“If you please,” I ventured, “why am I here? What have I done?” As I spoke these words, it came to me that I was a captive in prison.
“Silence,” replied the man. His voice was command itself. Unfolding his arms, I saw that he clutched a book-roll in his hand. He thrust this at me and said, “Read it out.”
Taking the scroll, I unrolled it and began to read—though the words felt strange in my mouth, and sounded odd in my ears. I read, spilling these alien words into the darkness of the room, until the brown-skinned man shouted, “Enough!”
He then snatched the book-roll from my hands, saying, “Do you understand what you have read?”
“No, lord,” I replied.
“And do you not realize where you are?” he asked.
“Of that I am far from certain,” I told him. “But it seems a kind of prison. Am I a captive, then?”
The brown-skinned lord laughed at me. “A prison?” he chuckled. “Does this truly appear a prison to you?”
With that, he clapped his hands and I was no longer standing in a damp, stinking room in the dark. Indeed, I was sitting on a gold-brocaded cushion in a room larger than a hall. Ranged before me were trays of food, and I wore robes of finest silk.
“Eat,” directed the man. Again, it was a command, and no kindly invitation. “Take your ease.”
I reached towards the nearest tray to take up some food, for I was suddenly overcome with a powerful hunger. As I stretched my hand towards the tray, I caught sight of my wrist extending from the sleeve of my robe. The flesh of my wrist was red and scarred. I pulled back my hand and looked at it, then examined the other wrist—it was scarred as well, but I had no memory of how those scars could have come there.
I heard the sound of a horse neighing. I turned from my bewildered inspection to see another brown-skinned man sitting upon a white horse. The man was dressed in robes and turban of sky blue, and held a spear in his hand. Upon seeing me, he raised the lance, levelled it, put spurs to his mount and urged it forward.
The horse leapt to the spur and charged. Before I could move, horse and rider were hurtling down upon me. I saw the horse’s nostrils flaring wide. I heard the hollow beat of fast-flying hooves upon the polished marble floor, and the stinging rip of the honed spear-head slicing through the air.
I turned and tried to run, but something held me fast, and I saw that my arms were restrained by two big men with skin the colour of ebony. Gripping me tightly, they threw me to my knees. The rider appeared before me then; his horse had disappeared and he carried not a lance, but a sword which he proceeded to heat in a brazier. He thrust the blade into the flaming coals and drew it back and forth along its length. The metal grew dull and then began to blush, and then to glow. Withdrawing the blade from the fire, he advanced to where I struggled on the floor.
He spoke a word I could not understand and one of the black men snatched a handful of my hair and yanked my head up, while the other squeezed my jaws and forced my mouth open.
It was dark now. All I could see was the glowing steel as the fiery blade swung nearer.
I could feel the heat on my face. I could hear the wispy sigh of the hot metal in the cool air.
They pulled my tongue from my mouth.
The sword rose up sharply, and hovered before falling. In that instant, I saw the face of the warrior illuminated in the dim fireglow. It was the face of the Amir, J’Amal Sadiq.
He regarded me dispassionately before commencing his stroke—no anger, no hatred, merely a grim serenity as the blade fell, severing my tongue. I screamed, and went on screaming. My mouth filled with blood.
I awoke to the echo of a shout still reverberating down the empty corridor outside my room, and the taste of blood in my mouth.
The next days were given over to the preparations for the feast with which the eparch would welcome the amir and his noblemen. There were many long and serious consultations about what the Muhammedans could or could not eat. It seemed that the Arabs would not abide pork in any form, nor shellfish—which the fish market of Trebizond excelled in supplying—nor certain kinds of vegetables. Nor did they drink wine, or ale.
These constraints occasioned endless discussion among those whose duty it was to prepare the meal. I came to know this because the eparch bade me observe in the kitchens and bring word of the arrangements as they progressed. The master of the kitchen was a sour man called Flautus, who begrudged every demand the eparch placed upon him. He went out of his way to construe offence, and grumbled prodigiously at every opportunity. In this way, he instilled in his helpers and all who laboured in the kitchens a loathing of the Arabs well before they arrived.
Why he should complain so, I was not to discover. However, Nikos recognized the quality of the man and wasted no time inflaming Flautus’ animosity to the full. I learned the way of it when, having been sent to the kitchens on a minor errand, I saw Nikos talking to the kitchen master. The latter was chopping a bit of meat with a cleaver, dropping the implement with increasingly violent strokes. Upon seeing me, Nikos broke off his talk and approached me.
“Brother Aidan,” he said, his tone lightly menacing, “it is good to see you taking an interest in the eparch’s affairs. He does not overly burden you, I trust?”
“No, komes,” I answered, “I am content.”
“King Harald does not begrudge someone else the use of his servant, I suppose?”
“Jarl Harald is pleased to have me help where I can. I feel certain he would complain if it were otherwise.”
“Good.” He looked at me a moment, as if trying to read my thoughts. “You know, Aidan,” he continued, speaking as if he were confiding an intimacy, “I have not forgotten your aid in helping bring the treacherous quaestor to justice. I have not forgotten that day.”
“Nor have I.”
“And I still cannot help wondering what moved you to do such a thing. It was no affair of yours certainly.”
“But it was, Komes Nikos,” I replied. “It was my lord Harald’s affair and I serve my lord.”
“And in serving your lord you gained the favour of my lord, and freedom for yourself, too. Yes?”
“But I am not free,” I pointed out. “I am still a slave.”
“Yet you entertain hopes of freedom, I presume.”
“I do, komes,” I said, and added: “It is a hope most slaves cherish.”
“You are to be commended for keeping this hope alive, friend Aidan.” Without raising his voice, or altering his speech in any way, his bearing had become threatening. “If I may be so bold as to suggest, I can be of help to you, priest. I enjoy a certain influence where the emperor is concerned.”
“I will bear it in mind.”
“I am certain that you will.”
He left the kitchen then, and Flautus watched him go. When I looked at the cook, he averted his eyes and pretended not to listen. He began chopping the meat again, slamming the cleaver hard against the bone and gristle as if it were an enemy. I concluded my business there quickly, and hoped to avoid future discussions with Nikos.
When the preparations were complete, the invitation was sent to Amir Sadiq to come the next day after his evening prayers. The messenger returned with word of the amir’s acceptance saying, “He is bringing fifty of his men with him, and two wives.”
“Two wives?” wondered the eparch. “I know nothing of his wives. Did he say anything more about them?”
“Only that they are to accompany him,” replied the messenger.
The next day, a little after sunset, the amir and his retinue arrived. Jarl Harald and forty of his best barbarians lined the street before the house, saluting the amir as he passed. I wondered who had taught them to do that, and guessed it must have been Nikos’s idea. Upon reaching the doorway, King Harald himself opened the door for the amir to pass through.
Lord Sadiq entered the banqueting hall, followed by his own bodyguard of fifteen tall Sarazens carrying small round shields of silver, and long silver spears. In t
he centre of the ranks, surrounded by Sarazens, walked the two women—if women they were, for they were covered head to foot in long, flowing robes of pale yellow silk, veiled and wrapped so only their large dark eyes showed.
I was intrigued. Never had I seen women so captivating and so cosseted. Slender and graceful as willow wands, their robes glittering with golden threads, they moved with silent elegance, setting the air a-quiver with the gentle sound of tiny bells. I caught a fragrance as they passed—sweetly exotic, dry, but rich and full like that of a desert flower. The scent seemed to beckon, and my heart moved within me.
Aloof, yet near, they were very goddesses; close enough to touch, yet unreachable, they were vulnerable as lambs, surrounded by warrior guards bristling with lethal intent. It took all the strength at my command to turn my gaze from them lest I offend the amir. Even so, I stole glances whenever I might. Though I could not see their faces, I imagined such beauty and loveliness to accompany those fair forms as belong to angels, and my imaginings were far short of the mark, I know.
The Arabs were received with good grace by the eparch, who offered his hands as a sign of respect. The amir took the eparch’s hands in his own and the two exchanged greetings. Nicephorus presented Sadiq with the gift of a gold neck chain, and three gold rings for each of the amir’s wives. Each of the noblemen in the amir’s retinue received a silver cup.
The amir bestowed gifts also. He summoned his servants who brought forth wooden chests. These were opened to reveal fine silk robes, alabaster jars of precious oils, and beautiful enamelled boxes; inside each box was a ruby. As these and other gifts were distributed, Sadiq presented Nicephorus with a purple silk robe of the kind much prized throughout Byzantium; it was edged in gold, and there were small golden crosses woven into the fabric. He also gave the eparch a sword of the kind his own bodyguard carried: silver, with a slender, curved blade.
I marvelled at the lavishness of the amir’s gifts, even as I wondered at the reason behind it. The eparch’s presents were fine and good, but the amir’s were exquisite. Yet, if the eparch felt uncomfortable with the uneven exchange, he gave no sign.
After the formal acceptance of the gifts, the party sat down to the meal: the Byzantines to low couches, the Arabs to cushions on the floor. They watched one another warily across the narrow aisles along which the servants bore trays and platters of food. To describe the fare is to demean it, for words alone cannot suffice, but impart only the barest hint of the sumptuous feast served that night. As there was no one to say me otherwise, I joined in with a will. The meal was a rapture, every mouthful a delight from the small green, brine-soaked olives, to the honey-roasted quails. And the wine! As fragrant as balsam and light as a cloud, it filled the mouth with the freshness of fruit and the softness of a summer’s night. The Arabs drank—not wine, but a sweet drink made from honey, spices, and water which Nikos had ordered to be prepared especially for them.
The grand worthies of Trebizond affected to seem unimpressed. They reclined on their couches and nibbled stoically from their knives as if it were a grim duty to dine on such handsome fare. I tell you the truth, it was a sin the way they behaved before the bounty of that table. But I more than made up for their transgressions; I know I did my best, relishing every morsel as only a grateful man can do.
Nicephorus and the amir sat together on cushions, the eparch having abandoned his customary couch in deference to his guest. Established on a low dais, the two overlooked the feast, surrounded by those of highest rank and privilege. Nikos was second to the eparch, followed by the magister and the spatharius, who both wore the expressions of men being forced to attend a grave-digging. Midway through the feast, Nikos rose and went out, returning a short while later followed by four men bearing a huge golden ewer on a carved wooden pallet. People exclaimed aloud at the appearance of this impossibly costly object; the hall rang with the acclaim.
Nikos led the servants through the centre of the hall and came to the foot of the dais. “Emperor Basil sends his regards to the amir,” he said, speaking in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the hall. “He has asked me to deliver to you this ewer on his behalf, to be given to the caliph as a token of the high esteem with which he values his future friend.”
This pronouncement sent a flurry of quick-murmured whispers through the hall. Some men actually gaped in amazement at the generosity—not to say profligacy—of the gift; the cost was staggering.
At Nikos’s command, the servants poured the specially prepared drink from the great ewer into silver pitchers with which other servants began filling the cups of the celebrants. When the last of the elixir had been poured, Nikos raised his cup and said, “I drink to the health and long life of the emperor and the caliph, and to friendship and peace between our peoples!”
Everyone lifted high their cups and drank. And it was in that moment, when all were occupied, that there came a shout from the entry vestibule and into the hall rushed eight or ten men. Dressed in long black Sarazen robes, the lower portions of their faces covered; they dashed along the centre aisle, screaming and shouting, swords and spears flashing in the candlelight. Without the slightest hair of hesitation they seized the golden ewer and, before every eye, bore it off. Men struggled to their feet and attempted to bar the way, but the thieves had already made good their escape. Before anyone could act, the robbers and their prize had disappeared.
The eparch was stunned. The magister and spatharius stared in frozen amazement. The amir’s colour deepened with shame and rage that men of his own race should perpetrate this brazen crime in the very house in which he was a guest. He stood at once and ordered his bodyguard to give chase, kill the thieves, and bring back the golden ewer. The Sarazens rose as one and took up their weapons.
But Nikos prevented them. He held up his hands and called out. “Please! Please! Be seated. I beg you please be seated. They are gone; no one has been hurt. There is no cause for alarm. The true crime would be if we allowed these robbers to interrupt our enjoyment of this feast. Therefore, I beg you: take no thought for what has happened here tonight. It is nothing—a trifle only. Do not be dismayed.”
He turned to the servants who still stood with the silver pitchers in their hands. He summoned the nearest to him and spoke a word in his ear. The servant signalled the others and they all went out.
“My friends,” said Nikos, “return to your pleasure. Let it be as if nothing has happened.” He flung out his arm and pointed to the hall entrance where the servants had once more appeared, bearing an even larger ewer than the one that had been stolen. “You see!” he cried. “No ill has befallen this night. The largesse of the emperor is all sufficient. Enjoy! Enjoy!”
If the sight of the first ewer amazed and delighted the banqueters, the sight of the second silenced them with astonishment. Even so, I could read their thoughts as if they were written on their faces: How was it possible that two such objects should exist? And could they both be given to the caliph? The magnitude of expense! Only a god can afford to bestow such gifts!
More sweet drink was poured from the second ewer and carried through the hall to refill the cups. Nikos renewed his pledges of good will, and slowly the banquet resumed, but with much more interest than before.
The next day, the whole city bubbled with the excitement of the bold robbery, and how the quick-thinking komes had saved the honour of the amir with his extraordinary gesture. An act of true nobility, they called it; largesse on an unprecedented scale. The magister and spatharius were busy morning to night spreading word of the robbery, and a reward was quickly offered for the capture of the thieves and the return of the ewer.
Only the eparch appeared ill-pleased with the komes’s behaviour in the affair. I found him just after midday in the room he used for holding council. “Eparch,” I said, moving to where he sat, fists balled on the arms of his chair, “you asked me to tell you when Nikos returned. He is here now.”
“Tell him I wish to see him at once.”
I tu
rned and started away, but Komes Nikos came sweeping in the door at that moment, full of zeal and assurances. “We will find the ewer, never fear,” he said. “I have men searching throughout the city. I have every confidence that it will soon be returned.”
“What of the dignity of our guests?” demanded the eparch. “Will that also be returned?”
“You are aggrieved, eparch,” observed Nikos. “I assure you, I am doing all to resolve this unfortunate incident.”
“I am aggrieved,” replied the eparch tartly. “I am angry. The offence to our guests was unpardonable. The amir was gracious enough to accept my assurances that the matter would be most seriously pursued.”
“So it is,” the komes said. “You have my every pledge. The perpetrators shall be apprehended and brought to justice. If you will heed a word of counsel, I think you put too much trust in the Danes. They are the ones who should be held responsible for this. If not for their negligence, this crime would not have been committed.”
“How so?” demanded Nicephorus. “They remained at their posts throughout—exactly as you placed them. Even the slaves say no one entered or left the house once the Danes had taken their positions. I think we must look elsewhere for the perpetrators.”
Nikos started to object, but the eparch dismissed him with an exasperated flick of his hand. “You may go, Komes Nikos,” he said. “Go and give your assurances to the magister and his monkey. I am certain they will be more easily persuaded. Go! Leave me. I wish to think.”
The komes affected offence at this brusque treatment. “If I have displeased you in some way, eparch, I am sorry. I would only remind you that it is, after all, a most delicate and unusual situation. We must proceed with all caution and circumspection.”
“Yes, yes. I am certain of it,” he replied, his irritation increasing. “Go then, cautiously and circumspectly, by all means. But go.”
Nikos stalked from the room. The eparch watched him go, and then said, “You heard him, Aidan?”
Byzantium Page 40