Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  If only I had met my death in Constantinople, I would have been spared the agony of the torment I now felt. I might have died an ignorant man, but I would at least have died a happy one.

  The Danes could not understand my distress. When duty permitted, Gunnar, and sometimes Tolar and Thorkel, came to sit with me at the prow. We talked and they tried to cheer me, but the black rot had taken hold of my soul and nothing any of them said could ease the pain. The rest of the barbarians took no interest in my plight whatsoever. Harald and his karlar were delighted with their new and highly-paid prominence as defenders of the empire. Accordingly, the Sea Wolves remained continually wary, for they had it in mind to seize any ships that tried to attack, hoping to augment their pay with plunder. But, aside from a swift-disappearing flash of sailcloth on the seaward horizon, we saw no marauders. All eleven ships arrived safely in port sixteen days after leaving Constantinople.

  As the rock-cragged hills above Trebizond came into view, I turned with great reluctance and resignation to the task set before me, and determined that if the emperor required a spy, a spy I would become. Since I was no priest any more, I might at least try to earn the freedom promised me. All things considered, this seemed the most sensible course, though I little knew how or where I should begin, nor less yet how to insinuate myself into the proceedings.

  Feeling as I did—alone and forsaken in a godless world—I decided simply to let fate fall as it would. Sure, it was all one to me. Accordingly, the moment the planks touched the long stone quay, the emperor’s envoy sent word to King Harald that his presence was required. He was to bring with him twenty of his fiercest and most loyal warriors; the emperor’s emissaries desired a bodyguard—to enhance their prestige, no doubt. The rest of the Danes would remain at the harbour to provide protection for the merchant ships. Apparently, the more brazen Arab pirates operated from the very quay, looting full-laden ships before they even left the harbour.

  The Danes quickly established the watch, ranging themselves along the quayside in guard groups of three or more. Meanwhile, in response to our command, we assembled on the quay beside the envoy’s vessel—twenty warriors, Jarl Harald, and myself—to receive our instructions from the imperial envoy, a tall, thin-shanked old man with huge ears and a face like a goat’s, complete with a small, wispy white chin beard. The envoy’s name was Nicephorus, and he served as eparch—which, as I was informed with elaborate disdain, happened to be a particular variety of very senior court official, eighteenth in rank to the emperor.

  As we stood on the quay, waiting to conduct the eparch and the members of his company to the place of meeting, I was startled and dismayed to see the Komes Nikos emerge from the eparch’s ship. He walked directly to where Harald stood, glanced at me and gave a slight-but-perceptible nod of recognition before addressing himself to the king.

  “The eparch sends his greetings,” Nikos said coldly. “It is expected that you will place yourselves under his command while we remain in this city. The eparch’s desires will most often be delivered through me. Is that agreeable to you?” Although he asked the question, his manner implied that it would be this way whether Harald thought it agreeable or not.

  I relayed these words to my master, who nodded and grunted his rough approval. “Heya,” he said.

  “Then you will follow me,” Nikos said imperiously. “We will escort Eparch Nicephorus to his residence.”

  We left the quay, walking slowly so that the merchants and dignitaries behind us were not left too far behind. In this way we entered the city, moving in stately procession along a narrow central street.

  From the sea, the city had seemed little more than an overgrown fishing village, which is how it had begun. And though it apparently boasted some of the most varied and important markets in the empire, it still possessed something of its old nature in the small, tidy, and quiet streets lined with simple, lime-white houses of the square Greek kind we had been seeing ever since entering the Black Sea.

  To my inexperienced eye, the city appeared compact, confined as it was to the low hills between the rough crags rising behind, and the sea spreading before. There was a handsome colonnaded forum, a wide house-lined central street, a basilica, two public baths, a small colosseum, a theatre, numerous wells, a taberna, and three fine churches—one formerly a temple to Aphrodite. The whole was surrounded by a low wall and deep ditch of Roman construction.

  As I came to know the place, I discovered a feature which charmed me more than anything else I saw, and these were pools which threw water into the air for the sheer delight of the sight and sound alone. These fountains, I was to discover, the city possessed in profusion—sometimes with carved marble statuary, sometimes merely with unshapen stones for the water to play over, but almost always in the midst of a small, carefully-tended green or garden, where people might sit on stone benches beside these pools, talking to one another, or simply enjoying a moment’s peace in their daily activities.

  On the day of our arrival, Eparch Nicephorus was received in the forum by the magister and spatharius, who stood at the head of a small group of lesser officials, extending their hands in friendship and greeting.

  “On behalf of Exarch Honorius and citizens of Trebizond, I welcome you,” said the magister, a short, stock-legged man with a round face and a black beard. “His eminence the governor sends his greetings, and wishes you a fruitful stay in our city. He regrets that he is unavoidably detained in Sebastea, but assures me that he will endeavour to join you before your business here is completed. In the meantime, we have prepared a house for the envoy’s use. You will be taken there in due course, but first we thought you might like some refreshment after your long journey.

  “I am Sergius, and I am at your service during your sojourn here.” The magister spoke politely enough; indeed, wonderfully so, in precise and polished Greek. But the man lacked genuine warmth, I thought; there was no light of friendliness in his eye, nor enthusiasm in his voice. He was a tired musician, performing his old song with little liking for those he was meant to entertain.

  The spatharius, on the other hand, more than made up for his superior’s lack of zeal with an overabundance of good will. A young man, but with many grey hairs in his dark hair and beard and a fleshy paunch beneath his cloak, he all but quivered in his desire to please. His name, he told us, was Marcian; and he proceeded to fawn over the eparch in an oily, obsequious way that put me in mind of a pup overanxious for its master’s favour.

  The two of them—weary minstrel and his pandering dog, as it were—led us along a wide street lined with the tall, flat façades of fine houses whose windholes were all shuttered against the day. The magister stopped before a large, square house set a little apart from the others. At first, I thought this was where we would stay, and welcomed the prospect as it was easily the finest house I had ever had the pleasure to enter.

  Nikos ordered a dozen of the Sea Wolves to mount guard outside the house, though there was no one in the street at all. Then Sergius conducted us up the steps, through the wide door and into a large vestibule; the walls were painted pale green, and the floor was a single huge mosaic depicting a Greek god—Zeus, I think, judging from the trident—surrounded by a dance of the seasons. Passing through the entrance room, we came into a large empty marble hall, through this, and out into a small, stone-paved square open to the sky. Though it was not a warm day, the sun off the white surfaces produced an agreeable warmth. In the centre of the square was a fountain, which produced a gentle, soothing sound. The principals arranged themselves in chairs while slaves in green tunics hovered around them bearing trays of food and drink.

  As leader of the eparch’s bodyguard, King Harald was required to attend this reception of welcome, although he had no real part in it, nor did anyone deign to address him. He was allowed a chair—which I stood behind—but the only ones who betrayed any interest in him were the slaves who brought him cups of wine. I do not think Harald noticed the slight, preoccupied as he was with the dr
ink and sweetmeats.

  Komes Nikos spoke at length of matters in Constantinople, supplying his hosts with the intimate gossip they desired, and in a most amusing, if deprecating, way. He provoked laughter several times with a witty description of some person known to his listeners, or an event of general interest.

  “What is it they laugh about?” Harald asked me after one such outburst. I told him that Nikos had just made a clever observation regarding one of the palace officials. The king regarded Nikos through narrowed eyes for a moment. “A fox, that one,” he remarked, and turned back to his wine.

  The eparch, I noticed, said little. When he did speak, his comments were restricted to the purpose of his visit—a quality which made him seem dry and tedious next to Nikos’s smooth, and occasionally artful, ebullience—and he seemed to endure the reception, rather than to enjoy it. When at last he came to the end of his fortitude, Nicephorus stood abruptly and said, “You must excuse me, I am fatigued.”

  The spatharius leapt to his feet and almost upset himself in his scramble to assist the eparch. The magister rose more languidly, and with an air of resignation. “Of course,” he said, “how foolish of us to prattle on like this. I hope we have not exhausted you. I will take you to your residence now. It is not far. I will summon a chair at once.”

  “Not for me, if you please. I have spent too many days confined to the bare boards of a ship,” the eparch replied. “I shall walk.”

  “As you will,” replied the magister, somehow implying that this was yet one more demand he was obliged to accommodate, however wearisome.

  The house provided for the eparch was the governor’s own, and it was magnificent. More palace than house, it was supplied with exquisite furnishings, all tastefully displayed, and all placed at the eparch and his party’s disposal. The entrance vestibule was of white marble, as was the hall, which featured a mosaic of Bacchus, Cupid, and Aphrodite in a wooded vale. Built in the style of a Roman villa—a central courtyard surrounded by long wings—the house contained enough rooms for all of us.

  “We hope you will find this to your liking, eparch,” the magister declared, his tone and expression combining to imply the opposite of his words. “We have endeavoured to anticipate your needs. Naturally, if there is anything you require…” He let the words drift away, as if finishing the thought were too much bother.

  Nikos took it in hand to order the household, informing me so that I could explain the arrangements to Harald. “The bodyguard will stay in the north wing. However, no fewer than ten guards will be required to remain on watch day or night. Is that understood?”

  I conveyed the instructions to Harald, who indicated that he understood. “Very well,” continued the komes, “the eparch and I will stay in the south wing, and you,” he directed his words to me, “will also stay in the south wing. In fact, you are not to return to the ships. Should the eparch require someone to order the guard, he will want you close at hand.”

  Jarl Harald was not pleased with this development, but grudgingly agreed when it was pointed out to him that he had no other choice in the matter. I considered this protection unnecessary. The city appeared peaceable enough; nowhere had I seen anything to argue for such fastidious precaution. But, as soon as the baggage began arriving from the ship, I learned the reason for Nikos’s concern, for the emperor had sent his emissary with a whole shipload of baskets, crates, and boxes. These were carried into the house and placed in a room which had been prepared to house it—that is to say, emptied of all other furniture—and a double guard placed at the room’s only door at all times.

  I reckoned by this that the crates and boxes contained valuables, and I was not the only one. Harald, too, realized which way the wind blew in Trebizond. Harald and his Sea Wolf guards became diligent in the extreme—though I think it must have chafed them raw to have to guard the very loot they had previously hoped to steal. Even so, from the moment Eparch Nicephorus set foot in the villa that day, he did not stir so much as a pace without a full complement of armed barbarians. More dutiful bodyguards there never were.

  My own position was ambiguous. Komes Nikos had said the eparch required me to remain close at hand; beyond this, I was given nothing to do. True, I served as Harald’s interpreter, but no other duties were forthcoming. It seemed to me that Nikos simply wanted me close so that he could keep an eye on me, though why he should concern himself in this way, I could not say.

  Aside from the tedium, the situation suited me. I had not forgotten Justin’s warning to stay far away from Nikos; on the other hand, he was possibly the only person who knew what had transpired with my brother monks during their sojourn in Constantinople and, what is more, why they left without completing the pilgrimage—that is to say, without seeing the emperor. It seemed a mystery to me, and I reckoned my best chance of solving it lay in remaining close to Nikos. Toward this end, I began searching for ways to worm myself into the proceedings.

  As it happened, this was not as difficult as I first imagined. As Harald’s interpreter, I was very often present when orders were given and instructions conveyed. Consequently, I chanced to see the eparch from time to time, and I never let pass an opportunity to ingratiate myself to him—not in any overt way, mind, but subtly and with some wit, so that Nikos might not find any reason to suspect me.

  A word here or there, a greeting perhaps—these were my tools. Thinking that the eparch might be a devout man, I contrived to sing a verse or two of a psalm in his presence, once when it might seem as if I did not know he was nearby. Another time I contrived to be praying in the courtyard, in Latin, when he passed by. Although he said nothing, he stopped and listened for a while before continuing on his way.

  Gradually, I came to his notice. I knew my work was succeeding when once I entered a room he also occupied, and his eyes shifted in my direction. A tiny gesture, indeed, but I never failed to reward his notice with a smile, or a reverent bow of my head, such as I might give any esteemed superior. It does me no credit, I fear, to say that I achieved my aim without seeming to have done anything at all. Indeed, I succeeded far better than I could have hoped.

  One day, walking down the corridor to my own room, I passed the open doorway leading to the courtyard. The eparch was there and called me to him, saying, “Brother, come here.”

  I went to him, dutifully, as if this were my habitual function. “I call you brother,” he said, “because you are, or were, a priest. Well? Am I wrong?”

  “By no means, eparch,” I replied respectfully.

  He allowed himself a satisfied smile. “I thought so. I am rarely wrong about men. I have heard you praying, you know, and singing; you have a fine voice. I enjoy hearing you.”

  “You flatter me, eparch.”

  “What are you called?” he asked.

  “My name is Aidan,” I told him simply.

  “Where were you born, if I may be so bold?”

  I noted his fatherly tone, and told him I was born in Éire and was, for the most part, raised by monks at the monastery at Kells. “Do you know Éire?” I asked.

  “Alas, no,” he said. “It has not been my privilege to have travelled so far as that.”

  We talked awhile of these and other things, and he dismissed me to my duties. But from that day, Nicephorus began including me in various ways—slowly at first, to see how I took to the work, but with greater frequency when he saw that I enjoyed the proceedings. Very soon, I found myself acting as Nicephorus’s personal servant. Indeed, the eparch took pity on my shabby appearance and bought me some new clothes: a grey cloak, breecs, and a long mantle of pale green and a siarc to go with it—plain, but all finely made and handsome for that. “The eparch would not have you mistaken for a beggar,” said the servant who brought me the clothes.

  Harald, already unhappy with our enforced separation, did not like this, and told me so. “It is not right. I will speak to the jarl eparch, and tell him he must get his own slave, or pay me for the use of mine.”

  “You must do
that, of course, Jarl Harald,” I agreed. “However, there might be some value in sitting so close to the eparch’s chair.”

  He regarded me with a suspicious glare. “What do you mean?”

  “The eparch is a man of authority; he has great power and influence with the emperor. A well-placed slave might learn much to his master’s advantage while serving such a man,” I argued.

  The suggestion appealed to Harald, as it placed him at the heart of events once more. He had, by his own admission, begun finding guard duty slightly tedious, and had recently been thinking how he might make more of his position. Insofar as serving the eparch allowed me to report to the jarl items of interest he might not otherwise have learned, Harald was more than happy that my service should continue.

  Nikos, however, took a rather different view. The inflection of his voice, the guarded glance of his eye, the trifling slight—indeed, in every one of a hundred tiny ways, the komes gave me to know that he thought the situation improper and unacceptable. But, since the eparch could do as he pleased, I remained privy to many of the ensuing deliberations.

  In this way, I came to know the eparch very well, and to respect his deep knowledge and even deeper sagacity. Sure, I have met many intelligent men, but never one so widely read on so many diverse subjects; his learning admitted no impediment. I also found him to be an astute judge of men, as he had said—a fact which no one else seemed to appreciate.

  More and more often, I found myself standing behind the eparch’s chair when he met with this official delegation, or that group of merchants. Harald, as I say, tolerated my attendance at these preliminary councils, so long as I conveyed to him afterwards something to his benefit. He questioned me closely whenever we were alone, more often than not asking exceptionally perceptive questions about the various matters discussed—always paying special attention to travel routes and borders, the strength of various local tribes, and so forth.