Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  So this is how I came to the emperor: not dressed in the white robe and cloak of the peregrini, but in travel-worn rags and a slave collar; not surrounded by my brother monks, but in the company of rough barbarians; not led by the blessed Bishop Cadoc, but beside a pagan Danish king; not bearing a priceless gift, but bargaining for a hostage.

  Ah, vanity! God, who has no use for pride, had seen to it that I remained humble before his Vice-Regent on Earth.

  Raising my eyes once more, I found myself looking into the face of the most powerful man in all the world, and it was the face of a clever monkey. Before I could properly take in the sight, the magister sacrum raised his rod and cracked it down hard on the floor.

  At the same instant, the golden throne began to rise in the air. So help me Michael Valiant, I tell the truth! The throne, which looked like a Roman camp chair, save larger and made of gold, simply lifted itself into the air to hover before us—as if raised by the superb melody issuing from that golden organ, as they called it.

  Before I could grasp the contrivance of this wonder, the white-robed magister struck the floor with his rod again and made a flattening motion with the palm of his hand. Justin sank to his knees and stretched himself facedown, flat on the floor. I followed the guard’s example, but the barbarians beside me remained standing, oblivious to the insult they provoked. The music swelled, and then stopped. I held my breath—I do not know why.

  The next voice I heard was that of the emperor himself. “Who disturbs the serenity of these proceedings with such unseemly clatter?” he inquired; his voice was even and deep, and came from a place high above us.

  To my alarm, Justin whispered, “Here is your chance, Aidan. Tell him who you are.”

  Climbing quickly to my feet, I squared my shoulders, swallowed hard and replied, “Lord and emperor, you see before you Jarl Harald Bull-Roar, King of the Danes of Skania, together with his slave and two of his many warriors.”

  A faint twitter of laughter greeted my salutation, but it quickly died when the emperor muttered, “Silence!”

  “Basileus, they seem to have gained their way by guile,” said the magister sacrum, anxious to absolve himself without seeming irresponsible.

  “So it does appear.” Scanning the barbarians, the emperor said, “The king may approach. We will speak to him face to face.”

  The official gave a crack of his rod and motioned for the king to answer the summons. I moved to Harald’s side. “He would speak to you,” I told him, and together we stepped forward.

  The floating throne descended slowly to its base, and before us sat Emperor Basil, a small, bald-headed man; olive-skinned like his Macedonian countrymen, he possessed the short limbs and compact frame of a horse soldier. His eyes were dark and quick, and his hands—resting on the arms of the throne, fingers drooping from the weight of his patriarchal rings—were small and neat.

  “In the name of Christ, Sovereign of Heaven, we greet you, Lord of the Danes,” he said, offering a bejewelled hand to Harald, who bore himself with regal dignity.

  Justin touched my shoulder, indicating that I should convey the emperor’s words to the king, which I did, and added, “He means for you to kiss his hand. It is a sign of friendship.”

  “Nay!” replied Harald. “I will not.” He then told me to ask the emperor whether he would ransom the life of his thieving servant now, or see his headless corpse thrown into the harbour.

  “What does he say?” asked the emperor of me. “You may speak for him.”

  “Sovereign lord and emperor,” I replied quickly, “Harald Bull-Roar, Jarl of the Danmark and Skania says that he regrets he cannot observe friendship with you until he has presented the purpose of his mission.”

  “So be it,” replied Basil, taking up the matter at once. He spoke cordially, but his manner gave me to know that there were to be no further pleasantries wasted on the rude barbarians. “What is the nature of his concern?”

  “He demands to know your business here,” I said to Harald.

  “Then tell him,” ordered the king angrily. “Tell him we offer him a chance to redeem the life of his thieving harbour master.”

  “Emperor and lord,” I began, “the king says that he would like it known that he has made hostages of Quaestor Antonius and his men, and now awaits your offer of ransom for their lives.” This I said and told how, upon arrival in Constantinople, we had immediately been cheated by the quaestor. “My lord Harald captured the harbour master and would have taken the man’s head, along with those of his men,” I explained, “but the quaestor told us that the emperor would certainly pay a great reward for the sparing of his life. Thus, my lord Harald, Jarl of the Danes of Skania, seeks the emperor’s ransom.”

  Basil made no reply; to be sure, his face betrayed nothing of his mind, so I gestured to Gunnar to bring forth the bundle once again. I placed it on the floor, unknotted it, and spread the red cloak. There, for all to see, was the quaestor’s helmet, rod of office, and official ring. The emperor leaned forward slightly, squinted at the display, and then leaned back with a puff of agitation.

  “Where is Quaestor Antonius?”

  “He waits aboard Lord Harald’s longship, basileus, with his men as well.”

  Turning his head slightly, Basil called for the prefect to join the proceedings. The magister hastened to summon the prefect, who approached the throne. Speaking to me, the emperor said, “Tell the king that I am sending this man to bring the quaestor. He must release him to the prefect, so that we may resolve this matter.” He then directed Justin to accompany the prefect.

  Upon relaying the emperor’s words, Harald protested. “Nay!” he bellowed. “The emperor must pay the ransom if he desires the release of his man. This is everywhere understood,” he added.

  So, I explained to the basileus that Harald’s men would not release their captive until they received word from their jarl that the ransom had been paid. Sure, I spoke more bravely than I felt, and stepped back to see what would happen next.

  Far from showing his displeasure, however, the basileus merely nodded and instructed the prefect to bring him a bowl from one of the tables. This the official did, fetching a handsome golden bowl which he placed before the throne. “Give it to the king,” Basil said, whereupon the prefect delivered the bowl into the barbarian lord’s hands.

  Well pleased with the weight and craft of the bowl, Harald granted his assent. Calling Hnefi to him, he charged him to attend the prefect and bring back the quaestor. “Tell the karlar the ransom has been paid,” Harald said, then whispered, “but do not release the thief’s men—this bowl does not buy their lives.” The three left at once, whereupon the magister returned us to the anteroom to wait with the others detained at the emperor’s pleasure.

  While we were waiting, Titus appeared with the four barbarians Harald had sent to bring the surety. The newcomers were full of admiration for all the wealth they had seen along the way and wanted to know how much the emperor was giving for the quaestor’s life. “It is difficult to say,” Harald allowed ruefully, his golden treasure hidden beneath his cloak. “In this place, nothing is simple, I think.”

  The magister returned for us eventually. We entered the throne-room to find Justin and the quaestor standing before the emperor. “Quaestor Antonius,” intoned the emperor gravely as we resumed our places, “we have been hearing about some of your recent activities. Have you anything to say in this regard?”

  “Sovereign lord,” replied Antonius at once, his voice, like his expression, pure defiance, “a serious mistake has been made by these men. Possessing no knowledge of the currency of Constantinople, they have erroneously calculated the worth of their coinage and so believe themselves to have been cheated.”

  “A reasonable explanation,” replied the emperor mildly. He pursed his lips as if in thought, laced the fingers of his hands together and brought them to his chin. After a moment, he spoke again, directing his question to Harald, “The harbour tax is paid in silver. Have you other co
ins like those you delivered to Quaestor Antonius?”

  “I do,” replied Harald, speaking through me. Withdrawing the pouch kept under his belt, he opened it and shook a few silver denarii into his hand.

  These he passed to the emperor, who examined them briefly and selected one, observing, “They were not minted in Constantinople, but we believe such coins to be in plentiful supply here and elsewhere.” Showing the coin to Harald, he said, “What is its value?”

  “One hundred of your nomismi,” replied the Danish king, when I had explained the question.

  “Who told you this?” wondered the emperor mildly.

  “That man.” I conveyed the king’s words, and Harald pointed to Justin. “Indeed, if not for the scholarae’s aid, I have no doubt there would have been bloodshed and loss of life.” This last I added on my own, thinking it important that Justin’s part should receive its due.

  The emperor merely nodded and continued with his examination. Holding up a silver coin, Basil asked, “What say you, Quaestor Antonius? Tell me the value of this coin.”

  “One hundred nomismi, basileus,” the quaestor answered stiffly.

  “So,” Basil smiled. “We have established the question of value.” Addressing the harbour master, he said, “King Harald of Skania has made claim against you, Antonius. He says you have reckoned but ten nomismi to the denarius. Is this so?”

  “Exalted basileus,” replied the quaestor, “it is not so. Such an error could not be made. The barbarian is certainly mistaken.”

  Basil pursed his lips. “Then the fault is the king’s alone.”

  “Lord and emperor,” replied the quaestor, adopting a more reasonable tone, “I do not say it is the fault of anyone. Indeed, I believe no one is to blame. I say only that the ways of Byzantium may be confusing to one so newly arrived. I have already explained this to him, but he chooses to believe otherwise.”

  “There,” the emperor said, spreading his hands as if satisfied that he had penetrated to the heart of the mystery at last. “A simple miscalculation. As no harm has been done, we are happy to allow the matter to end here and send you about your business with our own good wishes.” He paused, observing the effect of his words. “We excuse your ignorance, as we forgive the disturbance of our peace. Return the bowl, and we will speak of this matter no more. What say you?”

  Harald’s face clouded as I relayed what the harbour master had said and explained the emperor’s words to him. “With respect, Jarl Harald,” I said, “he is giving you a chance to withdraw your complaint without incurring the wrath of the empire. It appears the judgement has gone against you.”

  “Tell him about the token,” Harald commanded.

  “Lord and sovereign,” I said, apprehension creeping over me, “the king has brought a token of surety which he would like to put before you in consideration of his complaint.”

  This revived the emperor’s interest.

  “There are barbarians waiting in the anteroom, basileus,” the prefect volunteered. “Shall I cause them to be admitted?”

  “By all means, prefect,” said the emperor. “It seems we are to be overrun by barbari until this matter is resolved.”

  Some of the courtiers laughed politely and the prefect hastened to summon the remaining Danes. A few moments later, the bronze doors opened and four Sea Wolves stepped from the vestibule, two of them carrying the peaked treasure box between them. I saw the chest and my heart beat faster. The Danes came to where Harald stood and placed the treasure at his feet.

  “Well?” asked the emperor impatiently.

  “Basileus,” I said; it was all I could do to prise my eyes from the peaked box, “King Harald has placed before you the assurance of his honour in this matter.”

  “Has he indeed?” With the merest movement of his wrist, Basil summoned the magister, who opened the lid of the treasure box to reveal, Jesu help me!—the silver cumtach. Sure, Harald would bring that as his pledge of faith and honesty. The book was gone, but the sacred cover had found its way to the emperor nonetheless. Oh, but it was not the way I would have chosen to deliver it.

  The official knelt down, withdrew the priceless cover from its resting place and, still on bended knee, placed it at the feet of the emperor. Basil leaned forward, allowing the imperial eye to rest upon the exquisite silver tracery and jewels of the cover. Then Harald stepped forward and laid the emperor’s golden bowl alongside the silver cumtach. “We see by this that you place a very high value on your word, King of the Danes.”

  The quaestor stared at the treasure incredulously, and I imagined that he was on the point of recanting his version of the events. But the moment passed, and the harbour master kept his mouth firmly shut.

  “Magister,” the emperor called, beckoning the official to him. He whispered something into the official’s ear, whereupon the man nodded once and departed, walking backwards from the room. “Now we may learn the truth,” Basil declared and, in afterthought, added, “as God wills.”

  32

  Emperor Basil commanded that music should be played, and the wondrous organ we had heard on entering began once more. We waited, listening to the heavenly sounds of that most extraordinary instrument. The Danes grew restless; unaccustomed to spending so much time without shouting, drinking, or fighting, they shifted from one foot to the other with growing agitation. “How long are we to be made to stand here like this?” demanded Harald loudly.

  “Peace, Jarl Harald,” I soothed. “I believe the emperor is working out a plan.”

  He subsided with a growl and contented himself with scrutinizing the gold on display. Hnefi and Gunnar talked openly of how their fingers itched to be close to such riches, and yet unable to steal any for themselves. I might have been embarrassed by this, but as no one else knew what they said, it made no difference.

  The emperor, for his part, deigned not to notice his barbaric guests’ coarse behaviour. He sat back in his throne, folded his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes. When I thought he must be asleep, he roused himself and said, “Slave, come here.”

  There were no slaves near, that I could see. So it took me by surprise when he raised his hand and beckoned me. “Forgive me, basileus,” I said, edging a hesitant step forward.

  The emperor motioned me nearer, and held out his hand for me to kiss. I did so, and remained standing before him with my eyes downcast—as I had seen the magister do.

  “We perceive that you are a learned man,” Basil said. “How came you to be a slave to these barbarians?”

  “Lord emperor, I was on a pilgrimage with my brother monks when our ship was attacked by Sea Wolves.” I explained briefly about surviving the shipwreck and finding the Gaulish village. I concluded, saying, “The settlement was attacked that same night and I was taken captive.” Indicating the cumtach resting in the box at the foot of the throne, I said, “The silver book cover offered to you as surety once belonged to us.”

  “Indeed?” wondered the emperor. “And your brother priests? What became of them?”

  “Sovereign lord,” I said, “I wish I knew. As it happens, I hoped the emperor might tell me.”

  Basil regarded me with a look of studied amazement. “We might tell you?” He laughed. “Although the emperor’s knowledge of the events in the empire is exhaustive, it is by no means infinite. Why would a man of your learning imagine that we could provide you with an explanation of so obscure an event?”

  “Forgive my presumption, basileus,” I said, “but the pilgrimage of which I speak was to Constantinople; it was, in fact, to seek audience with yourself, sovereign lord, and present you with a gift both rare and precious.”

  “Truly?” The emperor professed himself to be fascinated and commanded me to explain further. “You have gained the imperial ear, bold priest—at least until the magister returns. Tell us more of this wonderful tale.”

  In all my days of captivity, I had never dared think, even in whimsy, that I might stand before the emperor and regale him with the story
of my misfortune. But I was keen to learn the fate of my brothers, so up I spoke, casting aside all trepidation. I told the basileus about the abbey at Kells, and the making of the book; I told him about the choosing of the thirteen to make the pilgrimage, the preparations for the trip, and the storm that drove us across the sea and into the Sea Wolves’ path. “I assumed the pilgrimage would continue without me,” I said. “But unless the emperor tells me he has seen them, I must conclude that my friends turned back, or were killed in the raid as I feared.”

  Emperor Basil sat for a moment, thinking, and then said, “What is your name, priest?”

  “Sovereign lord,” I answered, “I am Aidan mac Cainnech.”

  “Aidan,” he said, “it grieves us to tell you that your brother priests have not arrived in Constantinople. They have not come before us here. Devoutly do we wish it were otherwise, for judging by the cover alone, it would have been a gift worthy of veneration, and a tribute to your monastery’s devotion. We are truly sorry.”

  The magister sacrum returned just then, and the emperor summoned him. I made to step away, but the emperor said, “Stay, priest.” So, I remained beside the throne.

  “Basileus,” the magister said, “the komes have returned.”

  “They may enter,” allowed Basil, and the magister withdrew. The emperor’s smile grew sly as he said, “Now let us see what breed of vermin we have caught.”

  The magister reappeared, leading three young men, all dressed alike: they wore long, close-fitting tunics of yellow and blue with wide sleeves, and yellow breecs with the leggings tucked into the tops of high boots; short, gold-handled swords hung from their belts. The foremost of the three—slender as a sword, with dark hair and fine, sharp features—advanced swiftly to the throne and prostrated himself. “Rise, Nikos,” said the emperor, recognizing the courtier. “Rise and declare before this exalted assembly that which you have discovered.”

  “Basileus,” answered the man named Nikos, when he had regained his feet, “it would seem that our quaestor has been a very industrious man, and richly blessed of God in all his dealings.”