Viking 3: King’s Man

by Tim Severin

  ‘Don’t fire into the crowd,’ I begged Halfdan.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ he demanded. ‘Why go to the trouble of providing these weapons and not use them?’ He reloaded, swivelled the scorpion on its mounting and took aim. The chances that he would hit Harald were remote, but I removed his hand from the trigger.

  ‘Over there to the left,’ I said. ‘That’s Harald of Norway, and behind him, Varangians.’

  ‘So they’ve broken their oath and joined the rebels,’ grunted Halfdan.

  ‘You can’t shoot down your own people.’

  ‘No,’ said Halfdan. ‘That would be cowardly. Hand to hand is the only way. They’re traitors.’

  He abandoned the scorpion and unslung his axe. ‘Time for a sortie, men. Show them that we mean business,’ he announced.

  I watched the reaction of my comrades. They looked as if they were in two minds whether to follow Halfdan or ignore him. There was an awkward pause, which was interrupted by the sound of feet on the stone steps leading to the parapet. A Greek officer appeared, a man I recognised vaguely from the siege of Syracuse. He seemed competent, and there was no doubt about what he intended. He gestured for us to leave the parapet.

  ‘We’re taking over now,’ he said in Greek, and I translated for Halfdan’s benefit.

  ‘Ask him what he wants us to do,’ Halfdan asked.

  The Greek muttered something about the Varangians being held as a strategic reserve, and that we were to wait in the open courtyard behind the Bronze Gate in case a frontal attack was launched. Halfdan seemed disappointed, but obediently he led our platoon down into the courtyard.

  ‘That does it,’ said one of our men as we watched a file of Greek heavy infantry mount the stairway to take up the positions we had just left. ‘That was a lie about needing a strategic reserve. They don’t trust us. They think we will join up with our countrymen outside the palace and throw in our lot with the rebels.’ Angrily he stumped over to a bench, dropped his axe on the paving slabs and sat down. ‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m going to wait here until the Greeks sort out among themselves who is really running this place.’

  I knew that the platoon agreed with him, and that in a few moments Halfdan would entirely lose his authority. I had always judged Halfdan to be a decent type, if unimaginative; to save his dignity, I said, ‘Maybe I could locate someone in charge who can decide where we can be most useful. It will save time if Halfdan comes with me so that he can explain the tactical situation.’

  Without waiting for a response, I set off for Psellus’s office in the chancellery. He was the only person in the palace whom I trusted to give me an honest answer: something odd was going on. The mob outside the walls was hanging back, as if waiting for something, and I did not know what it was. The Greek infantry who had replaced us on the parapet had appeared strangely complacent. They were not as bellicose as I had expected, and I did not know why. Perhaps Psellus could explain.

  Halfdan and I met him in the corridor long before we reached his office, and to my astonishment he greeted us as his saviours. ‘The blessed Demetrios himself must have sent you,’ he exclaimed. ‘The Pechenegs have abandoned their posts and fled, every last one of them, just when the Basileus needed them most. Are there any more of you Varangians?’

  ‘There are,’ I said, ‘but they are back near the Bronze Gate, awaiting orders, and frankly I’m not sure that they will obey them. Please tell me what is going on. Why aren’t the household troops defending the palace more actively, and why hasn’t the mob launched an all-out attack?’

  ‘The emperor has renounced his title,’ said Psellus urbanely. ‘He wishes to retire to a life of peaceful contemplation. He is to become a monk.’

  I must have looked dumbfounded, because Psellus went on, ‘he has abdicated in favour of his “mother”, the empress Zoë, and her sister, the empress Theodora.’

  ‘But I thought that Theodora was in a nunnery.’

  ‘Until yesterday evening,’ said Psellus. ‘The Patriarch Alexis suggested that she should renounce her vows and enter political life. She is, after all, born to the purple. To Theodora’s credit she resisted the idea at first, but was eventually persuaded. The Patriarch crowned her empress a few minutes after midnight. I expect that she and her sister Zoë will be co-rulers of the empire of the Romans as soon as they can come to a suitable arrangement.’

  ‘What about Michael? Where is he now?’ My mind was in a whirl as I tried to grasp the sudden change in the politics of imperial rule.

  ‘Close by, and that is why I am so pleased to see you and your colleague. Michael and his uncle, the Nobelissimus, are awaiting immediate departure to the monastery of the Studius.’

  By this stage my mind was reeling. ‘But isn’t the Studius monastery the residence of the Patriarch Alexis? And wasn’t he the man who led the uprising against the Basileus?’

  ‘Thorgils, for a barbarian you are unusually well informed. However, the Studius monastery is the only one which the former Basileus can reach without being molested by the mob, which, as you have observed, is baying for his blood. From the Bucephalon harbour he can reach the monastery by boat before the crowd knows that he has departed. I presume that you can handle a small boat.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There will be only three passengers: Michael, his uncle Constantine, and a chamberlain. The rest of his staff will go on foot to the monastery, discreetly and in small groups, so that they can arrange Michael’s reception. In recent weeks I have been privileged to act as the Basileus’s private secretary, so I see it as my duty to intercede on his behalf with the new empresses and organise a smooth handover of the imperial government. As soon as I have their majesties’ decision, I will come to the monastery with the news. In the meantime I know that I can trust you and your colleague to transport their highnesses safely to the Studius.’

  So that is how it came about that I, Thorgils Leifsson, and my company commander, Halfdan, became a boat crew for the former Basileus, Michael V, as he evaded capture by the mob of Constantinople. It felt strange to be rowing a man who, only the previous day, had been considered semi-divine, so that even his closest attendants were obliged to wear gloves when approaching his presence in case they touched his consecrated flesh. Now he and his uncle, disguised as simple monks, sat an arm’s length away in the stern of the small rowing boat we commandeered for the short journey. Their chamberlain was in the bows, directing our course as we picked our way between the mass of fishing boats and the cargo ships at anchor off the city. It seemed that all their crews were ashore, joining the insurrection.

  Throughout our brief journey Michael kept his head down, staring silently into the bilge of the boat, and I noticed that water was soaking into his purple boots, which he had not yet removed. His uncle, by contrast, took a more intelligent interest in our surroundings. Surreptitiously I watched him as I heaved on the loom of the oar. There was no mistaking his resemblance to his brother, the Orphanotrophus. They both had the same deep-sunk eyes and shrewd gaze, and they shared an aura of knowing exactly how to set about obtaining what they wanted. What a remarkably talented family, I thought to myself. It had supplied an emperor, a Nobelissimus, and, in the Orphanotrophus, a gifted civil administrator. The mob was wrong to dismiss them as nobodies. The family were adventurers, certainly, but no more so than the giant Maniakes whom the citizenry adored. Only Michael the nephew, sitting in a fog of self-pity, had let them down. He had thrown away his inheritance through inexperience in the wielding of power and his unbridled ambition.

  The chamberlain called out that we were to steer for shore. Glancing over my shoulder I saw that we were level with the Studius monastery. Its massive walls of red and grey brick loomed over the landing place, a complex of chapels and cloisters crowned by an array of tiled domes, each topped by a cross. The monastery had its own landing steps, and Halfdan and I grabbed on to the mooring chains as our passengers disembarked. By force of habit I refrained from reaching out
and touching the ex-Basileus, even when he slipped on the weed-covered steps and nearly fell.

  A reception party of monks and courtiers was waiting, and they ushered the two men away.

  ‘Tie up the boat,’ the chamberlain ordered, ‘and accompany their highnesses. You may be needed.’

  Halfdan and I followed the little group into the monastery and then on to the great chapel, entering through a side door half hidden within an angle of the wall.

  I gazed around me with interest. The main worship hall was certainly impressive. Above my head rose a great dome, lined with mosaics. Staring down at me from within the vault was a gigantic image of the White Christ, gaunt and stern, with great dark eyes. He looked stiff and sad. In one hand he held his holy book; the other hand was held up in what I supposed was a gesture of blessing or admonition. The light from hundreds of candles in iron holders suspended by chains flickered across his severe expression. The dome rested on great pillars from which hung wooden boards painted with images of the White Christ’s most famous followers. The windows were small and set high up in the building, and the shafts of light reached only the upper part of the huge chamber. At ground level illumination depended on many more candles set in huge candlesticks, some as tall as a man, some arranged in banks of at least a hundred at a time. The general impression was of darkness and shadow interspersed with pools of radiant light. The air smelled strongly of incense. At the far end of the church stood the altar, and on each side were yet more masses of candles, as well as two carved and gilded wooden platforms where I supposed the priests of the White Christ stood during their devotions. These two platforms were now occupied by several dozen courtiers, monks, and various bureaucrats. I was reminded of the audience who, in a market square, clamber up on carts to get a better view when jugglers or hucksters perform. They were all looking at Michael and his uncle Constantine as they crossed the floor of the church towards the altar itself.

  ‘I claim the sanctuary of the monastery!’ Michael cried out shrilly. He reached the altar and turned towards a monk standing a little in advance of his fellows. The man was, I presumed, the chief priest.

  ‘I claim sanctuary,’ Michael repeated, ‘and wish to offer myself humbly to the service of our Lord.’

  There was a long, long silence, and then the shadows all around the sides of the chapel moved. The walls, I realised, were lined with men. They had been standing there waiting silently, whether in respect or in ambush I could not tell. They stood three or four deep, and now they produced an exasperated sound, a collective, angry muttering. Peering into the shadows I saw that several hundred of the citizens of Constantinople were already in the chapel. They must have been told, or guessed, where the ex-Basileus and his uncle had been heading when they left the palace, and they had got here before us.

  Hearing the sound, Michael gave a frightened glance and edged closer to the altar.

  ‘Sanctuary,’ he cried again, almost shrieking. ‘I have a right to sanctuary.’

  Again came angry muttering, and Michael sank to his knees in supplication and seized hold of the cloth that covered the altar. His uncle moved to be beside him, but remained standing.

  ‘Respect the Church!’ cried Michael.

  Then a man stepped out from the crowd. He appeared to be a minor official, a city employee perhaps. Evidently he was a spokesman.

  ‘You are to stand trial for your crimes—’ he began, but Michael interrupted frantically, ‘How dare you address me in this fashion?’

  Clearly he had forgotten that he was now meant to be a humble monk. He looked round and saw Halfdan and myself standing there.

  ‘Guardsmen,’ he ordered, his voice cracking with fear, ‘protect me from this lunatic.’

  Halfdan took several paces forward and placed himself between the cringing ex-Basileus and the leader of the crowd. I followed him, thinking to myself how ridiculous it was for just two men to attempt to serve as a shield. But for the moment, at least, our presence was effective. The crowd held back, and to my relief I saw Psellus enter the chapel by the main door and come hurrying towards us. With him was a delegation of officials.

  ‘With the authority of the empress Zoë,’ he announced loudly so all could hear, ‘I bring an order for the detention of His Highness Michael and the Nobelissimus. They are to be brought to the palace for due judgement of their actions. They must not be harmed.’

  ‘He’ll only smooth-talk his way out of trouble. Let’s deal with him now, our own justice,’ an angry voice shouted from the back of the crowd. The onlookers stirred, closing in. Behind us I heard Michael’s yelp of fear, and I sensed that the two groups of onlookers on each side of the altar were spellbound by the scene being played out before them.

  Psellus was soothing. ‘I assure you, your highness, no harm will come to you if you accompany us,’ he told him. Then, addressing the crowd’s spokesman, he said, ‘I promise you that the people will have justice. The empress Zoë is discussing with her sister Theodora how best to restore peace to the city. The people, through their representatives, will be consulted before any decision is reached. For the moment it would be prudent for His Highness Michael and the Nobelissimus to be held within the palace.’

  After some hesitation the crowd began to move aside so that the group of officials with Psellus could approach the altar. Michael was still petrified. ‘They’ll kill me if I leave the church,’ he sobbed. ‘I refuse to go with you. I won’t get a fair trial.’ Watching his craven response, I remembered how little mercy he had shown his uncle the Orphanotrophus, and thought to myself that though John the Eunuch might have been ruthless and menacing, he at least had had courage. His nephew was a coward.

  ‘These two guardsmen will accompany us,’ said Psellus. ‘They will see you safely back to the palace. Just as they brought you here.’ He glanced across at me. ‘Thorgils, perhaps you and your colleague would be so good as to accompany us on the way to the palace.’

  Reluctantly Michael released his grip on the altar cloth and rose to his feet. Then he and his uncle walked down the length of the chapel, surrounded by Psellus’s delegation. I noted that several courtiers descended from their vantage point and joined our little procession. I guessed that they were loyal members of Michael’s faction.

  We emerged from the gloom of the chapel and into daylight, and I realised that it was mid-afternoon. The overthrow of the Basileus had taken less than three days from the moment he had unwisely sent his eunuchs to arrest Zoë until his desperate plea for sanctuary in the monastery.

  We started along the broad avenue of the Triumphal Way leading to the heart of the city. I remembered how I had marched the route with the Hetaira, escorting the corpse of Romanus, and later to bid farewell to Maniakes’s army as it left for the Sicilian campaign. On the first occasion the crowd had been silent; the second time they had been cheering and shouting encouragement. Now, the crowd was resentful. They pushed in on us from each side, shouting abuse and spitting. We had to thrust our way forward.

  We had got as far as the open space called the Sigma, named because it had the same shape as the Greek letter, when I became aware of another agitated group elbowing its way through the crowd towards us. A few steps later I recognised its leader: Harald. With him were at least a dozen of his men, including Halldor. He was escorting a high official of the court, dressed in his formal silk robe of blue and white and carrying his badge of office, an ivory baton. He made a vivid contrast to the shabby figures of Michael and his uncle in their rumpled monks’ gowns.

  Harald and his men barred our path. We halted, and the crowd drew back to give us a little space. The brilliantly clad official stepped forward and opened a scroll. A silver and purple seal dangled from the lower edge.

  ‘By the authority of their joint Augustae, Zoë and Theodora,’ he began. ‘Punishment is to be carried out on the former Basileus Michael and the Nobelissimus Constantine.’

  Michael let out a shout of protest. ‘You have no right. I was promised safe
conduct,’ he screamed.

  From the crowd came a muted growl of approval.

  ‘The punishment is to be carried out with immediate effect,’ concluded the official, rolling up his scroll and nodding to his Varangian escort.

  Four of Harald’s men stepped forward and took hold of Michael and his uncle by their arms. Halfdan and I did not interfere. We were outnumbered, and besides, I felt exhausted. Events had moved beyond anything I could have imagined, and I was tired of the whole business. I no longer cared who held the reins of power in the Queen of Cities. As far as I was concerned, this was a matter for the Greeks to sort out among themselves.

  Michael continued pleading and sobbing. He was writhing in the grasp of the two Varangians, begging to be spared. ‘Let me go! Let me go! I was promised safe conduct,’ he repeated over and over again. He knew what would happen next.

  Later it would be said that Harald of Norway carried out the mutilation, but that was not so. The little group had brought their own specialist with them, and he had with him the tools of his trade. A small, rather effeminate-looking man came forward and asked for a brazier.

  We waited for a short while before someone came back with a brazier of the common household sort normally used for cooking. Its embers were glowing and it was placed on the ground. The executioner, for that was his role, I now realised, placed the tip of a long thin iron bar in the centre of the fire and blew delicately on the embers. The crowd pushed around so closely that he had to ask them to move back to allow him space to work. When the tip of the rod was glowing red-hot, the little man looked up at his victims. He was expressionless. I remembered Pelagia’s warning that the torturers and interrogators of the palace took a pride in their work.

  Michael was in hysterics, thrashing from side to side, begging to be spared. His uncle Constantine, the Nobelissimus, calmly took a pace forward.