Byzantium - A Novel

by Michael Ennis

  The entire back of the hall was cloaked with a vast purple curtain damasked with hundreds of huge eagles embroidered in gold. Forming a sort of funnel beneath the hangings were two ranks of soldiers in golden armour, bearing standards topped with golden eagles and dragons. A single figure stood at the very end of the funnel, in front of a now-visible seam where the two halves of the curtain met. Haraldr’s heart leapt to his throat.

  This man was as tall and broad as Hakon. He wore a golden breastplate and a plumed golden helmet with metal cheek pieces folded over his entire face, concealing all save glints of blue behind the eye slits. A Varangian Guard, certainly, and very likely Mar Hunrodarson himself. I would not have expected this Paradise to end at the executioner’s block, thought Haraldr with a groin-stabbing renewal of his fear. But I am told that the Griks rarely do the expected.

  The Varangian stood perfectly motionless, an immense silver-bladed broad-axe inlaid with elaborate gold niello pressed to his chest. Like a rodent mesmerized by a snake, Haraldr was drawn to the eerie glimmer of life visible within the eye slits, expecting some evidence of malice or recognition. But the guarded irises were so still, they might have been bits of glass.

  The curtain drew aside slightly and the eunuchs led Haraldr past the rigid Varangian. The rest came like a fantastic dream. He was in a vast, rose-scented, many-domed hall echoing with an unsettling, powerfully sonorous music that pulsed within his very bones. The hail was filled with a living rainbow, hundreds of utterly motionless, silk-sheathed, bejewelled figures arrayed in perfectly concentric semicircles, each ring a different dazzling hue. The rainbow was broken in the middle by a great massing of incandescent gold: a throne the size of a small building flanked by two large trees with leaves of delicate gold; gem-bright birds perched in the gilt branches. As Haraldr approached, the birds tittered and called in a supernatural melody, cocking their brilliant heads and flapping their wings. Haraldr came to the terrifying realization that the birds were in fact jewels, creatures of enamelled gold to which somehow the Griks had given the power of both movement and voice. Then the beasts came to life from behind the trees and the blood drained from Haraldr’s face and his knees buckled. Lions! Creatures of the gods! The great beasts rushed forward to devour him, tails pounding the ground and huge jaws gaping. They roared like the trumpets of doom, and Haraldr reflexively felt for the pommel of the sword that he had been forced to leave back in the barracks.

  The lions halted as if the gods themselves had turned them to stone. Reason tried to command Haraldr’s whirling senses. Not stone but metal. The lions were incredible metal creatures, just like the birds. But this deduction did nothing to assuage fear. What wizardry, or, more frighteningly, what knowledge did this Emperor possess?

  The huge throne was covered with a purple satin canopy and encrusted with gemstones and iridescent white pearls. The giant god who might have occupied this grandiose furnishing was not present. Instead, a mechanical man sat to one side of the vast cushion. His body was metal. No, he was swathed in a full-length tunic of stiff purple brocade covered with mazelike courses of gems and precious spangles and flocking eagles of flickering gold thread. He wore a jewelled, helmet-like cap, and no winter sky was as thick with stars as this cap was with gemstones; they spilled from the crown in sparkling runnels that streamed down the mechanical man’s eerily human cheeks. The device’s eyes were agates polished to a watery sheen. Kristr! Not agates. These eyes moved! They were wet with life. This was a living man! No, not a man. A god. Perhaps all-conquering Kristr himself.

  The two eunuchs threw Haraldr to the floor and prostrated themselves alongside him; this ritual of obeisance was repeated three times. Then the eunuchs raised Haraldr to his feet. He looked for the throne and moaned with awe. The entire gold edifice floated high overhead, the purple canopy seemingly grazing the gold-flecked dome. Kristr - He could be no other - looked down on him from his rightful position above all mortals.

  His head craned back, dully gaping, Haraldr tried to focus his entire will on reason’s moribund whispers, and for a moment he found a certain mental equilibrium. Metal dragons and lions and birds and fire that burns on water and now this. The rest are the creations of men, and so this must be as well.

  He clung to that thought even as his terrified awe rushed him off, as savagely as the currents of the Dnieper, on the dark river of ignorance and superstition. No, no, reason struggled, all the works of men. But if this is the Emperor, does it matter that he is not immortal Kristr? He is a man made a god, with the power of the gods.

  An elderly eunuch in a gold-hemmed robe approached slowly and deliberately; age spots covered his bald head. He looked directly at Haraldr, his steady gaze a startling contrast to the condescending evasion practised by the lesser officials. The eunuch’s pale grey eyes were sad, weary and ancient, as if he had seen the cares of a dozen lives. He motioned Haraldr to bring his head down.

  ‘Your father, the Lord of the Entire World, Emperor, Basileus and Autocrator of the Romans, greets you, his son,’ the eunuch whispered next to Haraldr’s ear; his Norse was fluent. ‘His Imperial Majesty has taken a personal interest in the matter of the death of the Manglavite.’ Haraldr’s entire body quaked as if he were bewitched. ‘After ordering officers of the court to take depositions in the matter, and advised of their findings, he has instructed the Logothete of the Praetorium to release his files concerning the incident of the third of June, fifth year of the indication, year of the Creation six thousand five hundred and thirty-three. Your father the Emperor offers you probationary conditions, subject to summary revocation. You may remain past the winter, but you are not to be readmitted to the palace, nor will you or your men be offered service under the Imperial standards until your files have been readmitted to the Logothete of the Praetorium.’ The eunuch paused and furrowed the thin, veined skin of his brow. That will be in approximately eight months, before the spring campaigns. You may re-enter the city during this period only under conditions of private employ approved by the Logothete of the Symponus.’

  Reason quickly revived under the comforting aegis of relief. I have been partially exonerated, thought Haraldr, his newly unburdened mind more supple than it had been all day. But for obvious reasons the Emperor still questions the loyalty of myself and my men. Private employ? Could that be what this mysterious Nicepkorus Argyrus is about?

  The aged eunuch tugged at Haraldr’s sleeve and brought him even closer. ‘That is his Imperial Majesty’s position of record.’ The eunuch’s pale eyes roamed for a moment, and then his voice dropped to the barest audible level. ‘Privately, his Imperial Majesty asks that you be advised to leave the Queen of Cities, and the Roman Empire for that matter, altogether.’ The old eunuch paused and looked up at Haraldr. ‘Immediately.’

  The eunuch released Haraldr’s silken sleeve and the two stout eunuchs spun him about and led him from the throne of the Emperor, Basileus and Autocrator of the Romans out into the lesser light of day.

  ‘Throw him out?’ asked Halldor. ‘No, you don’t have to worry that I did that. I’ve been trying to get information from him for an hour. He chatters like a rodent, but not much gets said. These Griks just aren’t very forthcoming with foreigners. He claims that his master, this Nicephorus Argyrus, knows quite a bit, however. He even says that you’ve seen the Emperor and been granted what he calls a “conditional amnesty”. He says that we are free to accept private employment. And that’s why he’s here. He says that Nicephorus Argyrus invites you to dine with him tonight and discuss his proposal.’

  Haraldr looked at Ulfr - his relief at Haraldr’s return was as obvious as Halldor’s was deceptively concealed - then at Halldor and nodded. Nicephorus Argyrus did indeed know. Haraldr had left the presence of the Emperor only several hours ago; he had been detained for a while in several parchment-piled offices full of fluttering eunuchs and pale clerks and scribes. Apparently Nicephorus Argyrus had somehow received word of the ruling and had dispatched his emissary almost immediately.<
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  ‘Well, let’s hope the rest of his information is as good,’ said Halldor. He grabbed Haraldr’s arm and led him and Ulfr into what must once have been a supply room - the wooden shelves were now barren - and shut the door.

  Halldor lowered his voice cautiously. ‘When we were recruited by Hakon, he led us to believe that after a short training period those of us who qualified would be initiated into the Emperor’s Varangian Guard. According to Marmot-Man, that would have been impossible. Not only do members of the Guard have to complete a period of service outside the Great City, but also to enter the Guard they have to pay an entrance fee. Well, I asked how much that might be, and since I don’t know how Grik money works, I opened up Hakon’s chest and took out one of his gold coins and held it up. Marmot-Man just laughed. Then he reached in the chest and pulled Hakon’s belt, the one entirely covered with hundreds of gold coins, and said, “About this much.” I said, “You mean for all five hundred?” He just laughed again and said no, that all the gold in Hakon’s belt was probably enough to pay the entrance fee for one man.’

  Haraldr blinked incredulously. There was enough money in Hakon’s belt to purchase several counties in Norway. And this was what one man paid to serve the Emperor?

  ‘According to Marmot-Man,’ continued Halldor, ‘Hakon never intended us to enter the Guard. His plan was to contract our services for the Emperor’s campaigns, pay us a few pieces of silver, and keep the rest for himself. And this on top of a substantial bonus for recruiting us in the first place. If we had started to grumble about our wages, he would have seen to it that we were sent on an expedition far into Serkland or some such place, from which few if any of us would return. Marmot-Man says that he’s already done this with two smaller groups of recruits in previous years.’

  ‘The Emperor permits this?’ asked Haraldr. ‘I’d hardly pay a cheat to guard my back.’

  ‘Perhaps the Emperor does not know,’ offered Ulfr.

  Perhaps, thought Haraldr. And what else might be beyond the Emperor’s knowledge, and perhaps also beyond his control? I could not tell whether the ‘advice’ the Emperor presented me with today was a threat or a warning. And if it is a warning, is it possible that the Emperor and I share the same enemy?

  ‘Could you discover what role Mar Hunrodarson plays in all this?’ asked Haraldr.

  Halldor shook his head. ‘I just mentioned the name Mar Hunrodarson to Marmot-Man and I thought he was going to scurry out of the room. You might have thought I had offered to conjure a demon.’

  ‘My feeling,’ said Ulfr, ‘is that by Grik standards Hakon was just a sand-kicker. Mar Hunrodarson, on the other hand, is playing a game with the gods.’

  ‘You may be right about that, Ulfr.’ Haraldr went on to describe the message he had received in the presence of the Emperor. ‘If the Griks love a ruse, what ruse could be more fitting than for this man-god that I saw today to have a personal guard he cannot trust? Consider that the Emperor had the power to swat me like a bug today, and who would have protested, or for that matter even have known? Instead he pardoned me for the slaying of a high Imperial official, yet in the next breath he made it quite clear that my life was in jeopardy here. And who more than Mar would want me dead?’

  ‘But what you are saying is that the Norseman is playing the ruse on the Griks,’ said Ulfr.

  ‘No,’ said Haraldr. ‘What I mean is that there may be a hidden power that Mar and his Varangians really serve, and that the Imperial Throne itself is a ruse, or at least a sort of illusion.’ The thought, even as speculative as it was, made Haraldr shudder. What power could be greater than the man-god Emperor, except the power of the gods themselves?

  Haraldr looked at Ulfr and Halldor. ‘It’s time I greeted our visitor. And get one of Hakon’s best robes ready for me. Tonight I’m meeting Nicephorus Argyrus.’

  Maria placed her palms flat on Alexandros’s powerful chest and waited until he had stilled. She did not look at his face. She raised herself slightly, and his slick, now flaccid, penis fell out of her. She swung her leg over his body and padded to the floor. She walked naked into her ante-chamber; her breast was still rouged with passion, her hair tousled. Giorgios sat at the small ivory-topped table, staring morosely at his long, artistic fingers. Maria sat beside him and took his hand; it was lifeless, unable to respond to her caress. ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  Alexandros came in, also naked, his ample manhood flapping like a banner of his virility. Maria stood and flexed her back; Alexandros came round behind her and kissed her neck and raised her nipples with his fingers. After a moment Maria pulled loose. ‘We are going to have the most extraordinary evening,’ she said. ‘We are going to Nicephorus Argyrus’s.’ Everyone in Constantinople knew the name; Argyrus was a former provincial army commander who had become the most successful merchant in all Byzantium; some said he was even wealthier than the Emperor, although that was also said of several of the Dhynatoi. But Argyrus was the only merchant who could persuade the august Dhynatoi to dine at his town palace - at least those Dhynatoi who had been forced because of overenthusiastic land speculation or simple mismanagement of their estates, to borrow money from Argyrus. The very integration of the classes - and sexes - at Argyrus’s dinners was considered a scandal in itself; the tales told of his entertainments were a catalogue of vices, though most of the gossip was patently false or, at best, wildly exaggerated.

  ‘Argyrus has brought us a famous eremite from Cappadocia, I am told. They say he last left his cave when the Bulgar-Slayer was a boy. I don’t believe that for a moment. But he will bring us luck. Also, Argyrus is going to display for us the Tauro-Scythian who murdered the Manglavite. I have been told that this is the last opportunity we will have to see him.’ Alexandros seemed very keen at the mention of this attraction; even Giorgios cocked his head with interest. ‘I am taking all my little ladies-in-waiting so that they can see him, and the Hetairarch has agreed to come and translate for me, though I think Argyrus also has a man.’ Alexandros did not seem pleased that the Hetairarch would be along; he had heard that Maria had once kept company with him. ‘Then, when we leave Argyrus’s, I can send my ladies home with Hetairarch.’ Alexandros’s scowl fled. ‘And we three can visit that inn in the Venetian Quarter.’

  Alexandros and Giorgios looked at each other with naked alarm. The Venetian Quarter, home to the considerable contingent of traders from Venice, was almost as notoriously lawless as the vast Studion slum, though it was a much smaller enclave. The Venetian sailors were considered virtual savages, and the only women who ever entered their environs were the most used-up and disease-ravaged whores, who could find employment nowhere else. Maria had several times expressed an almost morbid interest in a Venetian Quarter inn where these women were said to service their customers on the table-tops.

  ‘I don’t think you would be safe there,’ said Giorgios, his eyes mournful and frightened.

  Maria opened her knees slightly and stroked her fingers once along the tops of her inner thighs, just beneath her vulva; the gesture was as mechanical and distracted as an animal cleaning itself yet almost breathtakingly erotic. She looked up at Giorgios. ‘If you don’t think you can protect me, then don’t go.’

  The black waters wrapped around the brilliant galaxy of Constantinople at night. Haraldr knew the source of the many lights now: behind him, the flares along the great wall; to each side, sloping away from the spine of the city, the still-bustling wharves and factories; and just ahead, viewed as if from the mast of a ship, the lights of the Imperial Palace. It was as if he stood at the very centre of this wondrous constellation, and all around him the Empress City glowed and winked with the splendour of her nocturnal life. And tonight, robed in silk and perfumed with myrrh, Haraldr felt part of her. His fears only seemed to inflame his ardour for this new woman in his breast, to encourage the strange feeling that no matter how perilous this seduction, he did not want to stop it.

  ‘Nicephorus Argyrus has a palace larger than this on the Asian
shore of the Bosporus, indeed he does,’ Marmot-Man interjected into Haraldr’s reverie. ‘Larger still is his palace near Ancyra. Yes, yes, Nicephorus Argyrus owns a third of the Bucellarion theme. But he got out of his Macedonian estates when Basil the Bulgar-Slayer died. Didn’t think this new lot could hold the Bulgars back - no, indeed he did not. Still, he likes his town palace best. He hates provincial life, and this terrace is his favourite place.’

  ‘This new lot’ apparently is not as powerful or competent as the old Bulgar-Slayer, thought Haraldr. Despite the narcotic luxury of the evening, he was endeavouring to note any snippet of information that might be useful.

  Haraldr looked around the terrace atop the fourth floor of Nicephorus Argyrus’s palace. He could well imagine that a man with this treasure would long for no other place. The rooftop Eden had been planted with small flowering trees, neatly clipped shrubs and beds of flowers; shallow pools with spouting fountains were surrounded by mossy lawns. Delicate marble pavilions, lit with softly glowing, glass-sheathed oil lamps, were sprinkled among the gardens, and marble pathways meandered from pavilion to pavilion.

  ‘Well, let us return to the main hall, Haraldr Nordbrikt. Nicephorus Argyrus prefers to conclude his business before he dines, indeed he does.’ They descended a spiralling marble staircase and emerged into a miniature palace hall, much smaller than the Emperor’s but even more splendid; it was paved with pale green marble inlaid with whorls of pure gold and silver and lit by candelabra that looked like silver pine trees bearing scores of light-filled glass cones.

  The gathering crowd was equally ornamental. Men and women alike wore elaborate, gold-embroidered silk tunics with high collars and long, gold-laced hems and sleeves; on many of the younger women the fabric seemed little more than a coating of iridescent paint. While virtually every guest was dressed as lavishly as a Rus prince or princess, none of them was accorded the respect shown a miserable beggar literally dressed in rags. His white hair and beard were crudely cropped; his wizened, ghostly pale skin pocked with crusty sores; and his stench was detectable from a dozen ells away. Yet the most corpulent, jewel-laden princes and their ladies crowded around the foul-smelling wretch, kissing his gnarled hands or filthy chest and pressing gold coins to him even though the old beggar simply let the offerings clatter to the floor.