Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I am talking about the ambush on the road to Sebastea which you arranged,” I said.

  “Which I myself narrowly escaped,” Nikos corrected smoothly.

  “Is that what you told the emperor?”

  “This is what the emperor believes, and you cannot prove otherwise,” he said, and the sneer was back in his voice. It was all I could do to keep from seizing him by the throat then and there.

  “Perhaps not,” I conceded, trying to keep my voice level. “But there are other crimes to answer.” Turning my head, I called over my shoulder: “Brynach! Dugal! Ddewi! Come here.”

  A moment later, the three monks stepped into the room. Nikos stared; clearly, he had not expected to meet them again, much less in my company. I stared, too, for they had devised for themselves monkish robes similar to those they had worn at the abbey; moreover, they had shaved their beards, cut their hair, and renewed their tonsures so that they now looked much the way they would have when Nikos had last seen them.

  I suppose I had grown used to their shaggy appearance, but seeing them in their priestly garb brought me up short; it reminded me that I had once been of the Célé Dé.

  Nikos recovered his composure instantly. Oh, he was subtle and he was sure. “Who are these men?” he demanded.

  “Like the others in this house,” I replied, “they are men who would make accusation against you. Indeed, we have all been eagerly awaiting this moment for a very long time.”

  “I have done nothing,” he insisted. “I will not listen to your accusations.”

  “The emperor will listen,” Brynach said stoutly. “And may God have mercy on your soul.”

  “Of what do you accuse me? Poor weather and pirates?” Nikos said, spitting the words maliciously. “The emperor will laugh at you and your ridiculous complaints.”

  “I doubt the emperor will laugh,” I told him. “Indeed, when news of your death reaches him, I expect he will shed a fleeting tear before appointing another to your place.”

  “Spare me your tiresome threats,” Nikos scoffed. “If you can make good your accusations, then take me to the emperor and we will see who laughs—and who dies.”

  Brynach, alarmed by my intention to kill Nikos, interceded, “Brother, you cannot kill him like this. We must take him before the emperor, and let God’s Vice-Regent on Earth be his judge.”

  Lord Sadiq also interposed. “Do not stain yourself with his killing, my friend. It is better that the basileus should learn what manner of man has been serving him.” He gazed at me earnestly. “If not for your own sake, then for the sake of the peace, and all those who will suffer if it is not achieved.”

  I hesitated, and Nikos thought he saw his chance. “Come then,” he demanded, snapping his fingers imperiously. “Take me to the emperor at once!”

  Nikos’s easy mastery of the situation should have sent a warning tingling through me. Oh, but I had waited long and endured much in pursuit of my vengeance; I was so anxious that it might slip away, I rushed headlong towards the confrontation, blindly heedless of the end.

  71

  > Hold out your hands,” I commanded. Nikos, hatred burning from every pore, slowly extended his hands. Indicating the coil of rope, I called to the Danes, “Tie him.”

  Harald himself took part in trussing Nikos securely. Nor was he gentle with the windings and knots. When he was finished, he drew Nikos’s gold-handled sword and put the blade to his ribs. “He will not be escaping this time, I think.”

  Thus we departed for the Great Palace, eighteen barbarians, ten Sarazens, and a handful of monks, leading one baleful eparch and three Armenian pirates through the streets of Constantinople: a strange procession, perhaps. But no more strange than that which had brought the thieving quaestor to justice.

  The imperial guards and the two komes remained at the villa, bound hand to foot, where they were watched over by a dozen disgruntled Sea Wolves, who would rather have been among their comrades going to the palace.

  Nikos walked along, head down, eyes on the ground, neither speaking, nor struggling. He knew well enough when to keep his mouth shut; I reckon he was biding his time and saving his breath for when it would serve him best. Once he stumbled and would have fallen, but Harald reached out a hand and steadied him. Had Nikos’s look been a blade, Jarl Harald would have lost his hand. As it was, Nikos turned his eyes once more to the ground without a word.

  The only time he spoke was to confirm his name to the scholarae at the gate, who was understandably reluctant to allow our party into the palace precinct without better authority than he possessed. This difficulty had been anticipated, of course. “We are an official delegation,” I declared. “Please summon the Chief of the Palace Guard.”

  The soldier stared, uncertainly. “But I—”

  “All is well,” I assured him. “We will wait here until he can attend us.”

  With a last backward glance, the soldier departed, leaving us in the company of his fellow guards. He was gone longer than I imagined it would take—enough time for me to begin thinking our ruse had been discovered. Patience, I thought, smiling at the staring, suspicious scholarii; brazen it out and we are soon finished.

  My resolve was soon rewarded when, a few moments later, I stood looking into the face of my friend, Justin.

  “So,” he said, his aspect solemn as his voice, “you have returned at last.” His eyes flicked from me to those with me, taking in the Arabs and barbarians at a glance. “What do you want?”

  I felt a sudden queasiness ripple through my inward parts. Had I misjudged my old friend?

  “It is good to see you, Justin,” I said. “You helped me once—”

  “And now you expect me to help you again,” he observed, his voice hard.

  Nikos, seeing his chance, announced, “They have taken me against my will. I demand you seize them at once.”

  Justin turned his face slowly towards the disturbance. “Who are you to make demands of the emperor’s men?”

  “I am Nikos, Eparch of Constantinople,” he snapped in exasperation. “Make them release me at once and I will see you rewarded.”

  “Will you now?” Turning to me, he said, “What do you intend with him?”

  “We intend bringing him to justice,” I replied.

  “Then I fear you will be disappointed, friend,” he said. “There is no justice in this world—here least of all.”

  “You helped me once,” I reminded him quickly. “Please, for the sake of the righteousness you once cared about, help me again.”

  Justin regarded me dully, his expression unfathomable. Then, shaking his head slowly, I saw a smile begin spreading across his face. “There are other gates, you know. Why must you always come to mine?” Then he seized me by the arms and embraced me like a brother. Turning to the worried scholarii, he said, “These men here have important business with the emperor. We will provide an escort. Follow me.”

  With that, we were ushered through the gates and into the palace precinct beyond. At each impediment, Justin called upon his personal authority to remove the obstacle and allow us to proceed. So it was that we eventually came to be standing in a large hall called the Onopodion, which formed the entrance to the Daphne Palace, where the new basileus was staying until his preferred residence, the Octagon, could be refurbished for his use. We were admitted into the marbled hall with its blue-painted ceiling, and had come under the severe scrutiny of the magister officiorum—not the same who had served Basil, but another—who was distressed to see the eparch in the rough company of so many strange people, most of them barbarians.

  He was on the point of calling out the emperor’s Farghanese bodyguard, but Justin presented himself and patiently allayed his fears, assuming full responsibility for the attending company. Nikos—the hidden swordpoint jabbing painfully in his side—remained belligerently silent. “Explain to the basileus that the eparch seeks immediate audience,” Justin commanded, “and I will alert the bodyguard.”

  The magister, perha
ps relieved to have the matter taken from his shoulders, scuttled through a smaller door which opened within a massive great door the size of a city gate. Now, like everyone who came into the palace precinct for any reason, we waited.

  Having come this far, Nikos recovered some of his swagger. “What do you expect will happen in there?” he inquired shrewdly. I glanced around to see him regarding me with undiluted loathing.

  Harald drew back a hand to quiet him, but I intervened with a word and shake of my head. “I expect you to be condemned for your crimes,” I replied. “And then I expect you will die.”

  Nikos shook his head with slow superiority. “Then friend Justin is right: you will be disappointed.”

  “We shall see.”

  “Let me tell you what is going to happen.”

  Annoyed by his insolence, I turned my face away and made no reply.

  “You will go before the emperor with your trifling complaints, all of which I will deny,” said Nikos, smug in his certainty. “Lacking any form of convincing proof, the emperor will have your tongues cut out for lying; you will be scourged and condemned to death in the emperor’s mines.”

  His use of the word brought me sharply around once more. “You know so much about mines, do you, Nikos?” I spat, stepping closer. “Do you also know about death?”

  “I know the punishment the emperor reserves for his dearest enemies.”

  “Was Bishop Cadoc an enemy?” I demanded. “And the monks of Éire—were they the emperor’s enemies?” Stepping closer, I felt the anger leaping up within me. “Was Eparch Nicephorus an enemy? What of the children on the road to Sebastea? Were they enemies, too?” I stepped closer, my anger rising. “Was Exarch Honorius an enemy, Nikos? And what of the emperor’s own mercenaries, King Harald and his Danes, who were in the employ of Basil himself. Are they also enemies?”

  He gazed back at me mildly unconcerned, betraying neither fear, nor remorse. Why? Did he require more strenuous convincing?

  Putting my hand into my siarc, I brought out the parchment square. “Do you recognize the seal?” I asked. “It is Honorius’s seal. He wrote this before your conspirators murdered him.”

  Nikos looked blandly at the letter, offering an indifferent shrug.

  “I saw Honorius before he was killed. I tried to free him. He left this for me.” I held the letter before his face. “If you think I lack convincing proof,” I said, my voice thick with hatred, “you are wrong. Honorius knew about your plot to kill Emperor Basil. He knew, and he wrote what he knew in this letter.”

  A strange expression of glee appeared on Nikos’s face. “My plot?” he asked with a laugh. “Is that what you believe? Is that why I am made to stand here, bound like a slave for the galley?”

  Nikos’s laugh roused the interest of the others. Faysal and Brynach translated for their companions, but Harald moved to my side and demanded, “What is he telling you?”

  “He shows no concern that the emperor should learn of his crimes.”

  The jarl’s eyes narrowed. Seizing Nikos by the hair, he pressed the swordpoint harder. “By Odin, I will show him cause for concern.”

  To Nikos, I said, “Do you deny plotting to kill Emperor Basil?”

  “How ignorant you are,” Nikos replied, his voice tight against the pain in his side. “So righteous, so quick to judge. You know less than nothing, and presume to sit in judgement over me! Let me go, and get out while you can.”

  “Say what you like, I know you conspired with others to take the emperor’s life,” I told him, anger turning to rage. “Honorius discovered your treachery, so you took him captive and murdered him. You had Bishop Cadoc and my brother monks killed, too, for no other reason than that they wanted to see the governor. You could not risk having them return to tell the emperor what they saw.”

  Harald released his grip on the captive’s head, but the sword remained firmly in place. “To tell the basileus what they saw?” wondered Nikos; he could not resist displaying his supremacy. “Your Greek is appalling as ever!” His mocking laugh sounded hollow in the voluminous hall. “I think usurper was the word you meant.”

  I stared at him, trying to make sense of what he was telling me. Harald demanded to know what Nikos said. “He is saying Basil was not the rightful emperor,” I replied.

  “Do not listen to him,” Harald advised. “He is a liar practising his craft.”

  Ignoring Harald, I glared at Nikos. “What do you mean?”

  “Still fumbling in the dark?” Nikos wondered. “Well, I am certain Leo can explain it so that even you and your trained barbarians can understand.”

  “Usurper—you called Basil a usurper—what did you mean?”

  Nikos only laughed at me.

  Rage burning within me, I forced myself to turn and walk a few paces away. Harald called after me, “What is he saying?”

  Faysal and Brynach hastened to where I stood. “What does he mean?” they asked, confused as I was by what they had heard.

  “Quiet!” I shouted. “Let me think!”

  Out of the turmoil of my thoughts emerged a memory, clear as a vision: I saw Justin and myself sitting together over a meal. Justin, leaning over the table, was speaking low, and with what at the time I considered malicious delight: “Even the emperor’s friends say Basil the Macedonian’s ascension owes less to divine appointment, than to the skillful application of the blade.” Once again I saw him draw his forefinger knife-like across his throat.

  “Any sorrow at Michael’s passing was buried along with his blood-sodden corpse…It was well known he seduced and bedded Basil’s wife—and not once only, but many times, and that Basil knew. Indeed, some claim that one of our emperor’s sons is not his own.”

  At the time I had rebuked Justin for repeating wicked and slanderous rumours. Instead, I should have been praising him for telling the truth!

  Raising my eyes, I saw Justin watching me solemnly. Oh, yes, he knew.

  “Aidan,” called the amir, standing with Kazimain a few paces away. “Do not heed him. Wait for the emperor.”

  I made no reply, but addressed Nikos instead. “You were acting for Leo.”

  Nikos said nothing, but words were no longer necessary—his sly, superior sneer confirmed everything. I saw his lips curve so smoothly and with such easy indifference, I knew we had risked all and lost.

  Fool! I shrieked inwardly, shaken by my own stupidity and ignorance.

  Sick dread stole over me, swallowing the rage in gloom. There could be no justice: The King of Kings, Elect of Christ, God’s Vice-Regent on Earth was bloody with the self-same crime for which I sought Nikos’s condemnation.

  In that moment of revelation, I saw the last light of hope snuffed out. Evil reigned. All was futility and bleak, bleak despair. I stood impotent before powers too great for me to know, and too mighty for me to resist.

  There was a movement beside me. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Do not listen to him,” Dugal said.

  Harald called to me again, but I could hear nothing for the pounding howl of the void screaming in my ears.

  Stepping to where Nikos stood, the sneer ripe on his smirking face, I drew the daigear from my belt.

  “Cut me loose,” commanded the eparch arrogantly. He extended his hands so that I could sever his bonds, and I began sawing at the leather cords.

  Harald reached out to stay my hand, and some of the others cried out for me to stop. But I continued slicing at the cords.

  “Perhaps you are more intelligent than I thought, priest.” Nikos pulled his hands free as the loosened cords fell away. “Or, should I say fallen priest? Look at them,” he sneered, indicating the clean-shaven monks. “God’s servants, spreading the gospel, imparting doctrine—Ha! Dogs returning to their own vomit. Look at them! A bag of shit knows more of faith.”

  I said nothing, but stared impassively at him.

  “I used to be like you,” Nikos said, rubbing his wrists. “I used to be a true believer. And then, like you, I learned the truth.”
He smiled, triumphant in his victory. “We are the same, you and I.”

  “Indeed,” I agreed, “we are more alike than you know.”

  Raising the jewelled knife, I plunged it deep into his wicked heart.

  72

  Nikos looked down at the knife protruding from his chest, then raised his eyes once more. “Barbarian!” he spat, trembling with rage.

  Reaching for the bejewelled handle, he made to pluck the daigear from his body. But I took hold of it first, shoving the blade to the hilt and then twisting it. I felt the sharp metal scrape hard against bone.

  Nikos’s hands gripped mine in a grotesque mockery of friendship. He tried again to pull the blade from his chest, but I held fast.

  I heard the others shouting, their voices a meaningless confusion behind me. I heard my name, but the sound held no meaning. Icy serenity pervaded my soul; I felt tranquil, empty—as if all the anger and hatred I had carried for so long had been extinguished in this single act, leaving nothing behind.

  “What have you done?” whispered Nikos, rage melting into bewilderment. He looked at me with a profoundly puzzled expression, his eyes glittering strangely.

  “All they that take the sword, shall also perish with the sword,” I replied. The words came to my tongue of themselves.

  “Fool!” he shouted, tearing my hands away at last. He lurched backwards, clutching at the daigear as if it were a serpent that had sunk its fangs into him.

  Perhaps his strength was already failing, or perhaps the wide metal blade had wedged somehow against bone, for he grasped the knife and tried to pluck it out but the daigear did not move. Raising his head, he shrieked aloud and with shaking hands, pulled again. Blood trickled gently from the wound, seeping from around the blade, but the daigear remained stuck fast.

  Frantic now, Nikos grasped the weapon with both hands and, with a tremendous, sobbing cry, dragged the daigear from his chest. A swift-spreading dark stain appeared against the black of his siarc. “You will die for this,” he said, his voice hoarse in the strained silence of the hall. “You will all die.”