The mosaic of shadows da-1

by Tom Harper

  He may have had a woman’s voice and a cripple’s body, but his mind and tongue were those of a serpent. And he knew men’s hearts: I would not give up his commission, for I saw as well as he that it was barely started. To claim success now would be to mimic the physician who removed the leper’s arm and declared him cured. But I would not concede that too easily.

  ‘If I am to continue, I will need certain accommodations. The Varangians must obey me when they accompany me. The boy must be left in the care of the doctor at the monastery where he currently lies: our chain may be twisted, but he is the only link we hold and it is a fragile link. And you must confide in me. .’

  I broke off as a slave came running out of the shadows, the same slave whom Krysaphios had sent to the dungeon. He did not defer or hesitate, but fell to his knees immediately before the eunuch.

  ‘Mercy, Lord,’ he stammered, before even given leave to speak. ‘The gaoler has opened the Bulgar’s cell. He is dead.’

  The Bulgar still hung by his wrists, as I had seen him the day before, but now his chin was slumped on his chest and his legs sagged under him. The front of his tunic was washed through with blood, almost as far down as his waist, and when I tipped back his head I saw why. Someone had taken a blade to his throat and opened his neck across almost its entire width. No air bubbled from the hanging flaps of skin, and my hand came away dry.

  ‘The blood is hard,’ I said. ‘This was done some hours ago, maybe even last night. Has no-one been in here since then?’

  ‘He was to go without food all day. To spur his appetite for answering questions.’ Not even this horror could take the sting completely from Krysaphios’ voice.

  ‘No-one entered after your lordship left him,’ said the gaoler. And the Varangians guarded him all night.

  I turned to Krysaphios. ‘It seems you were the last one to see him alive, then. After Sigurd and I had left for the monastery.’

  ‘Not the last, Demetrios.’ The eunuch’s eyes were cold. ‘Surely a man of your powers can see that unless he was a most accomplished acrobat, the Bulgar did not do this to himself. And the weapon which did this is gone. Whatever you say to the contrary, gaoler, someone has been in here.’

  ‘Someone who wanted to ensure that the Bulgar could betray no more secrets,’ I agreed. ‘And someone who wanted to send us a message.’

  ‘A message? Other than that he wanted the Bulgar’s silence?’ Krysaphios was impatient.

  ‘A message that the palace is no defence, that he — whoever he is — can strike wherever he pleases. If he had wanted to do it in stealth, he could have taken the Bulgar down from his chains and left the knife beside him, to make it seem he had killed himself. Whoever did this walked in under the eyes of the guards. And wants us to know he can do so again.’

  Krysaphios turned to the Varangian who stood in the doorway. ‘Find your captain and have him double the Emperor’s guard tonight. Then search the palace grounds — it may be that this assassin is still hiding in our midst.’

  I had my doubts, but kept them silent. ‘What about the boy?’ I prompted. ‘If our enemies feared for what the Bulgar might reveal, how much more must they worry about the boy?’

  ‘Sigurd is keeping the watch at the monastery, and has more men than he needs for the task. You may join him if you wish.’ Krysaphios moved towards the low-arched door. ‘I must tend to the Emperor.’

  ‘I will go home.’ It had been two days since I had seen my daughters, and though there had been other nights when I did not return, it always troubled them. And me. ‘Tomorrow I will see what further mysteries the boy can reveal.’

  ‘If he lives. Remember, Demetrios, we do not have much time to untangle this conspiracy. Two weeks before the danger is upon us.’ Krysaphios gave the dangling body a final, searching look. ‘Perhaps even less.’

  Still I did not know what looming evil might force this urgency. But if it could draw such a tremor into the voice of Krysaphios, the eunuch who slept beside Emperors and guided nations, then I knew that I, too, feared it.

  9

  My daughters were uncommonly restrained when I returned home: Helena was in her bed and would only mumble when I looked in on her, while Zoe prepared me some cold vegetables with inconsequential chatter. At breakfast the next morning, however, I felt the full force of Helena’s censure.

  ‘You neglect your duties as a father,’ she complained. ‘What if a Norman marauder had come in the night and snatched me away? What if I had used your absence to elope with the blacksmith’s son?’

  ‘What of it? You didn’t. And my first duty is to put bread in our bellies.’ I chewed noisily on my breakfast to emphasise how seriously I took my obligations.

  ‘If you are never here to protect me, you could at least trouble yourself to find me a man who will.’

  ‘I’d rather have the bread.’ Zoe bit into her own slice, and winked at me across the table. I tried to force a stern look, to rebuke her for antagonising her sister, but I fear I lacked conviction.

  ‘The spice-seller’s aunt came to visit yesterday, to discuss her nephew,’ continued Helena imperiously. ‘And the day before. I think she despairs of ever finding you.’

  ‘She may never come again,’ Zoe added. Her face was solemn. ‘Then you’ll be a spinster forever, Helena, condemned all your life to sit at your loom and weave. Like Penelope.’

  I swallowed the crumbs in my throat. I knew that the spice-seller’s family had been making enquiries after Helena, and that I should have approached his mother to bargain for her dowry, but there rarely seemed to be the time for it. ‘If the spice-seller’s aunt comes again and I am away, you have my permission to agree a dowry with her.’

  ‘And what if I agree something extravagant? What if she claims her nephew to be the most expensive gold can buy, and I acquiesce?’

  ‘Then,’ I said, wiping my mouth, ‘you will be grateful that I worked so hard I could afford it.’

  There are men I know who eat separately from their womenfolk; many authorities, indeed, damn the practice of commingled meals as an invitation to strife and discord. If I heeded them I would be lonely indeed, but there are times when I wonder if I would benefit from a greater respect for tradition.

  At the very least, though, it prepares me for encounters with argumentative women. Such as I found when I reached the courtyard of the monastery of Saint Andrew.

  ‘You cannot see the boy, and you certainly cannot remove him.’ Anna, the doctor, stood with her hands folded across her chest and her feet set apart. Her hair was tied back under a plain linen scarf — more modest than I had seen before — but she still wore her green dress. The silken belt rode high on her hips and plunged in a ‘v’ between them, drawing my eye immoderately low, and it was that which unsettled me as much as her uncompromising tone.

  ‘Is he near death?’ That did not bear contemplation.

  She tossed her head. ‘Do you have so little faith in my skills, Demetrios? Do you think a woman cannot — or should not — exercise the gift of healing?’

  ‘Women hold the gift of life; I should think healing is a paltry business to master after that.’

  ‘Your Keltic friend does not think so.’ She gestured to Sigurd, who stood with three of his men by the door glaring at every monk and novice who passed. ‘I have heard him talking.’

  ‘He’s a barbarian. But if you have healed the boy, I need to speak with him.’ I had determined that I would seek out the villa in the forest, where the monk had trained the boy. ‘Is he fit to ride a horse?’

  Anna stared at me with open scorn. ‘Two days ago he was almost hacked to pieces; today you want to know if he can ride a horse? If he tries hard, he can just drink a little thin soup. There is only one being who could heal him as quickly as you want — and I have the monks in the chapel begging His intervention.’

  ‘Then at least let me talk to the boy.’

  ‘You can talk to him when he’s recovered.’

  I swung round. It was not Anna
who had spoken, but Sigurd; he had ambled down from his station by the door and was eyeing me with disapproval.

  ‘Sigurd?’ His intervention caught me unguarded. ‘Yesterday you threatened to drag Anna to the dungeons because she would not let us see the boy. I thought you were as eager as I to finish this business.’

  Sigurd conceded nothing, did not even blush. ‘Thomas is too valuable to be pushed beyond himself, Demetrios. Our task is urgent — so urgent that we cannot risk losing him.’

  I scowled, for I did not think he had decided on all this for himself. And I did not like the thought of Anna and he conspiring together against me. It made me feel betrayed. And, unjustifiably, jealous.

  It would have been hard enough to haggle my way past Anna, for there was something in her manner which deterred all argument; against her and Sigurd I was impotent.

  ‘I will return tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you will have managed to work your cure. Maybe even as well as a man,’ I added, spitefully.

  I regretted those final words — and the furious anger in Anna’s face that had met them — all the way to the docks. Of course I cared not an iota that she was a woman and a doctor: I had only wanted to sting her, as her alliance with Sigurd had stung me, just as Zoe used to poke Helena until she screamed when they were babies. My motives were just as childish.

  With my foul mood thus firmly set, I passed my morning with merchants and factors, with stevedores, foremen and pilots, in a far-fetched attempt to discover when and how the tzangra had entered the city. The smells of fish and sewage which infested the wharves soured my humour still further, as did my predictable failure to turn up any new information. Whores propositioned me — perhaps, even after so many years, there was something of the soldier still in my stride — and peddlers begged a moment of my attention for their wares: perfumes just arrived from India; honey from the bees of Epirus; relics of the saints found in the desert, preserved so immaculately that they might have lived yesterday. I came perilously close to breaking the fast with a man furtively carrying a wineskin under his cloak, but I resisted. I had no need for more reasons to rebuke myself.

  The clamour and hassle battered me all morning, until at last I broke. I dredged Krysaphios’ list of dignitaries from the corner of my mind where I had ignored it, and considered the names it held. Another lesson of my time in the army: if you make no progress with the task appointed, do it precisely the way your superior commands. Half the time at least, he will care far more for obedience than success.

  Earlier in the week, I had tried to start with the lowest rank on the list and been resoundingly shunned; this time I would go to the opposite extreme. The name rose easily from my memory, and my peevish temper found grim delight in the prospect of an afternoon wallowing in righteous frustration. Nor did I need to ask where he lived: on a day when my every question drew a negative, even I could probably find the Emperor’s elder brother.

  He did not live humbly, of course, but in a palace built out on terraces over the wooded hillside above the harbour. It had once belonged to a man named Botaniates, who had had the misfortune of being Emperor when the Komnenos brothers — Isaak and Alexios — decided the imperial diadem would suit one of them better. Alexios took the throne; Isaak got the house, though from the size of it you might have thought he had won both.

  To my surprise, my name alone took me past the first gate, and into an atrium where dozens of hopeful supplicants played at dice on the flagstones. Many of the games looked well advanced, and I feared I would lose more than a few obols before my time arrived, but almost immediately a slave in an ochre tunic ushered me through a narrow door and into an inner courtyard, beyond the envying glances of the less favoured.

  ‘I will tell the Sebastokrator you have come,’ he said, excusing himself.

  I paced around the courtyard, waiting. A two-tiered arcade ran around its edge, but I saw no-one in the galleries. The only light came from a square of grey sky high above me, distant and remote, but a little sun must have crept in at times, for a vine had managed to climb some way up the northern side. Its thick stem coiled around the marble pillars, branching and spreading across the face of the wall as if desperate to escape into the air above, while the withered leaves it had shed were left unswept on the cracked tiles below. I doubted the Sebastokrator spent much time here. It was a mournful place, silent and sombre.

  Except in one corner. Most of the walls were crumbling and faded, but here there was a bright mosaic, newly laid and vivid even in the dull half-light. Still alone, I crossed the broken floor to look closer. It was a striking work, a triptych of bold colours whose subjects seemed to leap from their gilded background. The subject was unusual, too. In the first panel, a white-bearded man watched as a woman held a fair-haired baby to her breast; sheep grazed in the background, and three angels sat at a table laden with fruits. The second, central panel was a dramatic contrast: now the old man stood with his arms aloft, a firebrand in one hand and a knife in the other, poised to strike the helpless child bound before him on a wooden table. His eyes were wide with a terrible fervour as he stared out at his unseen audience, and by some trick of the artist the knife seemed to stretch forth from the picture, reaching almost into the air above me. A young boy with dark skin and tousled hair stood beside the man; despite the horror of the scene he witnessed, he seemed to be laughing.

  The violence of the image was mesmerising, but I pulled my gaze away and looked on to the third panel. Now harmony was returned, and the old man’s eyes were kindly again. He had wrapped his arm around the fair-haired son and was pointing him towards green hills in the distance. The sheep had returned, and the angel was blowing on a trumpet in the clouds. But it was not all innocence, I saw, for in the lower corner of the picture the tousle-headed boy was fleeing into darkness, his face cast down and a scorpion pricking at his bare heels.

  ‘Do you like the mosaic?’

  I started; for a second I thrilled with the fancy that the voice had come from the very picture itself. Then I turned, and saw that a new arrival had crept up behind me. He was shorter than I and a little older, with light hair and a thin beard. There was something martial in his thick arms and broad shoulders, but he was dressed simply in a white dalmatica. He seemed an unlikely clerk — but too forward for a slave.

  ‘It paints a vivid picture,’ I answered. So vivid, indeed, that it still addled my thoughts. ‘So real it might almost draw the censure of the church. The artist must have a singular talent.’ I considered it again, still unsure of whom I spoke to. ‘But the subject confuses me.’

  ‘It tells the story of Abraham and his sons.’ My companion pointed to the first panel. ‘Here he and Sarah rejoice at the birth of their son, Isaak, prophesied by angels when all thought Sarah barren. In the second picture, Abraham is poised to sacrifice Isaak, as the Lord commanded to test him. Finally, Abraham embraces Isaak as the future of his line.’

  Much of that I had guessed, but elements of the iconography confused me. ‘Who is the dark-haired child who looks on in the middle image, and flees away at the last?’ I asked.

  ‘The child is Abraham’s bastard son, Ishmael, born to him by the slave-woman Hagar. In the last picture he is cast out by Abraham, expelled into the wilderness.’

  I shivered, for suddenly the images seemed every bit as dangerous as the wild-eyed man wielding the dagger. I did not need Krysaphios’ familiarity with palace gossip to guess its meaning, still less in the very house of the Sebastokrator Isaak, whose father had overlooked him for the imperial throne in favour of his younger brother. Merely to think that he, like Abraham’s rightful heir, might eventually be restored to his inheritance at the expense of his brother was almost certain treason. I wondered whether the Emperor Alexios had visited this room in his brother’s palace.

  But I had little time to think on allegory, for my host had stepped away to examine some detail in the picture, and as he moved his white gown rode up over his ankles to reveal a pair of mismatched boots. One
was black, but the burnished leather of the other — identical in form — was unmistakably red.

  Only one man in the empire wore red boots, and only a handful of others had the right to wear a single such boot in honour of their kinship with him. In an instant I was prostrate on my knees, touching my forehead to the floor and reciting the imperial incantations like a liturgy. I had seen too many pretenders and usurpers to believe that any man deserved the abasement that ritual demanded, but never had I imagined I would stand in the Sebastokrator’s palace discussing the merits of his artist. I fastened my eyes on the floor, and prayed he had not taken offence.

  ‘Get up, Demetrios Askiates.’ To my untold relief, there was amusement in his voice. ‘If I had wanted your oblations, I would have met you wrapped in my jewelled lorum, and with pearls dripping from my crown, so that you could not have doubted my rank. I wished to meet you as a man, not a slave.’

  ‘You expected me, Lord?’ I had never had to address such an exalted man before, and I struggled for the correct forms. I suspected his deliberate informality had its bounds.

  ‘For the past three days. I had word from the palace that you were engaged to discover the brigands who tried to murder my dear brother, the noble Emperor. I greatly hoped to speak with you.’

  ‘Why, Lord?’