the man pressed his stylus into the soft wax. “As I have already told you, the emperor is seeing no one. He is preparing an embassy to Trebizond, and is spending the next few days in the company of his advisors. All affairs of court are suspended. Therefore, I suggest you take your concerns to the magister officiorum.”

  “I believe the magister is in Thrace,” Justin pointed out. “I understand he is not expected to return to the city until the Christ Mass.”

  “That cannot be helped,” the prefect answered, working the stylus against the wax with deft strokes. “In any event, it is the best course I can recommend.” Glancing at me, and then at the Danes he added, “That will allow them time to bathe and clothe themselves properly.”

  I conveyed the prefect’s words to Harald, who merely grunted, “I will not wait.” With that, he stepped forward and produced a gold coin from his belt.

  Taking hold of the tablet, he pressed the gold coin into the soft wax. The prefect looked at the money and at Harald, then brushed his long fingers across the coin. As the official’s fingers closed on the gold, the king seized him by the wrist and squeezed hard. The prefect gave a startled cry and dropped his stylus. Harald calmly pointed to the entrance.

  “I think he means to see the emperor now,” remarked Justin.

  The Farghanese bodyguard moved to the prefect’s defense once more, but the prefect waved his free hand to ward them off. “In Christ’s name, just open the doors!”

  The two guards stepped aside and pulled on the bronze rings; the doors swung open and Harald released the official’s hand. The prefect led us into a small screened room, the vestibulum, where we were instantly met by a man in a long white robe carrying a slender silver rod—the magister sacrum, he was called. Tall and grey and gaunt, his face pitted and scared, he gazed upon us severely. Addressing the prefect, he said, “What is the meaning of this unseemly intrusion?”

  “There has been some trouble at Hormisdas Harbour,” the prefect answered. “These men are responsible. The emperor’s attention is required.”

  The magister made a face as if he smelled something foul. “You will not speak until spoken to,” he intoned, addressing himself to the uncouth visitors, “and then you will make your replies as succinct as possible. When addressing the emperor, you may call him by his official title, basileus, or sovereign lord, either is acceptable. It is customary to keep your eyes averted when not speaking to him. Understood?”

  Harald looked to me for explanation, and I relayed the magister’s rules to the king who, much to my amazement, burst into a broad grin as he learned the Byzantine protocols. With a heartfelt, “Heya!” he slapped the unsuspecting magister on the back with his enormous paw.

  The courtier maintained his rigorous dignity, however, and without another word led us into the emperor’s hall. We stepped from the vestibule into a room without equal in the world: high and wide, the space beneath the ceiling dome was vast and filled with the light of ten thousand candles. The walls, floors, and pillars were deep-hued marble, polished so smooth that their surfaces reflected like mirror pools. The glint of gold met the glance on every side: gold was woven into the fabrics of clothing, in the mosaics covering the walls; all the fitments and furniture of the room were gold—candletrees, chests, chairs, tables, bowls and ewers and urns—the very throne itself. The whole room was bathed in the honeyed gleam of that most precious metal.

  What shall I say of the wonder of this hall and its renowned occupant? In the centre of the vast room sat a golden throne raised upon a tiered dais, and tented over with a cloth of gold. Three steps—carved from porphyry, I was told, and polished to the smoothness of glass—led up to the dais, and at the topmost step was the emperor’s fo
otstool. The royal seat itself—more couch than throne, double-backed and large enough for two big men to sit comfortably—was established directly beneath the great central dome. In the apse of the dome was the largest image I have ever seen, a mosaic of the Risen Christ, ablaze with glory, and beneath his feet the words “King of Kings” in Greek.

  In clustered ranks about the throne stood a veritable crowd of people—courtiers of various kinds, I decided; nearly all were robed in green, or white, or black, save those closest to the throne who were Farghanese and, like the warriors standing guard at the door carried pole-axes and shields.

  At our first steps the sound of a rushing wind commenced, and a moment later the most exquisite music filled the air. It was like the music of pipes and flute and every rushing wind that I had ever heard. And thunder, too, yes, and everything that sang under heaven. I had never heard anything to equal it, nor ever have again. It was, I think, the sound of heavenly majesty rendered audible to the earthly ear, and it seemed to come from a great golden casket a little behind and to one side of the throne.

  I might have discovered more about the source of this glorious music, but I had eyes only for the throne and the man sitting in it. For, occupying one side of the wide throne and regarding us openly, was Emperor Basil, robed in deepest purple that glistened and shimmered in the light.

  The splendour of the room and the opulence of all around me combined to make me suddenly conscious of my own appearance. Glancing down, I noticed to my embarrassment that my once-fine cloak was stained and torn; my mantle was filthy and ragged at the edges. Raising a hand to my head, I felt that my hair had grown and my tonsure needed renewing, and my beard was matted and unkempt; an iron collar hung about my throat. In short, I looked more like one of the beggars that swarmed the walls of the Great Palace, than an emissary of the Irish church. But I was not an emissary. In truth, I was what I appeared: a slave.