It occurred to me then that of the three debts presented to him, this was the one for which he could make no restitution. The Arabs would be happy to see the treaty restored, and the Danes could be bought off with silver—but the monks would only be satisfied with justice, and Leo knew he could not offer that.
Sure, I had my answer. Even so, I resolved to hear the truth from his own mouth.
“Sovereign Lord,” I said, fearless now, having neither self-respect nor honour to lose, “before leaving for Trebizond, the basileus took me into his employ also—to be, he said, his eyes and ears in that foreign place, and to bring him word of all that happened there. In short, I was to be his spy.”
Leo, wanting to leave, regarded me distractedly. “As the basileus is dead, and the peace treaty is to be rewritten, we can see no value in resuming an occupation whose purpose has ceased.”
“With all respect,” I replied quickly, “I have information regarding certain matters which would reward careful consideration.”
This intrigued Leo, I could see; he was curious to learn what I knew, but could not allow anyone else to hear. He made up his mind at once; declaring the audience ended, he ordered his visitors to wait in the outer hall, and his bodyguard to remove themselves a discreet distance so that we might talk together without being overheard.
“We find you an obdurate emissary,” he said, resuming his seat. “What is your purpose in pursuing these matters?”
“Lord and emperor,” I answered, “in light of the recent tragedy which has overtaken the empire, I could in no wise remain easy in my mind if I did not tell you that Basil’s suspicions regarding betrayal were not unfounded.”
“The former emperor was a very suspicious and fearful man,” Leo allowed, and I noted that he never referred to Basil as his father. “Which of his many fears did he confide to you?”
“That men were plotting to kill him,” I answered. It was not true, of course; but in light of Basil’s murder, he might have been.
“And were they?” inquired Leo. The question was asked casually, but the keenness with which he regarded me gave me to know that I had pricked his interest.
“Yes, lord,” I answered bluntly. “The conspiracy was discovered by Exarch Honorius, for which knowledge the governor was also murdered. I carry his sealed letter,” I touched the parchment beneath my siarc, “which testifies to this fact, and was meant to serve as a warning to the emperor. Unfortunately, we arrived in Constantinople too late to prevent the consummation of the hateful act.”
“The emperor died in an accident,” Leo replied coolly. “I am told he rode too far ahead of the hunt—always an ill-advised thing to do in any circumstance—and it ended in the disaster for which the empire is still in mourning.”
I had hoped he would be curious to know what the letter contained, but Emperor Leo was too canny to be caught like that. Still, I had but one more chance and nothing to lose, so I took it: “Eparch Nikos left no doubt about the veracity of these reports involving wild stags and runaway horses.”
Leo folded one hand into the other and looked at me over the fist. “The eparch,” he said slowly, “may have wished to create suspicions of his own, for purposes of his own. While his crimes, as you suggest, may once have demanded answers, he is now beyond questioning. We must be satisfied with the end which Heaven, in its infinite wisdom, has ordained.”
That was all he said, and I understood that it was over at last. Not only had I failed to gain even so much as a hint of wrongdoing, much less a confession, Leo would simply lay all blame for every wrong on Nikos’ head. I had provided him with the perfect scapegoat; dead, Nikos provided exoneration and absolution. Sick at heart, I stood looking on in despair.
Leo shifted, as if he would leave, but something held him. Regarding me with a sour expression, he said, “As you have not answered, we will ask you once again: what is it that you want?”
“Sovereign lord,” I replied, almost desperately, “I came to Byzantium a monk with nothing save the faith that sustained me. Now even that poor possession has been taken from me. I have seen the innocent slaughtered in their hundreds—men, women, and children whose only wrong-doing was to cross Nikos’s path. I saw the blessed Bishop Cadoc torn apart by horses and his body hacked to pieces. I myself have endured slavery and torture, but that was nothing beside the dissolution of my faith.”
I paused, swallowing hard, knowing that the next words I spoke might well bring about the fulfillment of my darkling dream, my death in Byzantium. I stumbled on, heedless of consequences. “I came here today seeking justice for those who died; yes, and revenge for myself, I will not deny it. When I learned there could be no justice, I undertook revenge lest that, too, escape me.”
Leo accepted this without remark, and without the slightest indication of concern or anger or even surprise. So, I pushed ahead.
“Before he died, Nikos gave me to know that he killed Basil, and that the one who now wears the crown endorsed his crimes and conspired with him. You have asked what I want, and it is this: was he speaking the truth?”
Leo sat for a long moment, gazing at me with his dark, deep-set eyes as if at a problem that resisted every solution. Drawing himself up, he spoke at last. “We see that you have endeavoured good on behalf of the imperial throne,” he told me, “and this at fearful expense to yourself. Would that you had asked us to restore your silver; we would have given it you a thousand times over. But you desire a thing even the basileus cannot bestow: the renewing of your faith.” An expression of regret softened his features. “I am sorry,” he said, one man speaking to another.
He rose from his chair, slowly unfolding his long form to stand tall and slender before me—so unlike Basil in every way. “Truly, I am sorry,” he said again.
I made no move, nor spoke any word. There was nothing more to say. Shorn of my last hope, bereft of all belief, I simply gazed back at him, a numb, hollow creature of wood and bone.
Tall and regal, Leo moved away, but then turned after only a few paces. “If Eparch Nikos overreached himself in pursuit of his ambitions,” he said, voicing what had already become the official explanation for all wrongdoing, “we see that his sins have borne their bitter fruit. It may not be to your liking, but we hold that justice is satisfied.”
He hesitated, his lips pressed into a hard line as he regarded me almost angrily. I have seen such expressions before, usually when a person is warring within himself. With Leo, the battle was swiftly over.
“You ask for the truth,” he said, his voice low to a whisper, “perhaps you will recognize it when we tell you this: Nikos did not kill my father.”
Basileus Leo motioned one of the guards to come forward. The soldier took my arm and, under the gaze of the emperor, I was led from the room. But upon reaching the huge door, I glanced back and he was gone.
Yes, I thought bitterly, I could yet recognize the truth when I heard it.
Brynach was waiting for me as I stepped from the room. The Danes, I could see, were huddled together across the hall, deep in discussion—about what they would do with their increased wealth, I suppose. Sadiq and Faysal were head-to-head, speaking together in low tones; Kazimain stood near, looking lost and forlorn.
“The emperor wished to speak to you,” Brynach suggested hopefully.
“He did,” I allowed, glancing to the place where Nikos had fallen. The body was gone and three young servants were scattering wood dust over the floor to draw up the blood; soon that would be gone, too, leaving, perhaps, only a slight ruddy tint to the smooth stone to mark what had happened in this room. Dugal and Ddewi stood nearby watching the cleaners, and I motioned them to join us.
“Tell us, brother, what did he say to you?” Brynach asked, eager for a word that would redeem the pilgrimage.
“He said justice was served,” I told him scornfully. “But there is no justice in this place; there is only debt and the collection of debts.”
“Did you tell him about the book?” wondered Dd
ewi. “Did you tell him we brought a gift for the imperial library?” He put his hand on the leather bag he carried beneath his siarc. The simple action cut me to the bone. He had borne this burden of love without complaint, and would go on bearing it.
“Ddewi,” I said, “the emperor is not worthy of our gift. Men of faith gave their lives for its safe-keeping, and I would not demean their sacrifice.”
Ddewi appeared disappointed. “Then what are we to do with it?”
“Carry it back with you,” I told him. “Take it home, Ddewi, where it will be a treasure of inspiration to all who see it.”
“What of our petition?” Brynach, ever hopeful, could not help himself. “Did you tell him why we came?”
“No, Bryn, I did not,” I replied bluntly.
The Briton’s face fell. “Why?” he asked, his eyes searching me for an answer. “It was our last chance.”
“It was no chance at all,” I said. “Shake the dust of this place from your feet, leave and never look back. I tell you the truth: make your peace with Rome, there is no protection here.”
We left the palace then, crossing the reception hall to the outer doors. Dugal, who had remained silent before, fell into step behind me. “Did Leo own the deed?” he asked.
“He told me that Nikos did not kill his father.”
“Sure, that was a lie, Aidan.”
“No, Dugal,” I replied from my wooden heart, “that, at least, was the truth.”
The doors opened and we stepped out into the light of a day grown unimaginably bright.
74
Harald Bull-Roar, in a mood of jubilant anticipation, declared a feast to celebrate his great good fortune. Dauntless battlechief that he was, he arrayed himself for war and led his brave Sea Wolves into the fearsome markets to face the cunning tradesmen of Constantinople and secure the necessary provisions. They returned some while later, much wounded in pride and pocket, but victorious, bringing with them six casks of Cypriot wine, a dozen bags of bread, bundles of charcoal, and the carcasses of several pigs and three bullocks, ready-spitted and dressed for the roasting pit.
Wasting not a moment, they set the charcoal to life and put the meat to the flame. Then they opened the first of the casks and slaked their thirst with dark red wine, easing their hunger with loaves of good flatbread while waiting for the pigs to roast. It was not in Harald to forget his bread allowance, and he had collected it, still warm from the oven, despite the fact that not a man among them spoke Greek. I could only imagine how they had made their wishes known to the unfortunate baker.
The Arabs, beguiled by the Danes’ irresistible good will, joined easily into the festivities. Some of the rafiq helped prepare the food and showed their hosts how to mix wine with water for best flavour and less devastating effect. Although Sadiq did not drink wine, he allowed the others to do as they would, and by way of blessing the occasion, sent Faysal to procure additional delicacies of a variety and array to make the long tables groan: dates, sweetmeats, olives both black and green, cakes in honey syrup, pots of thickened milk sweetened and flavoured with almonds, and several kinds of fruit unknown to me.
As eventide shadows stole across the courtyard and the heat of the day dissipated into the brilliant pinks and purples of a warm Mediterranean night, the merrymaking burst into song and dance to the delight of all—save myself and my brother monks. They were lamenting the failure of the pilgrimage, but I was grieving for a greater loss.
Owing to the sound of raucous singing and the rhythmic thump of improvised drumming emanating from the banqueting rooms, I did not hear the others as they approached. “Brother Aidan,” announced Brynach firmly, “we would speak with you.”
I turned to see the three of them standing uncertainly nearby. “Come then, and sit down,” I said. “My solitude is large enough to share.”
They stepped closer, but stood over me and would not sit—as if what they had to say should not be compromised by informality. Brynach gave out their concern at once. “We have been thinking and praying about the events of the day,” he said, “and we believe you have acted rashly. We think we should go to the emperor and present our petition. If we tell him why we have come and what it means, he will take pity on us and give us the aid we so desperately need.”
I raised my eyes to look at his face, earnest and determined in the twilight. Stars were beginning to shine in the sky, and the delicious scent of roasting meat curled along the gently wafting breeze of the courtyard. I drew the aroma deep into my lungs as I took a breath to answer. “You have seen, yet you still do not understand,” I told him. “What more do you require to convince you? Would you have me explain it again?”
The three looked at each other. Dugal replied, “Yes, brother. Unless you tell us we cannot understand.”
“Then hear me,” I said, standing to address them. “This is the way of it: when greed and power conspire together, let all men beware. You have heard this said, and now, through bitter experience, you know it to be true. Moreover, when those who uphold justice are far more guilty than those whom they must judge, there is neither hope nor redemption. Why believe the unrighteous judge will honour the truth, or look beyond his own interests to protect yours?”
“If that were so,” Brynach observed, “nothing in this world would be safe, or certain.”
“Nothing is safe,” I said flatly. “But one thing, and one thing only is certain: the innocent will suffer.”
“I do wonder at your words,” Brynach confessed, not without compassion. “It is unlike you—unlike the man I once knew.”
“I am not the man I was! That man is long since dead. But what of that? He deserved no better fate than all the rest who died along the way.”
“How can you speak so, brother?” the elder monk chided gently. “God has guided and protected you through all things to now. He has showered his favour upon you. Even now he holds you in the palm of his loving hand.”
I turned my face away. “Speak to Cadoc and the others of God’s protection,” I muttered. “Do not speak to me. Sure, I know full well how God cares for those who trust him.”
My bitterness stung them, and they stared at one another in dismay. After a moment, Ddewi plucked up his courage. “Are you saying these things because you killed Nikos and now you fear to stand before the emperor once more?”
So, that was on their minds. Why not? They did not know what I knew. “Listen to me,” I said sharply, “and heed me well. Put away any notion that you will receive favour from the emperor’s hand. Do not be deceived: he is no God-fearing man. Nikos was acting on behalf of Leo from the beginning. What Nikos did, he did for Leo, as much as for his own insatiable ambition.”
“But, Aidan,” objected Dugal, “you said Leo told the truth when he said Nikos did not kill the emperor.”
A great weariness drew over me. They still did not comprehend the enormity of the evil allowed to flourish in Byzantium’s holy palaces. I shook my head in despair. “Think, Dugal. All of you, think! Think what it means. Leo said that Nikos did not kill his father—and that was the truth.” Dugal and the others gaped at me, baffled and hurt.
“Do you still not see it?” I said, my voice lashing at their ignorance. “Emperor Basil was not Leo’s father.” I let this sink in for a moment, before proceeding, “This is the way of it: Michael seduced and bedded many noblewomen of his court; one of them was Basil’s wife. Basil knew this; indeed, he even encouraged it because it gave him a hold over the emperor. When a son was born of the adulterous union, he used the occasion to advance himself.”
“Leo is Michael’s son?” wondered Brynach in amazement.
“Yes, and in exchange for keeping the boy as his own, Basil was raised to the purple and made co-sovereign. When Michael’s profligacy no longer served him, Basil arranged the old emperor’s murder—some say he even did the deed himself—and then claimed the throne outright. Years pass, and the unloved boy grows up determined to avenge his true father’s death. To this end, Nikos w
as employed by Leo; to this end the wicked scheme was laid—long before we ever thought to come to Byzantium.”
I could see them struggling against this hard truth.
“We should tell someone,” suggested Dugal weakly. “The emperor should be made to answer for his crimes.”
I did not allow them the luxury of false hope. “The emperor is sovereign of the church, and judge over all, answerable only to God himself. Who do you propose to tell? God? I tell you He already knows, and does nothing.”
“We could tell the Patriarch of Constantinople,” suggested Brynach, more out of desperation than hope.
“The patriarch,” I said savagely, “the same who owes his appointment and continued survival to the emperor—do you think he would listen? Even if he did, the only one who could prove the truth of our accusations was Nikos, and I silenced him forever.” My voice became mocking. “I killed Nikos, yet his master and protector—the very same whose commands Nikos obeyed and for whom he died—shed not a tear. It seems our Holy Emperor was only too happy to heap all the blame for the hardship and havoc his schemes have wreaked onto Nikos’s bloodied head. The deaths of monks and Danes and Arabs, the murder of the eparch and the governor, and who knows how many of his own subjects—all this will now be buried with Nikos and his name.
“Oh, it was a very great service I performed for the emperor. And out of his considerable gratitude, the Wise Basileus has allowed me to keep my life.”
The others stared at me, stunned.
“There can be no justice here,” I concluded, grim with the hopelessness of it. “Basil was never the rightful emperor; Leo, as Michael’s bastard, has a valid claim to the throne, but he, like the man who raised him, is a schemer and murderer.”
The water trickling in the fountain grew loud in the silence that followed. I saw that the moon had risen and poured soft light into the many-shadowed courtyard.
“I know now what Nikos meant,” Brynach said, “when he called Basil usurper.” Looking at me, he asked, “What did he mean when he called you a fallen priest?”
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