Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Picking our way through refuse heaps and reeking mud, we came to the Egnatian Way, the road which passed through the Golden Gate, eventually becoming The Mese and leading directly to the forum and the palace. Upon reaching the road, we saw that the wide, stone-paved expanse had become a river of humanity—and a turgid river at that, moving with almost imperceptible slowness, albeit with ear-numbing clamour towards the pale yellow gate far, far ahead.

  There seemed no other choice but to join the throng jostling its slow way towards the city. This we did, pushing our way in behind a group of men carrying large stuffed bags made of heavy sackcloth. We shuffled slowly along together for a time, the five throwing off their weighty burdens every now and then to give themselves a rest before moving on again. It was during one such lull in the march that I spoke to them, offering to help shoulder the weight of their sacks.

  “Your offer is generous, my friend,” the leader of the group told me, “but we have no money with which to repay your kindness.”

  “We have come to the city to make our fortune,” another said—a young man with a dark feather-wisp smudge of moustache. The head man gave him a disapproving look which he blithely ignored, and announced: “We are the best potters in all Nicea.”

  “Have you travelled far?” I asked.

  “Not as far as you, by the look of it,” answered the leader dourly.

  “We have been some time in the east,” I volunteered. “Is this road always so crowded?”

  “You must be the only men in all Byzantium who do not know what has happened,” the chief potter said, regarding us dubiously.

  “The basileus is dead!” the young man informed me with undisguised pleasure.

  “Truly?” I asked, trying to sound suitably amazed.

  Dugal joined in, saying, “When did this happen?” His Greek was not good, and the men stared at him before answering.

  “Six days ago,” said another potter, unable to resist any longer. Indicating the sack on the ground between his feet, he said, “We have made funeral bowls which we will sell in the markets here.” So saying, the man untied the mouth of the bag, reached in and grabbed what appeared to be a handful of straw. From the straw, he withdrew a pale blue and white bowl, finely made, if somewhat small and shallow. He offered me the bowl to examine, and I saw the inside had been decorated with an image of a man wearing a crown and holding a spear in one hand and a cross in the other. Below the man, who appeared to be standing atop one of the city’s domes, was the word Basil.

  “It is very handsome,” I said, passing it to Brynach for his appreciative appraisal.

  “City people will pay very much for this fine work,” he said proudly. “And we have made three hundred of these bowls to sell.”

  “The emperor’s funeral,” I mused, steering the conversation back onto course, “is it to be soon?”

  “Why, it is tomorrow,” replied the leader. Then leaning close, he confided the secret of their hoped-for success: “We are going to sell our bowls outside the Hagia Sophia.” Taking the bowl from Dugal, he put his finger on the image of the dome and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “We know where the funeral procession will pass.”

  “I wish you well,” I said. “It seems we have chosen a poor time to come to the city.”

  “A poor time,” agreed one of the potters, “if you hoped to sup with the emperor!” Everyone laughed at this outrageous suggestion. “But maybe not so bad if you have something to sell.”

  “Especially,” continued the second potter, “if you stay long enough to welcome the new emperor.” So saying, he withdrew another bowl, the same as the first in every detail—the same man with spear and cross standing atop the same dome—save for the inscription which read, Leo. “We have made three hundred of these also.”

  “You have sown your seed with admirable fore-thought,” Brynach said. “I wish you a bountiful harvest.” He paused and asked, “Is it known how the emperor died?”

  “They are saying it was a hunting accident,” the chief potter confided with a gossip’s enthusiasm. “It happened at the summer palace at Apamea.”

  “A stag pulled him from his horse and gored him,” added the youth helpfully. “They say the emperor was dragged twenty miles before they could get him free of the beast.”

  “That is not certain, Issacius,” cautioned his elder. “It is a sin to repeat rumours.”

  “The emperor’s guards were with him and they saw everything that happened,” continued the youth, his zeal unabated.

  “No one saw what happened,” asserted one of the other potters. “I heard the basileus had ridden ahead, and no one knew anything was wrong until they saw his horse running away. That is why the Farghanese were too far away to help.”

  “They gave chase and cornered the stag,” continued the second potter with a dark look at the youth. “One of the bodyguard had to cut the emperor’s belt to free him from the stag’s antlers.”

  “Yes, but the beast escaped into the forest.” The youth paused to enjoy the effect of his next announcement. “It took the emperor nine days to die.”

  “Nothing good comes of repeating rumours,” the chief potter scolded. To us he said, “The truth is that we have heard many things. Some say one thing, and some say another, and they cannot all be right. I think no one really knows what happened. Therefore, it is perhaps best to say as little as possible.”

  “A wise course,” I agreed. We talked about the possible funeral preparations and the various imperial ceremonies, and when I judged we had learned what we could from the potters, I bade them farewell.

  Leaving the enforced procession, we made our way back to the ships. Dugal led the way, and I followed, heedless of the muck and stink, mindful only of the scheme taking shape in my mind.

  70

  Your plan possesses the elegance of simplicity,” observed Lord Sadiq approvingly when I told him. “A proper splendour will make it irresistible.”

  Accordingly, the amir chose a villa on the Golden Horn, a magnificent house—even larger than that of Governor Honorius’ in Trebizond—with dozens of rooms on two floors, and a central courtyard which boasted a fountain. Even by Constantinopolitan standards it was an opulent, if not ostentatious, abode. The amir explained, “Only the most alluring bait silences the shriek of the trap.”

  “Lord Sadiq, you are the bait in this trap,” I reminded him.

  We took residence and, under cover of darkness, spirited thirty Sea Wolves and three Armenian pirates into the house. The next morning we sent Faysal and all eight of the rafiq, arrayed in fine new clothes, to the imperial palace to place Lord Sadiq’s petition before the Imperial Prefect, requesting an audience with the new emperor.

  “There was no mistake,” Faysal said upon his return. “The fellow knew the house well. He told me many foreign emissaries make use of it while staying in the city.”

  “And he said he would send someone to interview the amir?” I asked. Faysal nodded. “When?”

  “Tomorrow, or the next day,” Faysal replied. “The prefect was quite upset that we have arrived unannounced. But I explained that, owing to the emperor’s untimely death, we were unable to make our presence known until now.”

  “And he believed you?”

  Faysal smiled. “I gave him no reason to believe otherwise.”

  “What of the soldier?” wondered Sadiq. “Did you have any difficulty locating him?”

  “None whatever, lord,” Faysal answered. “All was as Aidan said it would be. I spoke with the man—”

  “Did anyone see you?” I interrupted.

  “It is difficult to say,” Faysal said. “But I took pains to be as discreet as possible.”

  “Will he help us?”

  “He said we could trust him to take whatever actions necessary to see justice accomplished.”

  “Then it is in Allah’s hands,” Sadiq observed.

  The trap was set. That Nikos, now bearing dead Nicephorus’ title must come to pay a visit to the amir, I d
oubted not at all. Visiting foreign dignitaries had long been part of his court function, after all, allowing him to remain close to the throne. Also, no one knew better than Nikos himself what had been done to destroy the peace treaty between Byzantium and the Sarazens. He could not risk having that treaty come to life again at such an inappropriate moment.

  Thus, when Nikos learned that Amir Sadiq had arrived and requested audience with the new emperor, he would certainly make it his concern to deal with the matter personally. We had but to wait for Eparch Nikos to come to us, and when he did, I would be ready. I steeled myself for that meeting, and I told myself that soon, soon it would be over.

  I ate little and slept ill, my mind whirling with thoughts of what I would do when I finally saw him. Time and again, my hand strayed to the Qadi knife for reassurance. I am no warrior, and considered that I might be killed, but I no longer feared death. Nikos, I vowed, would never leave the house alive. If I could not accomplish his death, Harald and the Sea Wolves would.

  Every possibility had been anticipated, save one: the speed with which Nikos sprung the trap. His arrival was so quick on the heels of Faysal’s petition that I feared he had penetrated our deception.

  Two mounted komes, dressed in their distinctive yellow and blue, arrived mid-morning, rapped respectfully at the door, and informed Faysal of the eparch’s imminent arrival.

  I had barely enough time to alert Lord Sadiq, hasten the Danes into position, and take up my own hiding place before the eparch himself appeared. He came with ten of the imperial bodyguard, the Farghanese—five of which took up position outside the house; the remaining five entered with him, watchful, bristling.

  My heart, already pounding with an excitement of anticipation, beat even faster at my first glimpse of Eparch Nikos. His dark hair was longer, more closely observant of the moment’s affectations at court, I suppose, and he was more richly clothed than when last I had seen him: wearing flowing black trousers, a long black tunic with voluminous white sleeves, held at his slim waist with a wide black belt which boasted a huge silver buckle in the shape of a spearblade. His manner was smoothly superior as always, his quick eyes just as keen, his smile tight and cold.

  Faysal, ever the perfect servant, conducted the three officials to the courtyard which, in the eastern manner, had been furnished with a wide low table and cushions under a striped canopy. He brought them to the table and bade them to sit, then departed, saying, “I beg your pardon to inform the amir of your arrival.”

  After a suitably decorous interval, Lord Sadiq appeared, regal in his flowing robes of creamy white and turquoise. The three courtiers rose in a show of respect, receiving a slight bow from Sadiq, who then invited his guests to sit with him at table, and offered them refreshment of fruit, cake, and sweet drinks. This they did, under the vigilant eyes of the imperial bodyguard who had ranged themselves at the courtyard portals.

  “How enjoyable to see you again, Amir Sadiq,” Nikos said, beginning the proceedings. “Your journey was pleasant, I trust.” Without waiting for a response, he added, “I must say, your arrival, agreeable though it is, has taken us somewhat by surprise.”

  “Truly?” The amir inquired, mild concern crossing his brow. “Eparch Nicephorus and I agreed that I should come to arrange suitable lodging for the Arab delegation prior to the arrival of the khalifa. Indeed, Khalifa al’Mutamid is eagerly anticipating his meeting with the emperor in the spring.”

  “As it happens, recent events have rather overshadowed affairs at court just now. The palace has been in turmoil, as you might imagine,” he suggested delicately.

  “The imperial funeral, of course,” Sadiq responded with equal tact. “Appropriate gifts of condolence will be despatched to Emperor Leo at once, of course. And if our inauspicious arrival has disturbed the emperor, I will make official apologies.”

  “Please accept my assurance that apologies will not be necessary,” replied Nikos with a thin, dismissive smile. Upon hearing this, it occurred to me why he had responded to our petition so promptly: the emperor did not yet know of the amir’s arrival. If Nikos had his way, the emperor never would.

  “Indeed,” Nikos continued, “it is I who must beg your pardon, for I see now where the problem has arisen.” He placed the palms of his hands together. “It is with the greatest regret that I must inform you that Eparch Nicephorus is, I fear, no longer living.”

  Sadiq stared for a moment. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said at last, and with genuine feeling. “He was a good man. I was proud to call him my friend.”

  “Naturally, as happens in these situations,” Nikos resumed placidly, “his unfortunate death has left various matters unattended. I myself have been struggling to shoulder many of the burdens he bore so effortlessly.”

  “Was it a long illness?”

  “He passed quickly,” Nikos replied. “But then, his age was against him, I suppose.” Consummate liar that he was, I almost believed him when he paused sorrowfully, and added, “Poor Nicephorus, I truly miss him. It happened shortly after our return from Trebizond. In many ways, I am still trying to come to terms with his death. It has left something of a void in imperial affairs—and now that his emperor has followed him, so to speak…” He paused, as if reflecting on the impossible hardships of his position. Then, appearing to brush all the unpleasantness aside, and taking up his staff of office once more, he said, “Well, the affairs of the empire go on. That is why I have come, Amir Sadiq. How may I help you?”

  “Before we begin, I feel I must seek your indulgence,” Sadiq said, “but it seems I have exhausted my meagre store of Greek. With your permission, I will ask Faysal to translate for me.”

  Nikos nodded his consent, whereupon Faysal, who had been standing apart, took his place at the amir’s left hand. This artifice served a useful tool for Sadiq, permitting him time to frame his replies, and the leisure to study his guest’s responses.

  “As you know, the treaty is very important to the khalifa, and to the Arab people,” Sadiq said through Faysal, which was entirely true. “I would not like to think the Eparch Nicephorus’s untimely demise had diminished our hopes for peace in any way.”

  “Then allow me to reassure the amir,” replied Nikos when Faysal had finished translating. “The prospect for peace is as bright as it has ever been.”

  “That is good,” agreed Sadiq sagely. “Those who have been influential in this matter will be remembered. I am certain the khalifa would desire me to dispense such rewards as I deem fitting. Rest assured I will do so with liberality.”

  All this I saw and heard from my hiding place, and marvelled at the amir’s skill in guiding the conversation to its desired end.

  “As always, your thoughtfulness is commendable, Lord Sadiq. Nothing would please me more than to serve you in this. If you will allow me, I will personally take your gift to the emperor. This would allow me the opportunity of presenting these sentiments on your behalf. The basileus will, I believe, appreciate your gesture.”

  “Very well,” acceded the amir, when Faysal had translated for him. “Would you like to see what I have prepared for the emperor?”

  “By all means,” answered Nikos agreeably.

  “It is in the next room,” he said, rising. “Come, I will show you.”

  At this, I felt my heart seize in my chest. Flattening my back against the column, I touched the jewelled daigear at my belt and then the governor’s letter beneath my siarc, closed my eyes, and drew a deep breath. Courage, I told myself. It is soon over.

  The amir led his guests to a room opening onto the corridor surrounding the courtyard. The room was bare, save for a coil of braided leather rope on the floor. Nikos entered the room behind Sadiq, glanced quickly around, and said, “Where is the gift?”

  “It is here,” Sadiq assured him.

  “Where?” Nikos, suspicion well roused, stepped away from the amir.

  “But you are to be the gift, Eparch Nikos,” Lord Sadiq said. He raised his hands and clapped them twice
very loud. There came a clatter from the courtyard as the unsuspecting Farghanese were swiftly overpowered and disarmed by a swarm of vengeful Danes.

  Nikos and the two komes turned as one towards the sound just as I stepped into the doorway. His eyes met mine, and suspicion turned instantly to hot rage. For my own part, however, I felt my heart grow very cold. This was proceeding far, far easier than I could have imagined.

  “You!” Nikos snarled. “How dare you!” His eyes darted from me to the amir, and back. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Oh, I think we all know you very well,” I replied, stepping into the room. “You are a liar and a murderer, a very serpent in the guise of a man. Today, however, the doom which you so richly deserve and have so long evaded has ensnared you, Eparch Nikos.”

  Harald and six Sea Wolves appeared behind me at that moment, just as we had planned. “The guards are resting peacefully,” he told me, and I passed this information along to the others as the Danes took hold of Nikos and his aides.

  The komes, frightened by the disaster overtaking them, began shouting and clamouring to be released at once.

  I directed Hnefi and Gunnar to remove the two quaking komes, and they were hauled, white-faced and shaking, from the room.

  Nikos, livid with rage, glowered hatefully at me. “I thought you dead.”

  “Then consider this revenge from beyond the grave,” I told him.

  “Revenge—for Nicephorus, that wizened little turd of a man? That is absurd.”

  “For Nicephorus, yes,” I told him. “But no less for the Danes in the eparch’s bodyguard, and all the merchants, and their women and children.”

  “You are insane,” Nikos retorted indignantly. “Merchants and children? I have no idea what you are talking about.”