Byzantium - A Novel

by Michael Ennis

  ‘Our response is quite basic,’ said Constantine, his face set like stone. ‘We draft a letter to the Orphanotrophus, begging him to return and rule Rome on our behalf.’

  Michael fell back into his faint, and this time the Imperial Diadem clinked against the marble floor and almost slipped off his head.

  ‘You are certain the Empress could not be persuaded?’

  Maria stood with her arms folded, her face pale and her eyes red but her posture resolute. She had just returned from an urgent interview with the Empress Zoe. ‘You of all people should understand why she cannot abandon her people to Joannes. Even at the cost of her life.’

  Haraldr nodded. ‘My brother died to preserve the honour of Norway’s kings. I do not think his death was meaningless.’ He took Maria in his arms again. ‘I will remain and fight to protect you and the Empress. I will release my men from their pledges in that case, but their honour will almost certainly compel them to stay with me. We will give meat to the eagles in the east. And this, then, is where our bones will stay.’

  Maria clutched so hard that Haraldr’s breath was constricted. ‘If you fall, I will not let them take me. I will put the dagger in my own breast. You know I am strong enough.’

  ‘Don’t make me think of that,’ said Haraldr. He caressed her hair and nuzzled her forehead.

  ‘I simply want you to know that I will not die in Neorion. I have promised myself, and I promise you.’ Maria’s hands were like powerful claws. ‘This is so abrupt,’ she said, suddenly relaxing, her voice breaking slightly. ‘But then, that is how dreams end.’

  ‘Our dreams have not ended. A dream is not truly ended until the dreamer dies. And who is to say we do not dream in the Valhol or in Paradise? Only the dragon of Nidafell can swallow all dreams.’

  Maria blinked away her tears. ‘When this dragon flies, I will be content to surrender the memory of us. Until then, wherever my soul is--’ Maria broke down for a moment and pressed her wet face to his chest. ‘You must know what that memory is to me.’ She threw her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear, her cheek blazing against his. ‘These last months with you have been my life. All of it. To hold you in the dark, to see the light of morning in your eyes, this closeness we have shared ... it has given life to a dead soul. Do you remember the Empress’s tale of Daphne, how she traded that moment in Apollo’s withering arms for an eternity of virginal repose? I would not trade our moment, however short it may be, for any kind of eternity.’

  Haraldr held her as desperately as life and let his own tears answer the eloquence of her love. And in his heart he prayed to all the gods to deal with him as they would but mercifully to leave him not a single breath in a world without Maria.

  ‘What divine efflatus has been brought forth unto your coruscating resplendence by the offices of swift-footed Hermes, hence to your Olympios of fair-girded columns, O Zeus!’ The Senator and Proconsular Patrician Romanus Scylitzes flourished his arm at the black-frocked Orphanotrophus. Joannes was too pleased with the enormous outpouring of - if it was not love, then what was it? Yes, love that his constituents had displayed to him, to bother swatting away the otherwise unbearable Scylitzes.

  Joannes had set up his court in the great hall of his country residence, a dwelling similar in Hellenic majesty to the palace he had so graciously lent to the former Caesar (soon to be former Emperor, he reminded himself). His throne was a massive ivory-and-gold dining chair; the concentric rings of dignitaries surrounding the throne were the same who yesterday had attended the Emperor. However, one of the dignitaries who might ordinarily have attended him was missing; having learned from his woeful experience with the Caesar, Joannes had banished the new Magister Constantine to a position of responsibility in the stables. Once this Constantine’s docility had been irrefutably established, he would be permitted to kick the horse dung from his boots and don the Imperial buskins.

  The Orphanotrophus contemptuously ripped the gold seal from the purple-tinted document. ‘Our Emperor’s hand seems unsteady,’ said Joannes to the Logothete of the Dromus as he began to read the crimson script. ‘Touching sentiments indeed,’ said Joannes when he had finished his quick scan. ‘The boy has begged for his life.’ Joannes mused for a moment; the heavy reptilian lids of his eyes slipped shut. Scylitzes stood by anxiously; the attendant arcs of dignitaries were utterly silent. ‘The Nobilissimus Constantine, of course, will never achieve perfection. We will strive mightily on his behalf, we will labour over him unceasingly, and yet he will never become an object of our pleasure. We shall be forced to discard him. But the boy might be the culmination of my arts, the vehicle through which fair Calliope will articulate the concentric harmonies of the Roman universe. The boy will stand before the Heavenly Tribunal and proclaim in a voice that shall silence the cherubim that the thousand years of mankind’s perfection are at hand, and their name is Rome. And then our boy Emperor shall gratefully offer his soul to that millennium.’ Joannes’s eyes had been closed throughout this vision. He opened them and looked over at the Logothete and showed his repulsive teeth. The boy Emperor is sending a galley to transport me back to my palace. The thousand years begin.’

  ‘O Son of Kronos,’ spouted Scylitzes, ‘O Olympian who has with the unparagoned industry of an arm both cogent and omnipotent hurled forth the lightning of his imperium, unto the egregious usurper--’

  ‘Shut up, Scylitzes,’ growled the Logothete of the Dromus, his feral eyes sparking. ‘Orphanotrophus.’ Joannes nodded for the Logothete to speak. ‘Permit me to caution you. This galley the Emperor has so humbly dispatched may have a Ulysses at the tiller. I would suggest you order him to send a vessel under the command of an officer trusted by you. We have already requested the Droungarios of the Imperial Fleet to remain in Neorion Harbour should we have need of him. Since we clearly do not need to be concerned about a military challenge, I think a more immediate utility of the Droungarios would be to command this craft, along with a crew of his choosing. It would be a gesture of appropriate significance. The Imperial Galley under the command of your officers. And we would have no treachery to fear.’

  ‘Well noted, Logothete,’ said Joannes, his thoughts already on the Empress City. The black-frocked monk rose and turned his back on his glittering, aristocratic supplicants. ‘Please arrange the details with my secretary, to be forwarded with my acceptance of our Emperor’s gracious gesture. And now I must prepare myself to return to the inevitable and unrelenting duties of state.’ The assembled dignitaries erupted into spontaneous applause.

  ‘Accept the condition.’ Constantine stared up at the soaring dome of the Chrysotriklinos.

  ‘But, Uncle, this was our last opportunity. We had three well-trained men among the crew, any one of whom--’

  ‘Accept it. You are a sportsman, are you not?’ Michael nodded numbly. ‘Accept that the wager has been increased. Now, I have ordered the gates closed early this evening. There is no point in maintaining the charade of government. Compose your acceptance to the Orphanotrophus’s gracious conditions and then dismiss your secretaries and go to your baths. You must try to find some comfort and rest this evening. I am going to try to raise our own stake in this matter.’

  ‘Uncle . . .’

  ‘Continue to trust me, Nephew.’ Constantine patted Michael’s arm and stepped quickly away from the throne.

  Rumour stalked the streets of the great city on a cool, windless night. Haraldr could hear the low, murmuring anxiety that drifted in the still air, and he awakened often to its fevered, wordless voices. For a long while he listened to Maria’s troubled, fitful breathing and wondered if she dreamed tonight, and what fate she knew. Towards dawn he was awakened by a rattling at the window. It was too insistent to be a bird. He kissed Maria’s shoulders and got up and opened the shutters. For a moment the face at the glass startled him. He peered into the gloom and recognized the white streak in the black hair: an ‘associate’ of the Blue Star’s son. With hand signals he directed the little man to come round
to the front gate. He threw on a silk cloak and silently padded downstairs.

  The little man scurried through the big oaken doors, glancing up at them anxiously, as if he had never entered a house in this fashion. He wore a black hooded cloak like a monk’s. ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt,’ he whispered quickly, ‘the Blue Star is aware that you might be experiencing some difficulties. She says she intends to help you, but she is having difficulty convincing the people of the Studion that Joannes is their enemy. Or at least that it is worth dying to oppose him. But she offers you what resources she can muster. She says she owes you this much.’ The little man nodded vigorously as if to second that judgement.

  Haraldr had already considered the issue. ‘Even united, her people would not be able to tip the balance against the Imperial Taghmata. My Varangians are far too reduced in strength. I see no purpose in sending innocents to the sacrifice in a lost cause when the only result would be to focus the wrath of Joannes on the Studion. And he may decide that with his other enemies in the city, it is prudent to continue his programmes there. But tell my comrade the Blue Star that her offer alone is worth a thousand men at my side. And tell her that should I soon find myself at the feet of the Pantocrator, I will say a prayer for her each day.’

  The messenger nodded grimly and offered Haraldr his hands. As he gripped the little man’s forearms, Haraldr was struck that he felt far more sincerity and honesty in the parting clasp of this petty thief than he had in the lavish greetings of the men who ruled Rome.

  One hundred marines of the Imperial Fleet stood to attention along the flat stone surface of the jetty. Armoured from head to toe in steel mail-coats, helms and embossed greaves, they were a wall of silver in the morning sun. Behind them, the brilliantly enamelled scarlet-and-white superstructure of the Imperial Trireme rose above the massive black hull. The Droungarios of the Imperial Fleet, attired in gold ceremonial armour and attended by four komes of the Imperial Fleet, waited to welcome the Orphanotrophus. Joannes descended the marble steps to the jetty, his enormous black form a curious magnet for the sparkling dignitaries who trailed behind him like rapt children. The officers fell to their knees and the marines bristled a line of spears in acclamation. ‘Orphanotrophus!’ The shouts rolled across the Bosporus, a warning to the city that now awaited its conqueror. ‘Orphanotrophus! Come forth, champion of Christ! Come forth, victorious Lord of Rome!’

  Joannes’s misshapen fingers urged the supplicant Droungarios to his feet. ‘Well executed, Droungarios,’ rumbled Joannes as he surveyed the fearsome marines. ‘Are you confident that the Imperial Taghmata understands my instructions?’ ‘They await your personal signal, Orphanotrophus.’ ‘Very well. Let us embark and reclaim our City from the usurper and his barbaroi accomplices.

  ‘Hetairarch.’ Halldor stepped forward, his mail byrnnie chinging as he walked. ‘The barricades are set.’ Halldor pointed with the polished steel blade of his broad-axe, noting in turn each of four entrances to the main hall of the Imperial Gynaeceum; the tall bronze doors, visible behind the columns of dark red Carian marble that supported the building’s main dome, were bolstered with heavy ceremonial dining couches. Twenty Varangians clustered at each door, talking quietly and adjusting their armour or inspecting their weapons. The sound of axes being fine-honed shrilled through the hall. The Valkyrja song, thought Haraldr. But there was a beauty to that music when he thought how unhesitatingly his pledge-men had vowed to remain at his side in spite of the Emperor’s craven capitulation to Joannes. They were fighting for him now, and for their own honour. They would not be known as the Varangians who had been driven from Miklagardr like whipped dogs.

  The Decurion Stefhir Hrafnrson ran over from the north end of the hall, where the bronze gate was still slightly ajar. ‘Hetairarch!’ he snapped as he handed Haraldr a rolled document.

  ‘The new Grand Domestic,’ Haraldr told Halldor as he broke the lead seal. Haraldr read the text quickly and looked at Halldor. ‘Ducas is the new Grand Domestic. You remember him, of course. A Dhynatoi stooge in the tradition of Dalassena. His men will not fight well for him, but being good soldiers, they will fight. Ducas writes well. He calls upon the men of the Grand Hetairia to surrender and end this day before it begins.’ Haraldr’s pause was punctuated by the shriek of a whetstone across Hunland steel. ‘Decurion,’ he told Hrafnrson, ‘have a reply drafted. Tell the Grand Domestic to prepare himself for the longest day of his life.’

  Haraldr dismissed his officers, strode to the west end of the hall, and climbed two sets of marble staircases to the roof of the Gynaeceum. Ulfr stood on the terrace that ringed a large, colonnaded cupola used by the Empress and her ladies to view the races in the Hippodrome; the enormous, empty, bleached bulk of the stadium extended beneath them to the north. The sun was three hours above the horizon, and the surrounding domes of the palace complex seemed coated with quicksilver. No sails or painted hulls marred the sky-blue Bosporus; the docks had been rife with rumours of some sort of naval engagement between supporters of the Emperor and the Imperial Fleet, elements of which were visible as neat rows of miniature dhromons in the distant Neorion Harbour. The single dark shaft of Neorion Tower stood against the brilliant red and white of the ships like the sole remaining column of a temple raised in some distant time by an evil god. Haraldr thanked the Pantocrator for allowing him to love a woman whose courage would not allow her to enter the black steel doors of Neorion. May the Christ forgive him, but he would plunge the dagger in that beloved breast himself before he abandoned her to that place.

  Ulfr scanned the northern horizon. ‘I expect Joannes soon,’ he told Haraldr without looking away from the sea. ‘If there is to be fighting, he will want it to start promptly. I’m certain he wants to make his triumphal entry before dark.’

  Haraldr laughed derisively. ‘The Orphanotrophus will wait in Bucoleon Harbour for many days before he makes that entry. And he will have to climb over the corpses of his Imperial Taghmata when he does. The defences you and Halldor have prepared are excellent.’

  Ulfr looked around as someone emerged from the staircase.

  ‘Gregory!’ said Haraldr. He had tried to think of some excuse for getting the brave little interpreter to some place of safety but had decided that Gregory would perceive any such effort as an insult. ‘You have come to soar with the Norse Eagles!’

  ‘I am afraid you will want to see if I actually can fly from this perch when you hear what I have to say, Hetairarch,’ said Gregory with none of his customary levity. ‘First, I have discovered the signal that Joannes will give the Taghmata to begin their attack. The Imperial Trireme will hoist a black flag to the centre mast before it docks in Bucoleon Harbour.’

  ‘The colour is apt,’ said Haraldr. ‘That is important intelligence, Grand Interpreter. Why did you think I would--’

  ‘That was merely the flower on the dung heap, Hetairarch. The piece of intelligence that you will find most foul is this: the Nobilissimus has not been seen this morning. He was last seen during the night past, in the inns near the Pisan Quarter. Looking for a ship.’

  ‘Damn!’ Haraldr smashed his axe against his shield, and the thunder boomed off into the sky. ‘I knew from the moment I laid eyes on that. . . that ... I knew he was a craven, praise-tongued, charcoal-chewing . . . damn!’ Haraldr stood fuming at the sea for a moment, as if he hoped he could spot the fleeing Nobilissimus and cut him down with a prodigious toss of his axe: ‘Does the Emperor know this?’

  Gregory shook his head. ‘Since we are discussing cowards,’ said Ulfr, ‘where is our Emperor?’

  ‘He is in the Empress’s chambers,’ said Haraldr. ‘The purple-born and Maria are trying to steady him.’ Haraldr again pounded his shield with his axe and glared at Ulfr. ‘Get our Emperor up here, Centurion, if you must carry him over your back. I’ll tell him myself about his uncle’s defection. And then I am going to make him stay here and watch his fate sail towards him.’

  The Emperor followed Ulfr up the stairs a quarter of an hour later. Mi
chael wore a purple scaramangium but no other insignia of his office. His face was flushed but his dark eyes were blank, as if his soul had fled, leaving only its shell to confront fate. ‘Majesty,’ said Haraldr, trying to conceal the disgust he felt, ‘I am concerned about the Nobilissimus.’

  Michael’s eyes darted from side to side. ‘He is - working on something,’ said the Emperor, his words coming in rapid bursts. ‘He - has a plan.’ Suddenly Michael fell to his knees. ‘Hetairarch!’ he shrieked, his hands clasped before his hysterical face, ‘he has left me!’ Michael clutched Haraldr’s legs. ‘I am lost, Hetairarch. Hetairarch, swear to me you will not let me dies. Swear to me . . .’ He rubbed his nose against Haraldr’s boots. ‘If there is mercy in you, swear it to me.’

  Haraldr could only feel pity. He remembered how Jarl Rognvald had both literally and spiritually lifted him up after Stiklestad. ‘Majesty, Majesty,’ said Haraldr as he lifted the sobbing Emperor to his feet. ‘You had courage once. I saw the proof of that courage pounded into your armour that day near Antioch. Today you will find that courage again.’

  Michael made a worthy effort to draw himself together. ‘You are right, of course, Hetairarch.’ He looked out to sea resolutely. ‘I hope this - outburst will not - prejudice your loyalty. You and your men are all I have.’

  ‘Majesty,’ said Haraldr, ‘I swear by all that is sacred to me that as long as I remain in Rome, I will defend your life with my own.’

  ‘Thank you, Hetairarch.’ Michael’s eyes teared, and he looked down at his purple boots. Ulfr motioned to get Haraldr’s attention and pointed to the neck of the Bosporus, to the north. Haraldr left the Emperor and walked round the cupola to get a better look.

  The masts were clearly visible on the horizon. ‘Joannes and his Senators,’ whispered Ulfr. ‘I think I can make out the Imperial Trireme--’ Ulfr stopped as both he and Haraldr saw the activity along the portico-lined avenue that ran between the Hall of Nineteen Couches and the Sigma, the principal north-south axis of the palace complex. Preceded by gold-armoured officers mounted on white horses, the units of the Imperial Taghmata were moving into position.