Byzantium - A Novel

by Michael Ennis

  The courtyard looked like the aftermath of a terrible battle; the wreckage of Euthymius’s stage was scattered amid a vast carpet of naked men and women, their clothes and empty containers of various intoxicating beverages. Odin, the herons of forgetfulness must have plucked every mind last night, thought Haraldr, his stomach retching and his head bursting with hot metal and the horrible shrieking. Then he saw the actual source of the screaming, an olive-skinned dancer rising above the prone but obviously not totally incapacitated form of a wild-haired Varangian. At first Haraldr assumed that only an excess of pleasure filled the dancer’s throat, but then he saw it too.

  It had been a Varangian, when it had forearms and calves and bowels and genitals and a head. It now hung naked, six feet off the ground, from its own small intestine, which had been wrapped around its waist and then tied to the balcony above, so that the truncated body spun slowly within one of the broad, soiled, white plaster arches of the courtyard arcade.

  Haraldr bent over and let the bitter alcoholic bile surge over his tongue and onto the pavement. The vomit filled his nostrils and he retched some more, choking and sputtering like a child. Another woman screamed, and a Varangian began to shout.

  Haraldr held his hands to his screeching head. The screaming and shouting became a chorus. Ulfr came running; he had remained sober to guard the gold, along with a few of the most devoted disciples of Kristr among the Varangians, who would neither drink for pleasure nor fornicate. They had been at their posts in the strong-room all night.

  ‘A message has been left,’ said Ulfr as he stood over a disembodied arm lying on the stone pavement a few ells from the corpse. The stiff, purple forefinger had been carefully arranged to point directly at a large, algae-tinted terracotta jar resting a few ells away against the inner wall of the arcade.

  Haraldr looked inside the jar and gagged. Steeling himself, he reached in. His trembling fingers found a single, grotesquely slippery lock of hair; the bowel-knifing touch told him that the rest of the scalp had been flayed to the bare skull. He forced back the bile and commanded himself to bring the head up. He stood and looked with uncomprehending terror into the face: no lips or ears, a shrivelled, bruise-coloured penis in place of the nose, and a rosy testicle in each eye socket. A piece of parchment was clenched between bloody, grimacing teeth. Shaking from head to toe, nauseated beyond anything he had ever imagined, Haraldr prised the teeth open, removed the parchment, and clawed with bloody fingers at the crimson wax seal. He read the message, crushed it in his hand, fell back against the wall, and slumped to the ground, holding the bloody skull against his chest like a boy cradling the dead body of a beloved pet.

  One by one they entered, their robes of glossy white silk stiff with gold thread, to stand at their places around the polished ivory table. But the black-frocked Orphanotrophus Joannes did not acknowledge or even see them. He had gone home to Amastris. He smelled the dust of Asia Minor in the hot summer wind and heard the buzz of the locusts.

  ‘But I did the sums.’

  ‘You can’t have finished all of them,’ his mother had said. She held the lump of cheese in her hands, squeezed, and the thin, milky liquid oozed between her thick, mannish fingers. He remembered that distinctly.

  ‘But I did. If Stephan and Constantine are going, I must be able to go too.’ The sea was where he had wanted to go, the coarse wet sand of the beach near the docks and the big cool pebbles around which he could curl his toes.

  ‘I need you to look after Michael. He’s everywhere at once and into everything now. Look.’ His mother swept up the naked infant, who had almost disappeared into a half-empty grain sack.

  Joannes could tell that his mother was concealing something from him. He knew then that his day would not be good. He said goodbye to Constantine and Stephan and waited, quietly doing sums in his head. After what seemed a very long time he heard his father’s voice, that beaten, whining voice that alone of all sounds terrified him, for he knew the defeat in it. His father, tall yet paunchy, with his reek of fish sauce and cheap wine, was in the company of a second man, and Joannes shrank from this man immediately. He had the ugly, hairless chin of a eunuch; jaundiced, squinty eyes that made him look like a snake; and a tunic stained like a butcher’s smock.

  This is the one,’ Joannes’s father told the snake-eyed eunuch. ‘He reads better than boys twice his age and there is no function of arithmetic he cannot already perform.’

  The eunuch slipped Joannes’s tunic over his head and looked at him through his reptilian slits, then felt his arms and poked at his chest and belly. He turned to Joannes’s father and said, ‘He’s strong enough for the operation. I can proceed right away. He’ll have some pain but little bleeding.’ The rest had been an unimaginable nightmare. No blade, only a silk ligature wrapped tightly about the top of his tiny pink scrotum, the searing pain that had come within minutes, then the numbness and the horror of the next two weeks as he had watched a part of him die. Every day the eunuch came to smear the purpling, yellowing, blackening flesh with ointment, and every day Joannes smelled the rot of the life he might have had, the games with other boys, and that vague future of manhood that he could sense only well enough to know he was now denied it.

  Joannes’s father had not explained it until the shrivelled vestige of Joannes’s scrotum and testicles had sloughed away. ‘This is so you can stand next to the Emperor, as I will never do.’ The next day Joannes had been sent to a school in Constantinople.

  And so he had come to stand next to the Emperor. The Orphanotrophus Joannes looked down upon the living heir of Christ the King, seated on his golden throne as he attended to this meeting of the Sacrum Consistorum, the group of fifteen men who constituted the Emperor’s cabinet. The Emperor turned and looked up at Joannes, his dark, tired eyes questing for assurance, and Joannes nodded and replied with a look that communicated the almost suffocating love he felt for this Sacred Person. He had never loved a woman, but was not such feeling, even at its purest, a hollow profanity next to the love he held for the Lord’s anointed representative on earth? For in loving this Emperor, Joannes could restore the life -no, not simply the life, but the immortality - that had been shorn from him so long ago. Joannes looked again at the Emperor Michael and, for a searing instant, filled his heart with the dream that burned in his soul.

  Joannes studied the assembled cabinet. They were pieces on the board at which Joannes daily played the ages-old, endless game of Roman power, a game where a man might wager his life and win eternal life, his name inscribed for ever in the halls of memory. There isn’t a real player in this lot, thought Joannes. The Grand Domestic Bardas Dalassena, clutching the golden wand of a Magister as if he were showing off his erect manhood, his arrogant chin and barrel chest thrust forward. Dalassena was a career military officer, his family just wealthy enough that he had been able to start out in the Imperial Scholae, but not wealthy enough to make him a member of the Dhynatoi, to which he so desperately aspired. Will you be so proud, Dalassena, when you ride through the city backwards on an ass? And the Logothete of the Dromus, a thorough, potentially formidable man who had become so timorous of his own spies that he could hardly speak without locking himself in that absurd ‘secret’ chamber of his. Joannes’s eyes flickered; what would the Logothete say if he knew that his trusted servant was in the pay of the Orphanotrophus? The Prefect of the City, white-haired and frail, was a harmless criminal, a competent administrator content ploddingly to enforce his exacting regulations and enrich himself with a steady flow of petty graft. The Quaestor, his fat, round head bobbing with palsy, was the highest judicial officer in the Empire and reputed to hear his cases in such a state of inebriation that he had once sentenced his own secretary to hanging; fortunately the lawyers had been able to turn him to the accused before he had had the horrified functionary dragged off in irons. The Sacellarius, a stooped, almost vacant-looking eunuch, was Joannes’s personal property; as supervisor of all Imperial finances from the Emperor’s estates to the Empi
re’s staggering tax revenues, he was a relentless cipher who provided Joannes with the real key to his power: a knowledge of the origins and ultimate disposition of virtually every solidus that entered the Imperial Treasury. Then several august senators of Magister rank, the obligatory representatives of the mindless Dhynatoi and their reclusive swineherd, the Senator and Magister Nicon Attalietes. The Dhynatoi, Joannes thought scoffingly, were wilful children who produced nothing and were intent on consuming everything, and in Eastern themes they were shaping the noose with which they would hang themselves. Then the Imperial Government would come in and restore the timeless order of the Roman system.

  The meeting droned on. The principal concern was the quivering-jowled Quaestor’s continuing dispute with Alexius, the Patriarch of the One True Oecumenical, Orthodox and Catholic Faith. The Patriarch Alexius was attempting to appropriate into the Patriarchal Courts some types of cases previously relegated to the civil courts. In this Joannes would oppose the Quaestor, though he personally despised the unctuous, excrement-tongued Patriarch perhaps more than any other man, because when Joannes had deposed the Patriarch, he would wish to expand the authority of the ecclesiastical courts beyond even Patriarch Alexius’s insanely grasping ambitions. The Grand Domestic reported on the siege of the Saracen fortress at Berki in eastern Asia Minor, which was finally showing signs of a successful conclusion. Yes, Dalassena, Joannes observed silently, because you were finally able to blockade the fortress when a force of several hundred Varangians was brought in by your subordinate, Nicholas Pegonites, over your objections; hadn’t you, Dalassena, at first threatened to make a eunuch of Pegonites? The Sacellarius gave the usual summary of the declining tax revenues from the Eastern themes, though as usual his figures, at Joannes’s behest, did not reflect the true immensity of the problem; wait until the patient is gravely ill, Joannes reasoned, and he will accept even the most drastic treatment.

  Then came the matter Joannes had prompted the Logothete to raise. The new Caliph of Egypt, Moustanir Billah,’ the Logothete humbly intoned, his stubby fingers clasped almost penitently to his chest, ‘is proving himself the very manifestation of peaceful coexistence between Rome and the Arab world. He has released tens of thousands of Christian captives from the caliphate’s dungeons. He has entered into a thirty-year treaty of peace with the Roman Empire. He has kept passage to Jerusalem open to Christians who wish to journey to the Holy Shrines. And to crown his achievements, he has authorized rebuilding of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Is it not time to honour this Saracen avatar of Christian virtues with a gesture of regard for his estimable conduct?’

  The Emperor nodded.

  ‘What is your suggestion, Logothete?’ asked Joannes.

  ‘What better way to express our respect and trust for the Caliph, and indeed convey to the ordinary Roman taxpayer the peace that Roman hegemony has brought to the entire civilized world, than for eminent and honoured Roman dignitaries to lead a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre of Christ Pantocrator in Jerusalem?’

  ‘And what dignitaries would the Logothete suggest as appropriate to the significance of this new accord in the lands where Our Lord was sinlessly made incarnate in flesh?’ asked Joannes. ‘We must not offend the Caliph by sending him any less than his equal in rank and diplomacy.’

  ‘It would, of course, be inconceivable to ask our Emperor Father to make such a time-consuming journey at a time when his children are in desperate need of his Holy Presence. But perhaps the Empress Mother, who has spared no effort on previous occasions to vouchsafe her exemplary piety, would lead the Roman standards on a pilgrimage of such profound implication that it may well be thought to augur the millennium of the Pantocrator’s Holy Kingdom. I pray that our Emperor Father will bless us with the loan of his living treasure, though it is certain that for him, and indeed for those of us who will remain in the Empress City, each moment without our Blessed Mother will be a torment to echo the diabolical distresses Christ Pantocrator Himself endured in the wilderness.’

  Joannes looked around the room. The Dhynatoi would concur in this initiative, since such a profound expression of Saracen-Christian accord would almost immediately escalate the value of their estates in the Eastern themes, which had long suffered from Arab raids. And their dung hauler, the Grand Domestic Dalassena, would certainly have to join their accord, even though he knew that he could not even guarantee the Empress safe passage from Cesare Mazacha to Adana in the heart of Roman Asia Minor!

  Joannes turned his lowered palm forward, signalling the Emperor that he should reply. Of course the Lord of the Entire World would accede to this request; the idea of a pilgrimage would appeal to his ardent piety, but less so than the opportunity to remove himself from the scheming harlot who plagued him to distraction with her unyielding demands for the most lascivious affections. The woman was a menace, and Joannes longed for the day when she would prove unnecessary.

  When the Emperor had given his approval, Joannes thought of the small matter that had troubled him earlier. He was fatigued from the meeting but reminded himself that the enormity of his responsibility required unremitting attention to detail.

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ said Joannes, ‘let me presume to acknowledge the angelic quality of your affections for our Mother the Empress, a model of devotion such that even those of us who love the Holy Theotokos as we do cannot hope to exceed the adoration you have vested in our earthly Mother’s precious vessel. And so to protect this wondrously adorned yet fragile vessel, I would suggest her guard be augmented with a special gift to her Holy Presence, a force of Tauro-Scythians of proven ferocity and dauntless ability in dealing with foes of Christendom. The Tauro-Scythians who vanquished the despicable Saracen miscreants off the coast of Africa are languishing in disuse, and I fear that their services will soon be lost to the Roman Empire if they are not given employment suitable to their evident worth as champions of Christ. Name these men as the Empress’s special guard, and the Mother of God herself will take our Mother’s hand as she ventures forth to pray for us at the shrines of Christ the King.’

  The Emperor quickly agreed, and Joannes watched the Grand Domestic Dalassena’s eyes, looking for a sign. As he had suspected, he saw nothing.

  ‘Purple.’ Even Halldor’s voice was edged with fatigue, shock and rage. Asbjorn Ingvarson’s funeral pyre, which had burned in the courtyard all afternoon, still sent a raven-sooted plume into the indigo sky. The authorities had barred the gates and prevented the Varangians from burying the young Swede at sea, and it had taken all of Haraldr’s force as a leader to keep his men from breaking out and assaulting the city walls.

  ‘Purple?’ asked Ulfr numbly. He jerked his head up. His chair scraped against the stone paving of the little store-room.

  Halldor spoke like a man in a trance, determined to make his point to listeners he could scarcely see. ‘When the first two Emperors died, the woman passed the crown to their successors, neither of whom wore purple when they first appeared. Purple implies royal lineage.’

  Haraldr tried to focus on Halldor’s words through his own scarcely controllable fury. Although he had not known Asbjorn Ingvarson well, the agreeable young pagan had been one of his most devoted pledge-men, and his death screamed for Odin’s vengeance; Asbjorn’s soul could not begin the long journey through the spirit world while his murderer remained in the middle realm. But Haraldr realized that his sword was sheathed by his own ignorance; as yet he could only guess at the identity of the murderer of Asbjorn Ingvarson. He was convinced, however, that Euthymius’s curious mime provided them important clues. He struggled to make sense of Halldor’s reasoning.

  ‘So you see,’ Halldor droned on, ‘the man the monk brought in on his horse, who was surely intended to represent the Emperor who received you, Haraldr, is not of royal blood.’

  Haraldr nodded, his intellect finally stirring. ‘So this “bitch-whore” is the last of the Bulgar-Slayer’s lineage, and the kiss of her loins can legitimize any would-be Emp
eror skilled in aiming the lance he carries between his legs.’

  ‘The monk gave the last Emperor his crown,’ rebutted Ulfr.

  ‘But the Emperor still had to embrace the “bitch-whore” in order to receive the crown and purple robe,’ countered Halldor.

  ‘Why would the monk pick this particular man?’ mused Haraldr, almost to himself.

  ‘You’re certain this monk is the same one you saw that night at Nicephorus Argyrus’s?’ asked Ulfr.

  ‘No. There are so many black-frocks among these Romans. I could never be certain. But this Joannes - I am certain that was his name - inspired fear, as if he could indeed topple an Emperor and raise up another in his stead. And his name is whispered, here and there, again and again.’

  ‘I believe that this Joannes was the monk portrayed here last night,’ ventured Halldor. ‘And clearly the Emperor, a usurper with no blood claim to the throne, is but a puppet of both Joannes and Mar. The question left is: what were they telling their puppet to do with you?’

  Haraldr massaged his aching temples. ‘I’m not certain any of it is that simple. Yes, Mar and Joannes are very powerful, but the very fact that they might need a puppet to represent them indicates the limits of their power; after all, one is a eunuch, the other a barbaros. I have also seen the array of court-men who surround this Emperor, and among those hundreds there must be other factions as well.’ Haraldr placed his hands together and looked searchingly at Ulfr and Halldor, his scarred eyebrow twitching slightly. ‘Consider this. What if, in the play, Mar and Joannes were actually disputing for the Emperor’s ear? If Mar is my enemy, then Joannes might be my friend.’

  ‘Or the other way around,’ said Halldor.