‘Or perhaps fate had already told you the answer.’
‘You mean that what passes between you and I has already been determined?’
She let him go and walked a few steps away, her arms wrapped around her thick, fur-lined coat. The fine tip of her nose tilted to the stars again. ‘You and I are a moment when the stars collide. You came to me across all time, your path determined before the first stars were set in motion. We are bound together, your star and mine.’ She lowered her head and looked at him, and her eyes outshone all other lights. ‘I know this.’
‘We are alone,’ said the Emperor. ‘Please sit with me.’ Joannes awkwardly settled his enormous, distorted form on the gilded throne his brother used for the most informal, intimate audiences. Protocol insisted nevertheless that no one sit in the presence of the Emperor, much less on the throne beside him. But these were unusual circumstances.
Joannes studied his brother’s swollen wrists, puffy cheeks and shadowed, weary eyes. The deterioration was shocking; did the humours that afflicted his brain reside in the other parts of his body when they were not causing the mind storms? If so, they had begun to destroy the body which they had made their host. ‘It is sometimes wearying, is it not, to labour on behalf of so many?’ said Joannes.
‘And yet I must serve my children even with my last breath,’ replied the Emperor.
‘They have never had a more just and devoted father than yourself.’
‘Do not let modesty overlook your own contribution, dearest brother.’
‘I do not mind admitting that I have tried to serve you with every resource to my avail.’
‘Yes. You are my Peter, the rock upon which my throne has been erected.’
Joannes paused, assessing the width of the portal that was opening before him. Finally he spoke. ‘I have given much thought as to how that foundation, which I hope I do in some small part provide, can be strengthened.’
‘Indeed? Tell me, brother.’ The Emperor’s voice was earnest and somewhat solicitous, as if he could bestow a favour simply by listening.
‘Just as the Son of God had both his Heavenly family and his earthly family, so does his Hand on Earth have two kinds of family, the spiritual and the corporeal. The spiritual family he has sought out and embraced, and the proceeds of that virtuous endeavour will accrue to his glory both in this world and the next. But he has not sought out his corporeal family with the same diligence.’
The Emperor’s expression changed from open curiosity to inscrutable deliberation; his dark eyes suddenly seemed flat, impenetrable, as if they would take in no more of this information. ‘If a man wishes to take his ship upon rough waters,’ the Emperor said at length, ‘then he builds his vessel with sturdy, well-planed boards. The rotten timbers he discards.’
‘I am sensitive to your . . . feelings concerning our brothers.’
‘Constantine’s blundering in Antioch almost cost me my throne. Stephan will cost me Sicily.’
Joannes trod warily. His brother was no man to be trifled with, even in this condition. If only God could have shown them another way to place the Imperial Diadem upon his head, he might have been the greatest of all Emperors. But guilt was eating away at him like a leprosy. ‘There is another threat to your throne.’
‘I am ill. I am not dying. With the Pantocrator’s help and God’s forgiveness, I will be cured of my affliction. In the meantime I am quite competent to govern my children.’
‘Neither do I think that your life is in jeopardy, nor that your abilities have been impaired. The danger here is not in what we know to be true but in what others perceive. Do not imagine that this disease that has temporarily afflicted you has gone unnoticed, and that it has not fuelled the fires of rumour.’
‘I will soon appear before my children to assuage their anxiety and lay these rumours to rest.’
‘I think it will be some time before we can, with confidence, allow your children the privilege of seeing you. For your children to witness - may the Pantocrator forgive the boldness of my conjecture - one of your . . . attacks would turn these fires of rumours into a conflagration that would consume the entire Roman Empire.’
‘We will wait, then, until I have received absolution. St Demetrius is working prodigiously on my behalf, I can assure you.’
‘If only the blessed St Demetrius were able to proselytize in the inns and brothels of the Studion as effectively as he litigates before the Heavenly Tribunal, then we would have little to fear.’
The Emperor seemed to jerk into a more erect posture, and for a moment Joannes feared that another fit was upon him. There had been two episodes the previous day; after the second his Majesty had remained unconscious for several hours. But the Emperor responded with the acuity that had been, in better days, taken for granted. ‘What reports do you have of insurrection?’
‘I have myself seen an arsenal secreted by these rebels in an old warehouse just north of the Studite monastery. The quantity and quality of the weapons indicated that this group had resources we do not ordinarily associate with the unfortunate wretches who occupy that district. There is a danger that this . . . disease might be communicated to the classes of labourers and even the various professions and guild members.’
The Emperor’s broad shoulders and chest sagged with pain. ‘My children. Why would my children turn against me?’
Joannes wrapped his huge span around his brother’s suddenly heaving shoulders. ‘It is not any lack of love for their Father, believe that. It is that few can now resist the rumours. There are many who claim you are already dead, and the majority are certain that you are dying. In their desperation and grief they wonder why their Father has not, like any good father, provided for the future of his brood when he is gone. They think you are gone from them, and have left them no successor to your glorious and benevolent tenure. So quite naturally they are inclined, after enduring this lengthy period of distress, to think of placing their own successor on the throne. If you were to make a gesture towards them in naming a successor, I think this incipient insurrection would wither like a weed with its roots plucked from the earth.’
‘I will be unable to leave them an heir.’ The Emperor’s eyes were profoundly sad.
‘Of course you are unable to designate a Basileus and Augustus, as you could with a child of your own loins. But you could provide the children of your Imperium with a Caesar.’
‘Is this the help you would have me receive from our corporeal family? Then you must know I will not hear of it. Stephan would destroy everything that we have laboured for!’
‘I was not thinking of Stephan.’ Their brother-in-law, Stephan, was the closest male relative with the requisite reproductive organs.
‘Who, then? Constantine, thankfully, is . . .disqualified.’
Joannes observed to himself that this was not unlike the decisive moment in an interrogation in the Neorion, the moment when success and failure are both equally pregnant. ‘You have not met your nephew, Michael Kalaphates. I have taken it upon myself to become acquainted with him, and I am impressed with his qualities. He is intelligent, presentable, and is an experienced warrior. That he knows nothing of statecraft is of no consequence, because he need only offer the appearance of a princely character. We are not in need of a ruler to replace or even assist you, only a suitable image to present to your doubting children.’
‘I do not need this nephew beneath my feet like an unwanted pet.’
‘I assure you, Majesty, that will not be the case. I have already, discreetly and obliquely, approached him on this matter. I made it stridently patent to him that he would be your slave, a mere token of your God-granted authority. To this he agreed with touching humility and gratitude that even in the smallest fashion he might have an opportunity to earn your respect and affection. He is yours to command, to send through the city riding backwards on an ass if you so wish.’
‘And what of Zoe? Without public expression of her approval to this . . . succession, any designa
tion would be meaningless.’
‘She is in no position to oppose us. But even so, we would be less than fair if we did not approach her with a measure of compromise, even humility. The Christ forgave a harlot, and is it not our highest purpose in life to walk where He has walked? Let us suggest to her that with respect to her purple-born stature, we would not dream of offering this Caesar to her children without her blessing and sanctification. And in further acknowledgement of her Endowment by the very Hand of the Pantocrator, we would humbly beseech her to take this child, this Caesar, to her bosom, metaphorically to suckle him with the milk of her impeccable Macedonian lineage, and formally adopt him as her son.’
The Emperor considered the matter for a remarkably brief interlude. His chin was set, his gaze decisive. ‘This is well conceived, my dearest brother and most faithful servant. I can only offer one caution as to this enterprise. If the Empress forms a personal enmity for our nephew, the plan will not work.’
‘Yes. I have dispatched him to her chambers this very evening, to dine with her and convince her of his merits, feeling that even if you did not signal your approval of this proposal, he might at least tell us something of her activities and intentions. He was quite quaking at the prospect, but I am certain that his boyish charms will arouse her maternal inclinations.’
The Emperor stood. ‘How much lighter is my load than it was an hour ago,’ he said. ‘Come and embrace me, my Peter, my rock.’ The Emperor held out his arms and clutched the giant monk to his own thick chest. He was astonished when Joannes suddenly burst into tears.
She awoke to his kisses on her neck. She rolled over and took him in her arms and felt the length of his body against hers and pressed her breasts to his hard chest. Haraldr held her head and whispered in her ear. ‘You had a night vision,’ he said soothingly. ‘Why did you cry out?’
‘I dreamed of you,’ said Maria in a voice like a hot breeze. They were so warm together, beneath silk and down, the heated floor baking the cold from the marble walls of her bedchamber. ‘I often dream of you.’
‘Are we lovers?’
‘Often.’
‘Did I hurt you this time, to make you cry?’
‘No . . .’She shuddered against him.
‘Why were you frightened?’
She would not answer; she nuzzled his neck and gripped his shoulders tightly. ‘Make love to me again,’ she said gently, raspily.
‘Tell me what you saw.’
‘It was . . . frivolous. A vision with no meaning.’
‘Then tell it.’
She paused to bite him on the neck. ‘Very well.’ She relented, hoping that her acquiescence would indeed render the vision frivolous. She pushed away from him slightly. ‘I saw you sailing across a cold black sea with hundreds of ships in your wake. A man who was with you pointed to the heavens, and thousands of ravens tittered overhead, until they were like a cloud that blocked the sun.’
‘A portent of death. What happened?’
‘I don’t know. I cried out, and your kisses carried me away from the shores of sleep.’
‘Were you afraid that you would share my fate?’
‘Perhaps I was afraid that I would not.’ She gathered him in her arms with a fierce passion. ‘Make love to me.’
It began again, on a sea made of light, boundless, their frantic arms drawing each other into a single atom of being, this common soul expanding until it embraced all time, all creation. ‘I ... love . . . you!’ she screamed in her moment of paroxysm, and then she drifted slowly to his chest and wrapped her arms around him again.
Their kisses made him hard again before he had even left her. This time they clung to each other, flesh dissolving flesh, sleepwalkers meeting in a dream, lips to the other’s ear, waiting for some enchanted revelation. ‘Love . . . love . . .’ she said, her voice quavering. He waited, deciding he would not tell her of his love this night, might never tell her; but of course she already knew. She moaned softly and whispered again. ‘Tonight the world has changed for ever.’
‘Yes,’ he admitted, controlling his voice. ‘I feel that.’
‘No, you do not know how I mean that. It is not just these two breasts, these two souls locked within. It is a thousand thousand souls for a thousand years.’
He took her face in his hands and found her gaze with his. ‘I know,’ he told her, and in that moment he saw, like a distant image against an azure sea, the reflection of a raven as it tracked across the blue depths of her eyes.
‘Look, Nephew, I have provided you with a final treat. Finish your pastry and you will see it.’ Zoe raised her hand at the hovering eunuch who had reached for her empty little silver dessert dish. ‘Away!’ She looked at Michael Kalaphates and shrugged. ‘I do not know who is responsible for training the servants I am sent. Perhaps your uncle the Orphanotrophus Joannes. In any event, whenever Symeon finally instructs one in the proper decorum, he is snatched away and I am plagued with some new oaf. This one only arrived this very afternoon. Perhaps he will improve his performance.’
Michael Kalaphates swallowed the last of his dessert and smiled effortlessly. He studied the images chased on his silver plate and laughed. ‘You remembered my fascination with pagan scenes. This is a satyr, I believe you once told me, and this lovely creature, though she is as pale as her aureate spectre beside you, is a maenad.’
‘You remembered,’ said Zoe happily yet demurely. ‘We found we had much in common in Antioch, did we not? I am so pleased that your uncle has permitted you to renew our acquaintance.’ She cast her eyes at the servant.
‘Although I am virtually terrified by the boldness of what I must remark, let me humbly beg you that our acquaintance be given the opportunity to ripen into friendship. I will beseech the Holy Virgin each night that before I have pined away each of my days, I might be invited to sup with you again. Until then I will mourn, deep-eyed Hera, that I am for ever cast down from your Olympian immanence.’
Zoe laughed huskily, perhaps erotically. ‘I have enjoyed this interview, Nephew. You may be certain that we will be more than strangers in the future. In the meantime I will propose to your uncle that you be offered a dignity more in keeping with your charm and intellect. Now I must regretfully ask you to take your leave.’
Michael stood, bowed, and withdrew with his arms folded across his breast, his eyes seeming to plead what protocol, and the presence of Joannes’s spies, dictated that his tongue could not. Zoe nodded and the bronze doors slid shut on the shimmering vision of his Mother. Michael passed quickly through an ante-chamber dazzling with mosaics, and was escorted by a chamberlain down a series of hallways that turned twice before ending at another set of bronze doors. The Khazar guards at the gate to the Empress’s apartments halted him; their komes carefully eyed Michael, then pulled a marker out of a little tally board before he finally opened the doors. ‘May I visit the Virgin of Kamilas to give thanks?’ Michael asked the komes, referring to a palace chapel near the Gynaeceum. The koines reached for a document resting on the stone barricade and read it with dark, darting eyes. Finally he looked up and shrugged. ‘It is permitted.’
The little church consisted of two apses stuck on the first storey of a larger building used for wardrobe storage. Michael proceeded to the altar of the Holy Mother of Heaven, who floated serenely in the midst of a mosaic applied to the half dome of the apse. He stepped inside the silver chancel screen and placed a single silver nomismata on the gold altar table; metal against metal made a dull, mysterious ring in the absolutely still chapel.
Michael did not hear the priest until he materialized, seemingly as magically as the Holy Spirit, by his side. The priest picked the coin off the altar with slender, cadaverous fingers. He turned about, and Michael followed him into a little room full of sacramental candles. The priest pulled a battered, rusty knife out of his cloak and pried a slab of marble pavement from the floor. He lit one of the candles and handed it to Michael.
The first part of the passage was through raw eart
h; Michael cursed the gummy soil that quickly dirtied his best silk. After forty fathoms the dirt tunnel intersected what appeared to be the basement of a long-razed palace; a few bits of plaster still clung to the ancient brick vaults. Michael transited the unbearably dank basement to a crumbling perimeter wall, crawled through a small opening, and entered a stone-walled passage so narrow that he had to walk sideways. This ran for fifty fathoms before ending in stone stairs that climbed almost as steeply as a ladder. At the top of the stairs Michael perched himself precariously on a little ledge; a door that looked like it had been designed for a small child was just at his left. He removed the key from his boot, unlocked the door and squeezed through into a treasury of little-used chalices, porcelain cups, glass basins, bronze lamps and icons. The antechamber beyond was empty, and the lamps had been extinguished. He took a second key, quickly unlocked a small bronze door bordered with embossed eagles, and, at the end of a featureless but aromatic hallway, parted the dark silk curtains.
The bed beneath the great gilded dome reminded him of an altar: the gold-brocade canopy thrust up by twisting golden columns; the scarlet curtains threaded with thousands of tiny Chi-Rhos, the monogram of the Christ. He approached the bed with excruciating precision, then reached out, his hand steady, and flung the curtain aside.
‘Wicked Nephew,’ said Zoe. She was naked except for her rings, her heavy breasts and sensuous belly thrust out, the jewelled fingers of her left hand beside the shaped, golden pelt between her legs. With her right hand she reached out and touched Michael’s face. ‘Take that filthy thing off.’
Michael stripped frantically and fell on Her Majesty, his face buried in her breasts. She laughed in great throaty peals. ‘Yes, little Nephew, I shall have you to dine again. That is, I shall have you dine upon me. You would have been a surpassing thespian, my little slave. I believe that your odious uncle is even now receiving a favourable report from his spy.’ She pushed him away and sat up, her hands cupping her own breasts. ‘Now tell your precious mother about this clever scenario in which you are to play the buffoon. Symeon has heard the most fantastic rumours.’
Byzantium - A Novel Page 47
