Children hid behind their mothers’ rough wool tunics. Men stared with wooden fright and then lowered their gaze to the littered paving stones as the man on the black horse came close enough for his swollen, immense face to reach out and mark them. Joannes was on the streets.
The clamouring died in inevitable sequence as the black-cloaked monk ascended the rise to the palace of the Senator and Magister Nicon Attalietes. The great, hollow stillness that preceded the Orphanotrophus Joannes like some force of nature was neither sullen nor reverent but profoundly respectful. Who did not have a friend or neighbour or relative who had received free treatment in one of the Orphanotrophus’s hospitals? And who did not know of someone who had vanished in the night?
As was his custom, Joannes rode alone. He dismounted in front of the brass-ornamented oak gate of the Attalietes palace. Rough hands came tremulously forward to hold gently the halter of Joannes’s horse and stroke the animal’s quivering obsidian flanks, as if in assuaging this great beast they could somehow gain favour with the other.
‘Orphanotrophus.’ Attalietes’s chamberlain bowed deeply. The arcade led through a courtyard in the style of a Moorish palace from Iberia, a glittering fantasy of gold and lapis lazuli and chequered ceramic tiles and azure pools flecked with crimson fish. Joannes enjoyed the irony of his monochrome intrusion in this brilliant setting. He was a moving shroud, his black breast a sepulchre for an old man’s dreams. He would enjoy crushing Nicon Attalietes. There were only two people on earth whose destruction would give him more pleasure.
The silver doors emblazoned with virtually life-size embossed lions slid open. Joannes almost gasped. Unbelievable. Attalietes did not style himself a mere emperor, the chosen hand of God. No, his ambition exceeded even that blasphemy.
Attalietes sat enthroned in the middle of a vast hall; the golden tesserae that covered the dome high above him glittered like the sun. Flanking the gilded throne, which resembled a small chapel in its ornate architecture, were long, gold-tiled pools lined with a carved stone menagerie spouting dazzling sprays of water. As he came forward Joannes marvelled at the mathematical intricacy of the floor, the way the scrolls of rose and white marble created fantastic three-dimensional patterns against a background of gold-serpentined green marble and black onyx.
‘Orphanotrophus.’ Attalietes’s eyes were like stone. The tombs of hope, thought Joannes.
‘Brother.’ Joannes used the greeting that would most offend Attalietes, the salute he would offer any of the rabble outside.
‘At what price do we purchase our lives?’
Joannes slapped his leg with his riding crop. ‘With what would you pay, Brother Attalietes? You borrowed from Nicephorus Argyrus’s arguoprates to buy most of Cilicia and Armenikoi. I understand that the merchant Argyrus instructed his agents to charge you the usurious rate of twelve per cent.’
Attalietes thought he would choke on his welling phlegm. It had been humiliating enough to have to shake hands with a man like Argyrus, a man whose hands were stained so deeply with the filth of commerce that they would never be clean no matter how many silk robes he donned or palaces he built.
‘I have instructed the merchant Argyrus that I will remit the penalty for his usurious exaction if he will immediately bring his promissories due.’ Joannes gleefully watched as the old man’s face coloured to the extent that his skin lesions were hardly noticeable.
Attalietes didn’t know the exact figures and he didn’t need to know. He had rushed to acquire the vast holdings in Teluch and Cilicia when he had learned of the imminent accord with Caliph Moustanir Billah, and then on top of that the office of Strategus of Cilicia had opened and had brought a damnable price - at first in solidi, then in the incalculable loss of his son - and then the untimely demise of the Senator Andronicus Cametus, leaving the old pederast’s estates in Armenikoi available at an enticing discount. Yes, each acquisition had made good sense at the time. But now, with the plunging value of land all along the Saracen frontier, the arithmetic of disaster led to an inevitable solution. He could not meet the damnable merchant’s notes even if he sold everything.
Attalietes lifted his thick fingers from the skulls of the golden lions that snarled at the arms of his throne. ‘Since I cannot pay this debt in solidi, what currency do you ask?’
‘Complicity.’ Joannes lowered his black, wiry brows. ‘You and the entire Attalietes clique in the Senate.’
Attalietes felt cool, soothing air surge into his burning, gasping lungs. Was there a way to work with the Orphanotrophus Joannes? The fact that the huge black capon did not simply let the mob do its work was evidence that he did not consider his own power secure. Might the monk be willing to compromise? Might they eventually arrive at shared goals? ‘How could an old man reduced to penury share your lofty visions, Orphanotrophus?’
‘Obliquity does not suit your delivery, brother Attalietes,’ admonished Joannes in his menacing rumble; he was pleased, however, that the beast he was about to yoke still had enough spirit to be useful. ‘I offer you this, in brief form. You will donate to the offices of the Orphanotrophus two thirds of your entire holdings in Europe and Asia. Nicephorus Argyrus will forgive the debt on your remaining properties in exchange for the monopoly he is about to be granted on trade with Venice, Amalfi and the Rus. And in gratitude for your generous donation to the indigent of our city, taxes on the estates still held in your name will be excused by beneficium for a period of ten years. I believe that when these transactions are completed, I will find myself with an ally who is more fiscally powerful than ever. And wealthier in wisdom as well.’
Attalietes wheezed with relief. Life was still sweet. Tonight he would ask the Khazar girl to take him in her soft lips and let him feel the bursting ecstasy of his youth. He blinked away the tears and saw the monstrous face through a golden haze of hope. ‘I am in your debt, Orphanotrophus.’
‘I will make certain that you remember, Brother.’ Joannes turned and found his way out without escort. The mob hushed again as the gate swung open and the Orphanotrophus reappeared. Joannes quickly mounted and wheeled to face the expectant throng.
‘God has granted me the privilege of announcing to the blessed children of our Sacred Empress news of the most extraordinary miracle. Yesterday, Christian warriors led by the Archangel himself and that dauntless foe of heresy, the Strategus of Antioch, challenged the devil-worshipping hordes and effected the rescue of our Mother! Our Mother returns to us!’
The din of the joyous response made Joannes’s head ache, and he struggled to maintain his concentration as he headed through the wildly cheering, praying and sobbing crowd. Almost by some divine intercession petals began to drift like snow to the pavement before him, strewn by hands that only seconds before had clutched stones and staves.
Remarkable, reflected Joannes, no longer giving thought to the celebration swirling around him like a cyclone. Two very remarkable things. The astonishing rescue of the slut; Joannes had been prepared for a much lengthier period of negotiation. The result was certainly not undesirable, though it had proved quite prudent to have moved quickly to incite the rabble against Attalietes; the scum hardly would have been so vehement if they had known their precious slattern was safe. But who had executed the miraculous deliverance? Of course, not Constantine, though it was reassuring to know that apparently he had not sabotaged the endeavour. Blymmedes? That might be a problem, since Blymmedes was known to disapprove of the Grand Domestic Bardas Dalassena, and now Attalietes’s soldier-stooge belonged to Joannes. Was it possible? Well, the Tauro-Scythian Haraldr Nordbrikt was already celebrated for his martial escapades, and indeed he might be the most likely hero out of all this, though of course Constantine would have to receive official precedence. How incredible that would be. It would be as if fortune had blessed Joannes again, considering the other remarkable discovery of the previous night.
Quite extraordinary. The Logothete of the Dromus had brought him a transcript of the letter the Hetairarch Mar Hunro
darson had dispatched to the unfortunate Senator Attalietes; the Senator’s son, Ignatius, often surrendered such information in exchange for the Logothete’s collusion in the matter of young Attalietes’s appetite for well-formed officers of the Scholae. Hunrodarson’s letter had offered his Varangians to relieve the siege of Attalietes’s palace. A simple mercenary transaction? No, Hunrodarson would have known of Attalietes’s acute shortage of solidi - the barbaros was friends with Argyrus - and so he had sought the same medium of exchange that Joannes had just secured. Simply remarkable. The Hetairarch Mar Hunrodarson was announcing his ambitions, apparently for all to see. Hunrodarson was not a foolish man, either; what could possibly have prompted this impudent assurance on his part? Well, no matter. Let Mar Hunrodarson dream. The hero, Haraldr Nordbrikt - and he would be a hero even if he had tried to defect to the Saracens - would now be a formidable rival to the Hetairarch. Yes, Joannes’s instrument would return from Asia more finely honed than ever. And how pleasurable it will be, thought Joannes as the petals flew around him like a blizzard, to see the two overinflated Tauro-Scythian barbaroi impale themselves on each other’s blades.
‘Haraldr Nordbrikt, you must know that I am hardly expert in these matters.’ Gregory blushed, almost restoring the sun-flamed colour that had begun to fade in the last few weeks. ‘That is, I have no practical experience. Of course, one hears many things if one is curious about the subtleties of language. And, well ... I confess that I have read some of the romances in the corrupt vernacular. Only to relieve the stress of studying serious literature, of course.’
Haraldr looked over the misty plain of the River Sangarius, his amber-tinted face a vivid contrast to the fields now dulled with winter. He wrapped his woollen cloak about his shoulders and enjoyed an internal warmth. By tonight he would have memorized every endearment, every anatomically explicit term the Greek language had incorporated in the eons since Alexander had marched east to the land of the Brahmans.
Ahead, the Imperial carriages were gilt and scarlet lamps in the midday gloom. Farther beyond, the bright standards of Constantine’s thematic army were already lost in the leaden pall. Until today the retreat from Antioch had been strangely foreboding, in spite of every reason for celebration. Of course, the pilgrimage had been terminated after the Empress’s harrowing ordeal; clearly the Saracen guarantees of safe passage were worthless. Haraldr had held his guard in constant battle readiness until five days ago, when the Imperial party had come as far west as Ancyra, where Saracens had not penetrated for centuries. And Blymmedes still sent out two reconnaissance vanda well before each dreary dawn. Even Constantine, who had been so dilatory before the abduction, had insisted on contributing his thematic army to Her Imperial Majesty’s safekeeping and now quite obviously intended personally to command the escort all the way to the Empress City. Certainly his principal motive was to reap an undeserved share of the credit for Her Majesty’s deliverance, but nevertheless he had taken his command seriously on the return journey.
Apparently the Empress had suffered greatly from her captivity. She had seemed well enough and at ease when she had received her champions after her rescue; Constantine, Blymmedes, Haraldr and Kalaphates had all been honoured with gifts of robes and solidi and profusely grateful benedictions from the lovely Imperial lips. But then the Empress had plunged into deepest seclusion. Each day she ordered the carriages to begin their creaking advance before dawn and would not command halt until the tinted twilight had begun to char into the smothering blackness of the Anatolian night. Then she would disembark directly into her tent. Symeon had turned into a fierce, ancient reptile, hissing at the merest suggestion of an intrusion on her Majesty’s privacy. Even Kalapahates, who had recovered sufficiently from his mostly superficial wounds to join his uncle’s retinue, had not been permitted to see his Blessed Mother.
And Maria. Since their eyes had met that terrible and beautiful morning, nothing. For six weeks now, no word -not even a glimpse of her silk slippers. Just the memory of what had passed between them in that moment when love and death had embraced over the great abyss of time. They were still together, plunging into a blackness lit only by the torch of their joined souls. That was the truth she could not confront.
Until now. Haraldr put his hand to the message he had placed against his heart. Tonight,’ she had written, ‘I will send for you.’
‘Komes.’ Haraldr was doubly shocked. He had not expected the Empress, and not in this setting.
Glowing braziers offered the only light, and a dry, clean, aromatic heat. Everything was tinted red; the Empress’s lips were like fresh blood. Zoe curled on the cushions like a panther; there was a sense of power, even viciousness, latent in her lithe limbs. And there was much of her limbs to see. The sheerest lilac silk, hardly more opaque than the drizzling mist outside, clung to her breasts and hips. Haraldr helplessly noticed that his Blessed Mother’s nipples were large, flat areolae.
‘Komes Haraldr.’ The voice was like liquid desire. ‘Can you speak without your little tongue?’
Haraldr had been asked to come without the ubiquitous Gregory; now he was grateful for the concentration Greek required. ‘Yes. I have learned a great deal on this long road.’
‘Yes, you have,’ Zoe said, enunciating carefully. ‘I am impressed by your fluency.’
Haraldr thanked Christ’s Father, Lord God, for the many tongues he had created in his tower at Babel. The barrier of language seemed to take the seduction out of Her Imperial Majesty’s voice. ‘It is my intention to become, as you Romans say, “civilized”.’
Zoe’s eyebrows quivered and set with a slightly elevated arch. ‘Yes. But you must retain the ... impetuousness of your race. I believe I owe my present comfort, if not my very life, to your . . . instincts. I want to thank you more properly and more privately.’ A serving eunuch brought wine in response to some signal Haraldr had missed.
Haraldr took his goblet. Perspiration began to bead on his back but he felt a certain stimulation. Maria had proven herself fond of such preludes. Then he almost choked. Christ! Citron! Surely he was not intended to use the Empress as he had Citron?
‘So, Komes Haraldr.’ Zoe raised her goblet, her smooth white arm compressing her ample breast. The nipple had now become slightly erect. ‘Let us raise a cup to your future as a civilized man. And let us hope that you do not become too civilized.’
Suddenly Zoe stood, and Haraldr scrambled out of the couch and onto his knees, his head bowed as prescribed by protocol. He could hear the Empress swish towards him. He closed his eyes in terror like a man expecting the blade to kiss his neck. The Imperial fingers tousled his hair like a breeze. ‘Golden silk,’ she said, her voice frightening, but only in its sorrow. Then the touch of the purple-born fingers was gone. Eyes shut tight, Haraldr again heard silk rustle.
‘You may rise, Komes Haraldr,’ said Theodore in his droning tenor. Haraldr stood and crossed his arms over his breast. Zoe waited by the curtained brocade partition, apparently to take leave of her guest. She was now wrapped in a glistening black sable cape faced with purple satin.
‘Komes, am I a fool to be certain of your loyalty?’
‘We would both be fools if you could not be certain of that loyalty.’ Haraldr’s unhesitating pledge brought him not even an inkling of anxiety; in the long, monotonous weeks since the rescue he had allayed many of his suspicions. The Romans, he had concluded, were more incompetent than treacherous; when the arrows had begun to fly, they had defended their Empress with absolute unanimity. The sorely misjudged Attalietes certainly had been a colossal blunderer, but ultimately he had given his life to defend the Empress. Constantine was equally inept, but had he truly conspired against the Empress, he would have obstructed or opposed Blymmedes’s rescue mission, rather than approving it and in fact facilitating it with his temporary withdrawal. And Joannes’s nephew, Michael Kalaphates, had come very close to his own mortality fighting at the door of the Empress’s carriage. Certainly the Romans had their internecine feuds
- every court did - but in this case it was obvious that the ‘conspiracy’ he had imagined was actually a Seljuk adventure. And as for the attempt on his own life, he still did not discount Mar’s involvement, but he was certain that no Roman had sent his would-be assassin.
Zoe fixed Haraldr with the certitude of centuries-old power. Her seductive lips became muscular, shaping her words as if they were to be carved in stone. ‘Komes, Maria is coming for you. She has much of which to speak with you. But she will also ask a question in my name.’ Head erect, Zoe vanished in a whisper of sable and silk.
Theodore ushered Haraldr back to the lavishly cushioned couch. He waited, smothered in down and plied with wine, for what seemed an hour. Then the brocade was lifted away and Maria appeared with heart-stopping suddenness. She wore a coat of pale blue silk trimmed with white ermine; the collar of snowy fur came up to her chin, and her skin seemed like the whitest marble against it. Her raven hair was loosely pulled back and set in a single braid.
‘I am sorry. Our Mother wished to speak with me.’ She looked at her slippers, the same white silk with pearl beads that she had worn to the banquet at Antioch. There was no intimacy in her voice. It was as if Hecate - Haraldr sucked in a breath almost audibly at the memory of what lay beneath that coat - had never happened. ‘We are only two days from Nicaea. In a week we will be in the Queen of Cities. I long for my home. Do you miss your home?’
Byzantium - A Novel Page 36
