by Tom Harper
‘The bureaucrats and slaves at the palace would withhold things from me, Demetrios. That is how they keep their fingers mired in power. But some facts are too important to serve merely to buttress the pride of eunuchs — facts regarding the safety of my brother, for example. We Komneni trust in our own, for who else will protect with the ferocity of kin?’
Clearly his trust was not shared with Krysaphios, for there were six of the Emperor’s siblings, and a scattering of his cousins and children on the eunuch’s list.
‘Kinsmen can be jealous,’ I observed. Whatever the factions at the palace, I was here to test Isaak for treachery, not to confide in him. ‘Absalom led an army against his father, King David. Simeon slaughtered Shechem and all his kin. And as Cain, not every man is his brother’s keeper.’
Isaak spun about. ‘And do not forget that Shadrach was cast into the furnace because he refused to obey his lord. I summoned you because I am my brother’s keeper, Demetrios Askiates; I share all the burden of government with him, and I must know if he is in danger.’
‘A wicked man might think you had cause to hate him.’ I was walking the precipice here. ‘That you nursed an injury that your father chose him, rather than you, his eldest son, to take the throne. Such a man might — mistakenly — approach you, hoping to enrol you in his conspiracy, to play on the bitterness he presumed.’
Isaak spread his hands wide, unconsciously emulating the towering figure of Abraham in the mosaic behind him. ‘Bitterness? That was fifteen years ago, and it was agreed by all the leading families that my brother Alexios was the better candidate. I would need a deep heart indeed if I was now still able to squeeze bile from it.’
‘And no-one has tried to whisper otherwise in your ear? None have hinted that if you coveted the throne, they might help you get it?’
‘None until you.’ Isaak pursed his lips. ‘No, Demetrios, there are always flatterers trying to persuade me that my station is inadequate to my merits, but they say so only because they think it is what I would hear, because they think that if I did strike against my brother they too would gain by hanging on to the hem of my robe. I ignore them, and try to keep them from crossing my threshold.’
If that was so, then he had made a strange choice for his mosaic. But I had pressed the Sebastokrator too far already to impugn him further.
‘You do not think any of these sycophants might intend genuine mischief?’
‘No. None of them would chance raising his own hand against the Emperor simply for the right to sew a few more rubies onto his robe, or to win another farm in Scythia. Who would risk the ultimate crime, the ultimate punishment, unless he stood also to win the ultimate reward?’ He must have seen the suspicion flare in my eyes. ‘Yes, you say: I could win the ultimate reward. But I do not want it.’
‘Do you know any who do?’
‘The Emperor’s daughter Anna, my niece, is recently come of age, and is betrothed to the heir of the man whom my brother deposed. He might feel he has a double claim to the throne, through both father and father-in-law, and he is of an age when men are often the victims of overwhelming impulse. My brother-in-law Melissenos once coveted the purple and had himself proclaimed Emperor, before recognising that he could not contend with me and my brother.’ Isaak tipped back his head and laughed at the incomprehension on my face. ‘Too many names for you, Demetrios, all twined and tangled together? There is not one of the great families which has not touched the purple at some time or another, and we marry each other with indecent frequency. Even if you confined your search only to those with a claim to the throne, you could fill the Hall of Nineteen Tables three-fold with them. Now tell me what you have found, so that I can inform my brother. The bastard eunuch tells him nothing.’
‘The bastard eunuch pays my wages,’ I retorted. Then, foolishly provocative: ‘If the Emperor wishes to hear what I have found, and cannot get it from his chamberlain, then he can summon me himself.’
I looked hesitantly at the Sebastokrator, wondering whether I had given too great an offence. His face was cold, certainly, but not malicious.
‘You clearly understand little of the ways of the palace,’ he said curtly. ‘Do not think that merely because my brother is the Emperor, he can do as he pleases. He is hemmed in by a thousand petty restraints: traditions, protocols, conventions, precedents and promises. He is no more a free man than the slave who rows his barge. His power is brittle, and faces threats far more subtle than an assassin’s arrow. He cannot be seen to antagonise his counsellors by usurping their authority.’
‘No more can I.’ The Lord God knew I had no allegiance to Krysaphios, but his world was murky enough; I dared not stray into realms of betrayal.
The Sebastokrator Isaak pursed his lips. ‘You disappoint me, Demetrios Askiates. I had heard that you, uncommonly among men, were prepared to drive your own path. To know when the call of a higher authority befitted a judicious confidence. Clearly I was wrong.’
Without awaiting an answer he turned and marched out, ignoring the hurried bow I thought it wise to offer. As I brushed the dust off my knees, I wondered whether I had made my first enemy within the palace. It was a discomfiting thought.
10
The following day I again wanted to take the boy Thomas to the forest, but again Anna refused. Likewise the next day, and if there was one consolation to the delay, it was that I made steady progress through Krysaphios’ list of nobles. As I had expected, I learned nothing from them, but at least my obedience muted the eunuch’s criticisms when I reported to him. I contemplated travelling to the forest without the boy, trying to find the place where the monk had trained him by description alone, but the answers the boy gave my questions were so vague I doubt I could have found my own feet by them. And on the third day Anna sent word — grudging, even in the mouth of the novice who bore her message — that the boy was sufficiently healed to travel.
We left before dawn. Sigurd and his company of Varangians met me outside my house, their horses’ flanks steaming in the cold air. Father Gregorias accompanied them, for it appeared the little priest spoke Frankish as well as Bulgar, and had been co-opted into accompanying us as our translator. On the empty street corners the Watch still prowled, enforcing the curfew, but they stepped back respectfully as our cavalcade cantered past, offering hurried salutes to these barbarians riding out of the dawn mist.
We stopped at the monastery. A dozen Varangians fanned out in a half-circle around its gate as Sigurd and I dismounted to fetch the boy. A handful of monks straggled across the courtyard, perhaps collecting the night soil from the cells, but otherwise no-one moved. I was tense, scanning every rooftop and architrave for unexpected movement, for I had grave misgivings about taking the boy out of his seclusion and into the public thoroughfares beyond. It would be many months before I forgot the sight of the gash across the Bulgar’s throat, and whether it had been the work of the elusive monk, his agents, or some higher power, I did not think they would rest while their failed assassin lived in captivity. But I had spent three days fruitlessly antagonising merchants and nobles: if the boy could lead me to the house where he and the monk had trained, then perhaps there I would find something to guide my search. And I did not want to cause Anna undue risk.
Anna was already awake, wrapped in a heavy, woollen palla and bustling about purposefully with a small chest of medicines.
‘This is the salve to rub on the wounds,’ she told me, pointing to a small clay pot. ‘And in this bag are clean bandages. You should replace them after each day’s riding. There’s some bark in there as well for him to chew on if the pain is too great. If you find fresh water in the forest, you can rinse his leg with it.’
I scowled; the early hour, a lack of food, and the tension of the moment had soured my stomach. ‘I have fought in a dozen battles,’ I reminded her, ‘and seen men march twenty miles after them with worse wounds than the boy’s. I do not need lessons in field medicine.’
She ignored my petulance. ‘Sigurd k
nows my instructions; he can see to Thomas. And keep him well fed. He needs to regain his strength.’
‘Indeed.’ Although I did not wish the boy ill, the last thing I wanted was for him to be restored to full health while we travelled. If he escaped, I doubted either of us would long survive it.
All this time the boy had stood mutely in a corner. Anna had found him a monk’s coarse tunic, which sat high on his tall frame, and a thick cloak; now she kissed him on the cheek, pulled up a fold of the cloak to mask his face, and pushed him gently towards me.
‘You’ll want to hurry,’ she said, peering out of the open door. ‘The sun will be risen soon.’
That thought had been uppermost in my mind too, yet I delayed a moment further in the unlikely half-hope that I too would merit a kiss. I shook my head in wry reproval. I was thinking like an adolescent, I chided myself, not like a grown man, a father and a widower.
I led the boy outside. He did not resist as I slipped rope manacles over his wrists and tied them fast, leaving enough slack between them that he could steady himself in the saddle. My horse was nervous, perhaps absorbing my mood, and I patted her neck to try and calm her fidgeting as Sigurd effortlessly hoisted the boy up so that he sat before me. I glanced about, ever wary of danger, for now shutters were beginning to be thrown back, and figures could be seen moving behind the windows. I looked at the boy in front of me and imagined him squinting down the stock of the tzangra from the ivory-carver’s rooftop as the Emperor’s retinue processed past. Was there another man, even now, taking the same sighting?
I kicked my horse over to where Sigurd conferred with Aelric.
‘We’ll make for the gate of Charisios,’ he announced. ‘It’s the fastest way.’
‘Too obvious,’ I argued. ‘They may be watching it. We should take the gate of Saint Romanos, and cross the river further upstream.’
Sigurd glared at me. He had a leather sling for his axe, I noticed, hanging from his saddle just before his knee. ‘They? Who are your they? Do you think we face an army of darkness with spies on every corner? A lone monk and a handful of Bulgar mercenaries cannot be everywhere.’
‘If we delay any longer they will find us without trying. Krysaphios agreed that in matters of practicality, my decision would prevail. We go to Saint Romanos.’
Sigurd pulled back on his reins, and rapped a fist against his bronze greave. ‘This is what prevails, Demetrios: the power of a man’s arm. If our enemies await us, let them come.’
‘Your arm will be as feeble as your armour against the weapons these men wield, unless we meet them at a time of our choosing. Have you spent so long tramping the corridors of the palace, Sigurd, that you’ve forgotten the importance of reconnoitring your adversary?’ I spurred my horse forward, before he could retaliate. To my relief, I heard the clatter of hooves following on behind me.
We rode as swiftly as I dared with the invalid boy on my horse, through the dirty light and waking streets of the morning, until we reached the gate of Saint Romanos. At the sight of Sigurd the guards waved us through, and soon we were out in the broad fields which stretched away from the walls. The harvest was long since gathered in, but teams of men and boys were there with their oxen, ploughing under the old year’s stumps and chaff. The rising sun was wan through the grey clouds, but the unaccustomed effort of riding soon had me pulling my cloak back off my arms, and then bundling it into a saddlebag altogether. We had slowed our pace to avoid aggravating Thomas’s wounds, and I could enjoy the freshness of the morning as I tried to ignore Sigurd’s lowering bulk ahead of me. He had not spoken to me since we left the monastery.
The jangling of iron to my left turned my head, and I saw that Aelric had come up beside me. Despite his fading hair and his lengthening years, he sat comfortably in the saddle, humming something I did not recognise.
‘You’ve upset the captain,’ he said, breaking off his tune. ‘He’s a warrior — he doesn’t care to be reminded that he’s as much the Emperor’s ornament as his huscarl. Parading to impress ambassadors and nobles sits uncomfortably on him when he’d rather be killing Normans.’
I glanced nervously forward, but either Sigurd could not hear or would not show it. ‘I’ve heard he has no love for the Normans. He told me they stole your kingdom — as they stole the island of Sicily from us, and would perhaps have taken Attica if the Emperor had not defied them.’
Aelric nodded. ‘Thirty years ago, they came, and even the mightiest king that ever ruled our island could not resist them. Sigurd was only a child then, but I was a man, and I took my place in the king’s battle-line.’
‘You fought the Normans?’ Though there was yet a wiry strength in Aelric’s arms, it was hard to imagine this genial grandfather hammering foes with his axe in the mountains of Thule.
‘I fought their allies,’ Aelric corrected me. ‘The Normans conspired to invite a Norse army into the north, while they skulked in the southern sea which divides our island from their country. We fought two great battles by the rivers of the Danelaw; we lost the first but won the second. As the Norse king discovered, it’s only the last battle that matters.’
I was already lost, for he seemed to make as many fine distinctions between Norsemen and Normans and the Northmen of Thule as the ancients once made between their feuding cities. But they must have been distinct in his own mind, for he continued without hesitation.
‘That second battle, that was a warrior’s day. I killed seventeen of them myself, yet while a single man stood they would not leave the field. Even Sigurd remembers it.’
I craned my head back in my saddle. Sigurd was riding in silence immediately behind us, an ill humour still written across his face.
‘You were there?’ I asked, braving his antagonism. ‘But if it was thirty years ago, you must have been too small even to lift an axe.’
Sigurd lifted his chin contemptuously. ‘I carried an axe at an age when you probably slept in a crib,’ he informed me. Then, too proud to resist the story: ‘But I was there at the battle. I was only six, but my father, who fought for our King Harold, brought me there and left me under a tree behind our line.’
‘Sigurd saw more of it than most,’ Aelric interrupted. ‘More than us who couldn’t even see our elbows for all the death about us.’
‘I remember I saw the banner of their king, Harald the Land Waster, held aloft when all his army was routed.’ Sigurd’s rough voice was strangely wistful now. ‘His bodyguard hacked and parried all who came, marooned in a sea of English warriors. When he fell they fought on, and when at last the fighting was done and our men came to retrieve his body, they first had to pull away seven corpses who had fallen protecting him. Later I discovered that they learned their war craft here, in Byzantium, serving as Varangians.’
Normans and Norsemen, and now two King Harolds: was it just that the barbarian words all sounded alike to my unfamiliar ear, or were they all named identically?
‘I thought you said the Normans stole your kingdom. Yet now you say you eventually defeated them.’
‘We defeated Harald and the Norsemen in the north,’ said Aelric. ‘But a week later William, bastard duke of the Normans, landed on our southern shore. We marched the length of the country and brought him to battle, but we were too weary and they fought with the desperation of men without retreat. They killed our king, and took his throne. As I said, the last battle is the only one that matters.’
‘So you fled their victory, and came here?’
‘Not immediately.’ Aelric paused a moment to scratch his grey beard. ‘For three years the Bastard contented himself despoiling the south, gorging his accomplices with morsels of our land and fastening his grip on power. Then he came north. Some of our lords who had pledged themselves to him rebelled, but too late: they could not withstand the army he led, and one by one they were destroyed, or surrendered. The Bastard turned the fertile country along that coast into a wasteland: bodies lay in the streets by their thousands, and some of the living grew so hung
ry they gnawed on the bones of the dead. There was not one village or field that he did not raze to the ground, not one ounce of food he did not tear up and burn before our eyes. Then he invited the Danes to come and ravage our shores, so that those few shoots of life which had survived the first devastation were uprooted and consumed. After that there was no life left in the north: a man could ride through the wilderness for days, and never hear a single voice but his own. That was when I came to Byzantium.’
‘And I too.’ Sigurd’s face was pale under his bronze helmet, and his eyes twitched as if beyond his sway. ‘The Normans came to our village one evening; they killed my father and entered his house. All through the night I could hear my mother and my sisters screaming, and at dawn they were dead. I could not even bury them, for the Normans turned our home into their pyre. I was taken away by my uncle, first to Caledonia, then across the sea to Denmark, and at last, by way of many roads and rivers, to this city.’
He wiped a gauntleted hand over his cheek, then grasped his axe just below the head and pulled it from its sheath.
‘You see these notches, Demetrios? These are the number of the Normans I have killed since then.’ He snorted. ‘Or at least, the number I have killed since the last haft snapped from all the wood I carved out of it.’
‘It could still be worse,’ Aelric observed. ‘Look at the eunuch.’
‘Which eunuch?’ I asked, failing to understand his meaning.
‘The chamberlain, Krysaphios.’
‘What of him?’ In his dress, his manners, his language, he seemed as pure a Roman as I had met. ‘He did not come from Thule, did he?’
It was an innocent question, but Aelric and Sigurd laughed so loudly in response that their horses bucked and shied in alarm. ‘From England,’ Sigurd repeated. ‘Why, Demetrios, do you see a resemblance to us?’
I thought of the eunuch with his smooth, olive skin and hairless face, next to these blistered, shaggy, blue-eyed giants. ‘Not much.’
