Byzantium - A Novel

by Michael Ennis

  ‘Do you think you are the only man I have done those things with? You saw me do some of them with Alex. I despised him. It would make you sick if you knew some of the men I have been a whore to, and what I have asked them to do to me. And what I have done to them.’

  Giorgios sprang forward, seized her arms, and shook her like a doll for a moment. When he stopped, his lower lip quivered. ‘Why did you ever say you loved me? You must despise me too.’

  ‘I did love you.’

  ‘Then why. . . ?’

  ‘Why do I no longer love you?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘You were only beautiful when I hurt you. You only had life when I caused you pain. I could no longer go on creating you anew each time.’ Maria’s eyes were cast down, and her tone was inexpressibly melancholy. ‘I realized I can only love a man whose pain I do not have to provide. A man bereaved in a way I cannot understand, so that I must enter him when he enters me and find the thorn that has impaled his soul. In you I could only find myself.’ Her pearl-like teeth nibbled at her wine-dark lower lip. ‘And I am empty. I am as cold and dark as the deepest abyss.’

  ‘There is another man?’ Giorgios sounded curiously hopeful, as if he could deal with that eventuality. It was the utter frigidity of her demeanour that baffled and frightened him.

  ‘There is no one. You were the last man in my bed. If I could both love you and be kind to you, I would love you still.’

  Giorgios’s mouth trembled with anguish. He squeezed her shoulders gently, and when he closed his eyes, tears spilled to his cheeks. Clutching his forearms, she removed his hands from her shoulders. ‘Farewell, Giorgios.’

  An awful, muffled keening came from Giorgios’s throat and he fell to his knees. The tip of his bronze scabbard clattered on the marble paving stones. He wrenched his sword free and with trembling arms held it to his own throat. ‘I want you to see the wound in my heart,’ he sobbed. ‘I want you to see the proof of my pain!’ His neck corded against the sheer, polished steel.

  Maria’s eyes were uninterested, seemingly dulled by the baleful pigmentation of the Bosporus. ‘I am cold, Giorgios. I am going inside. Please go before I call for my guards.’

  She walked swiftly past Giorgios and disappeared into the pillared entrance. After a moment Giorgios lowered his sword and sobbed quietly, still on his knees. He finally left an hour after dark.

  Euthymius’s little army of mirth put the finishing touches on their courtyard theatre; the stage they had erected, with its gilded proscenium and brocaded curtains, was as splendid as the palace of a Norse king. Neither Haraldr nor any of his men could divine the use of the rest of the apparatus this ‘impresario’ had assembled, but the Varangians, who had already littered the courtyard with empty kegs, jars and wineskins, were loudly speculating on the possibilities offered by the dozens of variously costumed, lithe young women - all painted nearly as brightly as Euthymius himself- who scurried about, trilled brief notes, or performed agile exercises. Haraldr had nearly choked when Marmot-Man had first proposed Euthymius’s ‘expenses and honorarium - the rest of his costs are an offering, a veritable human sacrifice, to the Herculean demigod, the Slayer of Saracens, and his dauntless band of incorruptible Christian heroes.’ But now, even before this ‘amusement’ had begun, Haraldr knew that the gold spent would be more than recaptured in the heightened spirit of his men.

  The performance opened with an explosion of two dozen male and female athletes, clad only in loincloths spangled with shiny, rainbow-coloured metal bits, who could spin like tops, roll like hoops, and whirl through the air like throwing axes; eventually they built a human tower crowned with the bare-breasted women. Then came dogs that dressed and walked as men; monkeys that raced into the audience and plucked coins from men’s purses, then danced in celebration; a lion whose roar seemed to shake the walls, then a lion with stripes; a striped horse with a neck so long, it seemed certain he would topple over; and finally an incredible beast with a back that reached to the second-storey balcony, legs shaped exactly like tree trunks, and most wondrous of all, a snout as long as a man was tall that could also pluck coins from the audience (leading Halldor to ask if there was any living creature in Constantinople that could not find a man’s purse).

  Then came the truly extraordinary portion of the amusement, if indeed this was an amusement at all. It was well past midnight, the Varangians roaring with wine and lust, when a chorus trilled and the stage was momentarily screened. The brocade curtains parted, and the music, provided by a portable pipe organ, droned dramatically.

  ‘I’ll draw the curtain! You find Euthymius!’ Haraldr shouted to Halldor. Wearing purple brocade, a dark, full beard, and an elaborate sparkling diadem, the first actor was clearly a representation of the Emperor. Haraldr’s heart screamed with alarm as he rushed to the stage. Was this a plot to involve them in a treason? Clever, indeed!

  ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt! Haraldr Nordbrikt!’ shrieked Marmot-Man as he clung desperately to Haraldr’s thigh. ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt, you must stop! Please! If only for a moment!’

  Haraldr finally gave up. He was not making much progress through the crowd - the Varangians kept clasping him gratefully - and the enactment was rapidly proceeding. The mock Emperor had already been followed onto the stage by a second, thinner actor, also dressed in mock Imperial raiment, and then three younger, purple-robed women: one beautiful, one less attractive, and one wearing a mask representing some sort of pox or skin disfigurement. These five characters burst into simultaneous action. The first Emperor mimed the defeat of numerous men, in rough brown tunics who streamed endlessly onto the stage; the thinner, purple-clad man drank from a wineskin and rolled dice; the beautiful woman primped and dabbed paint on her face; the plainer woman looked on enviously; and the ugly one retired to a corner and knelt in prayer.

  ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt!’ gasped the shaken Marmot-Man. ‘You must know that this is customary among the Romans. It is permitted to lampoon the Emperor even should he himself be seated among us. In fact, there has never been an Autocrator who did not himself witness at least one such performance at his expense. Believe me, Haraldr Nordbrikt. Euthymius says he has prepared this mime particularly for you!’

  Haraldr understood. A Norse king would also permit a skald to jest with him. Of course, the skald who dared such jibes was like the man who hunted walrus alone in a small boat; if he was not extremely skilled, he was dead. Haraldr waved Halldor back, and they stood together to watch the show.

  ‘Basil the Bulgar-Slayer?’ asked Halldor as the first stage Emperor continued to bash various mock enemies.

  ‘I think so,’ said Haraldr. ‘Bulgars wear those brown tunics.’ Suddenly the Bulgar-Slayer slumped motionless to the floor, and the other actors indulged in great floor pounding and wailing. The Bulgar-Slayer’s crown was handed to the thinner man who after placing the diadem on his head paused and appraised the beautiful woman and the not-so-beautiful woman; the disfigured woman apparently had disappeared, though Haraldr had not noticed her departure from the stage. Another actor, a rather elderly man in a green robe, entered, and with elaborate comic motions the Emperor urged the not-so-beautiful woman to embrace this new character, but she merely turned her head and turned up her nose. Then the Emperor cajoled the beautiful woman, and after considerable reluctance she finally took the green-robed old man in her arms; the not-so-beautiful woman erupted into hysterical, mocking laughter. The Emperor threw up his arms in glee, promptly fell in a heap, and the beautiful woman picked up his crown and purple robe and gave them to her aged companion. Once crowned, this new Emperor piled bricks into little walls and sprinkled them with coins, to the accompaniment of long-haired men who threw pages torn from books in the air and shouted in a nonsense language.

  Then something quite remarkable happened. The pace of the actors’ movements slowed, the music became funereal, and a towering black-frocked monk entered, mounted on a real horse, and pranced about the stage.

  ‘Not the black-frock you saw at Nicephorus Argyrus’s?
’ asked Halldor.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps we have reached the present Emperor. This one is certainly portrayed as a buffoon.’

  The black-frock paused for a moment to study the new Emperor and the beautiful woman, who had turned their backs to each other. The monk cantered offstage for a moment, and when he returned, another man, much younger than the Emperor and clad in a very plain yellow wool robe, rode behind him on the horse. Both men dismounted, and the monk took the yellow-robed man by the hand, pointed out to him the apparently feuding Imperial couple, gave him a pat and a kiss as one might to a young child, and shooed him over to the woman. The beautiful woman took the yellow-robed man’s hand, held it shyly for a moment, then devoured him with kisses, knocking him to the floor.

  ‘Fuck her! Fuck her!’ The first few Varangians to shout were quickly joined by a rhythmic chant.

  The couple kissed prone for a moment - the not-so-beautiful woman just observed all this with elegant amusement - then rose, turned to the Emperor, and stood and watched while he grabbed his throat like a man choking or poisoned. Neither they nor the monk attempted to help, and the Emperor collapsed in a heap.

  ‘They’re saying someone murdered an Emperor!’ hissed Halldor. ‘His wife and her lover.’

  The monk plucked the Imperial diadem from the fallen Emperor’s head and removed the purple robe. The monk then placed the crown on the yellow-robed man’s head and wrapped him in the purple robe. The beautiful woman turned to the not-so-beautiful woman, erupted with arm-flailing anger, and drove her off the stage. Then the beautiful woman went to one side of the stage to paint her face while the newest Emperor sat contemplatively on his gilded throne, the monk hovering over him in a somewhat sinister tableau.

  ‘Kristr!’ Haraldr released the strangled oath as a tall blond man wearing huge padding and the uniform of the Varangian Guard entered the stage. The make-believe Varangian stood on the side of the throne opposite the monk, his great axe extended over the Emperor; it was unclear as to whether he was protecting the Emperor or preparing to behead him.

  ‘Mar Hunrodarson?’ asked Halldor.

  Haraldr nodded, his veins iced. He had suspected that the Imperial Throne might be an illusion masking a greater and more sinister power, but to finally see his speculation confirmed by a Roman source, and to know that Mar himself was that power . . . But it wasn’t that clear. What of the black-frock? Was he the mysterious Joannes, and if so, did he and Mar share power?

  Before Haraldr could begin to sort through these alarming new questions, the organ raced to a triumphant flourish and a second tall, blond, padded and armoured actor entered the stage, followed by a band of makeshift Varangians. This second mock Norseman was quickly swarmed by a band of actors wearing white robes; he held his Varangians back, then stepped forward and one by one knocked the white-robed actors to the floor.

  ‘Haraldr! Haraldr! Hardraada! Hardraada!’ chanted the audience.

  Haraldr uncomfortably watched his stage persona finish bashing the mock Saracens, then reach into the stage floor and pull out a chest filled with brilliant gold coins. The mock Haraldr proudly displayed the chest to the Emperor, and as he presented the offering, both Mar and the black-frock bent simultaneously and mimed speaking garrulously to the Emperor, each taking an Imperial ear. With that the curtain was drawn.

  Haraldr leapt for the stage, intent on asking Euthymius just what message this cryptic, unfinished drama had been intended to convey, even if it meant posing his question with the blade of his sword. But he was quickly intercepted by his pledge-men.

  ‘Haraldr! Haraldr!’ yelled the Varangians as they swarmed around him.

  ‘Find Euthymius!’ Haraldr frantically shouted to Halldor.

  The Varangians boosted Haraldr to their shoulders, then ebulliently tossed him high into the night sky; they caught him and continued to throw him into the air again and again.

  After several minutes Halldor returned and shouted to his still soaring leader. ‘I can’t find Euthymius!’

  Someone opened the gates and the whores came in.

  Silence. The Grand Domestic Bardas Dalassena turned the brass cock at the base of his water clock and emptied the fluid into a washbasin he kept beside the machine’s ponderous, brass-pillared base for precisely that purpose. Even though the hourly whistle did not sound at night, he hated the insidious ratcheting of the mechanism that caused a small statue of a beast - a different one for each hour - to appear in a miniature arcade. Visible now was a bear, indicating the ninth hour of the night. Dalassena looked at the erect gold creature (its finely modelled little paws clawed the air) with his usual vague dread, a psychic burden he carried so habitually that it seemed to press on his shoulders physically, bowing him forward like an aged porter. Three hours until the first hour of the morning, five hours until he would once again be at his office in the Palace. He hated this reminder of the routine that had chained him, but the clock had been a gift from the Senator and Magister, Nicon Attalietes. So he was obliged to display it prominently in the office he kept in his home, the hilltop palace that he had acquired through the generosity of Senator Attalietes and his circle.

  But for a moment at least, Dalassena was free from time and its irksome herald, sound. His wife Eudocia had long since succumbed to the oppressive gaiety of their evening at the Palace of the Zonaras; the price of being among the Dhynatoi but not of them was that one had to pretend to enjoy the social rituals that the Dhynatoi themselves disdained with weary sarcasm. His daughter, Anna, also had come home, though only an hour ago; he ached to think of the corruption of her doe-eyed innocence, but since Anna now often dined only a chair removed from the Empress, he endured the pain of her despoliation like a soldier in a field hospital stiffening against the amputation of his leg. The only sound from this quiet precinct of the sleeping city was the occasional rattle as armed guards checked locked gates, and the ghostly sough of the wind through columned arcades.

  Dalassena went to his lacquered wooden writing table and removed the sheaf of dispatches that he regularly brought home and studied, as if in taking these profound drafts of his predicament he could somehow find expiation. The dispatches reported raids near Hadath and Raban; some large estates had been torched and a distant nephew of a senator had been slain. Bulgars had come across the Danube near Nicopolis and had penetrated almost to Trnovo in Paristron theme. The continuing fester of Sicily, where Abdallah-ibn-Muizz was taking Christians captive by the thousands. Libyan pirates had sacked three coastal villages in southern Crete. The successes were almost as nettling: the siege of Berki would soon be concluded now that a force of Varangians had arrived; and, most appalling of all, the victory by this new Tauro-Scythian menace over almost two hundred pirate vessels, at the very ends of the earth. Just the kind of thing that would kindle the dangerous imagination of the mob.

  Dalassena clenched his still powerful fists. Madness. His generous appeal to the self-interest of the swollen-headed Hetairarch Mar Hunrodarson had not brought a breath of reply; apparently Hunrodarson was unaware of the directive from the Emperor’s own offices to explore expansion of the Middle Hetairia, the less prestigious Imperial Guard that had been virtually defunct for decades and was now manned by only a few well-born fugitives from Saracen courts, ceremonially invested to reward them for converting to Christianity and swearing allegiance to the Emperor. This directive proposed to revive the Middle Hetairia to accommodate a second force of Varangians, a force that would be equal in numbers to Mar Hunrodarson’s Grand Hetairia. And this initiative had not been sponsored by Mar Hunrodarson; Dalassena was certain of that. No, he reflected, Hunrodarson has taken to making his appeals to the Logothete of the Dromus, with all these not entirely unfounded claims of massive civil discontent in the city and his continued lobbying for another Varangian unit to be posted outside the palace; even Hunrodarson is reluctant to invite any more of his barbaroi band of cutthroats within the Chalke Gate. So it is clear that the extravagantly lucky thug, Haraldr Nordbr
ikt, is the beneficiary of some other highly placed patron, perhaps someone promoting a rival to Mar Hunrodarson. Why can’t Hunrodarson, who is as clever as he is mendacious, see that he is being asked to share his bone with another equally vicious dog?

  Dalassena shuffled through his writing cabinet, took out his pen and ink and a sheet of Alexandrian paper, and laboriously scripted a note to the Domestic of the Hyknatoi - one of his key subordinates in the Imperial Taghmata - instructing him in the course of action they should now take. He decided he had better use his personal seal on the document, rather than the official stamp of his office. As he fingered the small, cone-shaped stone implement, he noticed that traces of wax had been left on the face, and he picked the engraved surface meticulously clean. Had his wife Eudocia been using his seal again, perhaps to place orders with the Vestiopratai, the imperially licensed dealers in silk garments; wasn’t it enough that she had one eunuch silk merchant who called weekly? That was simply not acceptable; the woman was determined to make a travesty of his marital dominion.

  Bardas Dalessena pressed the stone seal into the glimmering hot wax, then put his writing instruments away and savoured silence. Within seconds he had completely forgotten the diatribe he had intended for his wife.

  The sound of steel striking brass echoed through a cavern. Haraldr felt the pain and wondered how he had come to sleep with seals, slippery seals, soft, down-covered seals, their bodies underneath and atop and beside him. But seals did not have furless arms or legs or great hanks of wet hair. Still, seals could smell like this.

  Again the noise in the cavern, but this time it was someone screaming. Haraldr struggled to raise his torso, and bodies slithered away from him. He saw the whore, her face paint smeared into a blurry mask, and then the dancer. Around they went, pulling hair, grunting and squealing. Haraldr dragged his legs from under a bedding of flesh punctuated with bulging breasts, jutting buttocks, and staring, wheat-thatched belly furrows. He shook the whore; she had to stop screaming. But she wasn’t screaming. Haraldr struggled to his feet. The brass was shattering inside his head.