by David Capel
It had all changed from a generation before, and this was partly in reaction to the austerity of the early part of the century. My parents had lived in the shadow of the terrible Emperor Basil, known as the Slayer of Bulgars. He had held the Roman aristocracy in almost equal contempt to the barbarians he campaigned so remorselessly against. His victories abroad were matched by virtue and thrift at home, policed by a vicious and intrusive network of spies.
In those days there was no room for the nobility to maintain either provincial independence or metropolitan style. If they did not lose their estates, they certainly gave up their provincial commands, as the army was reforged into a professional force, run by bureaucrats and lead by tough upstarts from the frontier regions. Nor could they hope to use their natural influence to rise to power in the capital. Society had been centralised by the state, with the powerful upheld by the Emperor on merit alone.
With Basil’s death the City had exhaled in pent-up relief. A succession of weak emperors, steeped in decadence, had followed the old tyrant, and they were either ignored or encouraged in folly by their newly liberated subjects. The resentments of the older generation at last found voice in the carousing of the young, to which they turned a blind eye. My mother, Irene, was a typical product of that generation, having been born in the year that Basil died.
As a result she left me to my own devices, and had been particularly unconcerned about my behaviour since my father died some five years before. This was despite the fact that life in the City was if anything reaching a heightened level of feverish frivolity. The new Emperor Romanus Diogenes was a military man, and some saw that things were due to change once more. He had been brought in to bring the eastern provinces to heel, which were reputedly alive with bandits. Rumour, so I judged, always exaggerated the problems, but I was happy to ride with the rather frenetic carousing of my contemporaries.
So by and large Mother was generous and uncensorious. She ran the household still in her neat way, despite my majority, a fact that I had never seen the need to challenge. We got along very well, in a quiet way, she busy with her morning gatherings of fellow society ladies of a certain age.
As I strode up the stairs, two at a time, I heard the murmur of voices from her apartments. I assumed she had convened just such a social occasion with her friends, and nearly turned back when I heard a male voice, respectful but insistent.
I pushed aside the drape and entered the shady morning room. Mother was sitting upright in her high-backed wooden chair, her hair neatly combed to either side, showing streaks of grey among the dark tresses. Opposite her stood Isaac Darnes, a man I knew slightly as a professional cleric who helped my mother with our financial affairs. He kept our accounts, receiving income drafts from our estate and dealing with the banking arrangements.
“John, come in and sit down. Sit down both of you.” My mother’s voice was deeper than is usual in a woman, but soft and quiet. It made you listen to her. She waved at a stool for Isaac to sit on and I pulled up a chair that was leaning against the wall.
“John, I am glad that you are here. Isaac here has news of some import that I think you should listen to. He is saying that the income from Kastoria has not been getting through. Please explain, Isaac.”
The clerk turned to me. He had a lean, tanned face, framed by greying, curly hair that was neatly trimmed. He looked, and had the reputation, to be honest and competent.
“For the last few months the income drafts from your main estate at Kastoria have been somewhat delayed in coming through. This could be explained by the winter weather, and so I thought nothing of it until last month. There was certainly nothing in the accompanying documentation from Bouzanis to indicate any serious problem.”
Kastoria, in the valley of the Lycus north-east of Sebastea, was the original home of our family. Although my father had invested in some olive and vine interests in Macedonia, the vast bulk of our income came from the wide grain fields of the East, with its sturdy peasantry and open skies.
I had not visited the estate since I was twelve years old, on a family trip with my father a couple of years before his death. The place was run competently enough by our Epirote factor Bouzanis, who visited us in the City once a year after the harvest was brought in. I had had a brief conversation with him the previous September.
Darnes was talking on in his precise way.
“In March I received the draft for February this year. I was somewhat disturbed to see that the income was half of what it usually is. But I did not see fit to draw the matter to your attention because the amounts at that season are anyway so small, and a modest fluctuation can create a relatively large difference between one year and the next. But this month we have received no money from Kastoria at all, nor any note or documentation explaining why.”
“How late is it?” I asked.
“Three weeks late.”
“Well, aren’t we getting in a bit of a panic about nothing? I mean you mentioned the winter weather. And what about brigands? Have these messages never been waylaid before now?”
“They have been, and indeed it has never been a serious problem, because of course the matter resolves itself after a couple of months when we send to Bouzanis for a copy by return. We are talking about paper messages here. No actual coin is transported.”
“So what’s the problem now?” my headache made me irritable. “Just draw some more funds from the bank and send for some new paperwork. And I’d suggest you think more carefully before wasting our time.”
My mother placed a hand on my knee. “John, wait. Listen to what Isaac has to say. It’s different this time.” She nodded at Isaac to continue.
“The problem is this. The bankers will not allow us to draw funds any longer until the draft has been received from Kastoria. They say that they can no longer have full confidence in the security of our income.”
“That’s outrageous!” I blurted out, “Are they questioning our credit worthiness?”
“Yes. Or rather no, not the financial integrity of you and your mother. But they can no longer be sure of the security of the estate itself. And therefore its ability to generate income.”
I stared at him open-mouthed, then looked at my mother, who sat calmly gazing at her hands.
“Are you saying that the place has been robbed?”
“I am not saying anything. But we all know about the presence of these Turkish bandits. Only a few years ago they raided the city of Sebastea itself. What this means in practice is that the financiers here are no longer willing to give you credit without the assurance that you have the ability to pay.”
“What are we to do?” I turned to my mother plaintively. “Are we ruined?”
She shook her head impatiently. “I have a few savings, and we also receive some moneys from Macedonia that Isaac here also looks after for us. But John, I think we need to look into this thoroughly. You should perhaps visit Kastoria yourself and see that all is well. It is time you made your face known there now anyway.”
“What? But I am in no position to travel there. I have my commitments here!”
“What commitments?”
“Well…” I stammered, thoroughly ill at ease now. “My studies. And I must continue to maintain my position in the City. You know as well as I do that all advancement starts here. You’ve told me that yourself many times.”
“John,” she smiled at me, “I have kept you here, it is true. I have no wish for my only son – my only child – to leave my side. But advancement, as you call it, comes ultimately from experience. You would learn a lot even from a short trip to the East.”
I was trapped, for the moment at least. I was unwilling to go against the express and implied advice of my mother and her financial adviser. Not openly, anyway. So I paused a moment, as if in thought, and replied portentously, “I will look into it. I have contacts who move in military circles. I will investigate the situation.” I warmed to my theme. “It may be that this talk of trouble in Anatolia is but rumou
r, enhanced by idle gossip.” I glanced meaningfully at Isaac. “Perhaps sources from higher up will shed light on the matter.”
I paused, looking at their sceptical faces. “Perhaps I will find someone trustworthy to go out and see what is going on.”
Mother sighed. “You must do as you see fit, darling. In the end it is your fortune we are talking about.”
“Well, I’ll look into it as I say. And that reminds me. I am due to meet some of those I would consult later, but I have temporarily run out of cash. Mother, would you…?”
β
In fact I had no engagement that day, or the day after. Instead, that afternoon I walked the streets of the City, avoiding family and friends alike, and pondering the problem of the estate and the predicament it placed me in. I navigated my way along the bustling quays of the Golden Horn and gazed at the wide flatlands of Thrace from the Land Walls at Blachernae. In neither place did I find inspiration. The next day I lounged in my apartment, reclining on my bed mostly, drinking too early and too much, and sleeping fitfully.
Two days after our meeting with Isaac Darnes I was reminded of the lunch party I had been invited to, and, for want of anything better to do, determined to go out.
At noon I hurried down to the Harbour of Julian where I was already late for the expedition. The boat was easy to make out since most of the other shipping was out at sea, at work fishing or ferrying, and the gaily painted barque was nearly alone. I could hear the excited chatter and shrieks of laughter from a hundred yards away above the diminished hubbub of the quayside.
The last thing I needed was another party, I realised as I approached the gangplank. I hesitated, looking up at the rail. I was still feeling chastened by the humiliations of the affair at Maria Alania’s, and my stomach was like a ball of tension at the news I had heard from Darnes.
I could not have stayed at home another day, and yet this scene of gay frivolity was not the right one for the quiet reflection I needed. I was on the point of turning on my heel and retreating to the refuge of the streets when a loud voice hollered my name.
It was John Italos who had spotted me, and he was waving and beckoning to me to join him. Some of the others turned and saw me too. “Come on John, we’re running late!” said one of the ladies.
There was nothing for it – I could not exactly scuttle away now. So I bounded up the gangplank and pushed my way through to where Italos was sitting. He had found a place by the gunwale shaded by an awning that stretched out from the cabin and took in two or three narrow tables.
“It’s going to be choppy, so I thought I’d sit outside and get some fresh air,” he said, shifting across to let me sit down.
John Italos had arrived from his native Southern Italy (hence his name), which was then still controlled by the Empire, a few years before. He was regarded as one of the cleverest of the young intellectuals who cut such a dash in City circles at that time, and was tipped for high office and entry to the Senate. He was a close confidant and protégé of Michael Psellos, who as I have described led the intellectual movement and had the ear of the Emperor.
I suppose I would have counted myself as being on the fringes of this circle. As I have indicated, I had certainly learnt Latin and read some of the classics, and was familiar with most of the old legal codes, which was a necessary start if you wanted to get on in those days. But I regarded Psellos as something of a prig (he probably knew me as a dunce). He still called himself the ‘Consul of Philosophers’, a pompous title he had awarded himself when he opened the Law school at St George’s that had briefly flourished some years before.
But if Psellos was an old fraud, I liked Italos. He was conceited but had a sharp humour and was never snobbish, unlike many of my peers from grander families. You could talk to him at any level – discussing Virgil or the Codex of Justinian at one moment, or the tarts at the other end of the room the next. He also knew his way round the affairs of the City, and so might actually fulfil my idea of sounding out the Eastern situation to some extent.
He asked me if I had enjoyed Maria’s party. “Last time I saw you, you looked as if you were in some sort of trouble with that Italian fellow of Maria’s.”
“Hmm, yes, well,” I replied, wondering how to change the subject, and then a thought struck me: “Who was that old boy you were chatting to with Maria? Looked like a general or something.”
He thought for a moment. “Oh you must mean the Caesar John Ducas – her husband’s uncle.”
“Caesar John? I’ve never met him before.”
“Nor had I, until that night. He has retired to his estates in Bithynia. Apparently he comes into the City from time to time to check up on his feckless nephew when the Emperor’s not around.”
“Why, don’t they get on?”
He looked at me in surprise. “Really, John, for someone who spends so much time at the Ducas household, you should become a bit more alert. They fell out a couple of years ago when his brother Constantine X died. Romanus married the Empress – Constantine’s sister-in-law – and grabbed the throne.”
I shrugged. “Politics isn’t really my thing.”
“Probably very sensible.” he replied.
As the boat slipped out of the harbour into the Sea of Marmora a strong breeze sprang up and we leant over as the sails billowed and the ropes slapped against the mast head. Servants staggered amongst us trying to bring wine and sweetmeats, and the guests cheered as one goblet clattered to the deck, spraying its crimson juice onto the waiter’s tunic.
I clutched my cup, grateful that I was sitting outside. With each gust of wind the boat veered over and the throng hooted in mock alarm. But it was not a long trip, so I took the opportunity to unburden myself to Italos, knowing that he would be distracted when we reached the shore.
I told him of the apparent problem at Kastoria and my reluctance to go out east, which I thought he would understand. I asked him if he knew of anyone who was travelling in that direction who might assess the situation for me.
He stroked his neat black beard and looked at me thoughtfully.
“That your estate might be having problems I can readily believe,” he said. “Of course, you might be right that it is nothing more than a communications matter but you must certainly establish the facts.”
“But surely it’s unlikely to be anything serious. The Emperor himself has visited the area to deal with these bandits.”
“Bandits?” Italos raised his eyebrows. “Raiders more like. Invaders most likely. John, I think we face a serious problem with these Turks. Do you not recall Caesarea? And Sebastea, not so far from your Kastoria?”
“Yes, but these raids were a while back. Surely the situation…”
“Raids? John, Cappadocian Caesarea was sacked.” His voice rose above the wind. “Sacked! They plundered the cathedral of Saint Basil and massacred the monks there. The city has not recovered since. And that was only two years ago. I doubt things have improved much.”
I pondered his words, a growing sense of alarm filling my heart.
“And what is the army doing about it?”
“Not much, or so I have heard.” He spoke scornfully. “Diogenes and his troops are marching up and down Anatolia like a herd of sheep not knowing which way to turn. He’s trying to negotiate with the Turkish king, but every time he thinks he has them, they slip through his fingers.” He lifted his goblet and poured the wine over the side of the boat. “Sour stuff, this. Let us hope the fare ashore is better.”
The wind died down and the sea subsided as we slid alongside the pier on Prinkipos, the main island. My fellow guests chatted gaily as servants dragged the gangplank out and set it across to the jetty.
I had lost all remaining enthusiasm for the jaunt. John Italos’ words had unnerved me. It now seemed highly likely to my imagination that these Turks had ravaged Kastoria, killing everything and everyone in it. If they could sack Cappadocian Caesaria, our open villa and farmland must be easy meat. In my mind’s eye I had a vision of H
un-like barbarians burning and raping their way across the landscape, with monks, women and effete soldiers fleeing before them.
Worst of all, of course, was that I was expected to enter the fray. Compared to that prospect, the thought of a pillaged estate did not worry me. Perhaps we could claim compensation off the government. I could find some sort of official sinecure in the bureaucracy. My ambition at the time – admittedly rather vague in its planning – was to become one of the City’s Notaries. There were only two dozen of the posts, but every large commercial transaction or legal exchange had to be signed off by one of these officials, which meant that they always had plenty of lucrative but undemanding work. In the meantime we would live off the income from our vineyard in Macedonia. I might have to tighten my belt for a while, but that was better than risking my neck.
These thoughts preoccupied me, and I could only murmur bland replies in response to the conversation around me. Our hostess, Anna Sclerus, had arranged an al fresco lunch on the pebble beach, with awnings to keep off the sun and braziers to cook the meat.
I drank a couple of cups of wine and picked at some food. Eventually I found myself ignored on the edge of the party.
I decided to slip away, so I turned and strolled along the beach, still clutching my cup, alone with my thoughts. A little further along the shore I came across a family, a husband and wife with two children, packing up a picnic. There was a skiff drawn up on the strand which seemed to belong to them. On a whim I approached the man and asked him if he was returning to the City and if he would mind giving me a lift. He refused my offer of coin but welcomed me to join them.
I helped the family pack their things into the boat and we pushed off into the sea. My ferryman was a smiling, ruddy faced man who obviously loved the water. As he deftly trimmed the sail and chivvied his son and daughter into action I noticed by the small insignia stitched onto the hem that he was wearing an army issue tunic. From memory it was from one of the professional Tagmata, the Sentinels, I think, which were usually based around the City or in Bithynia just across the straits. I asked him if he had much prospect of action against the Turkish raiders.
