Byzantium (29 page)

The terraces climbed to the Imperial City within the Empress City. Haraldr had seen the palaces from a distance, and yet then they had seemed a miniature world too fantastic to be real, like looking into a knothole and finding a splendid city inhabited by elves. Now this world surrounded him in its dazzling actuality, the rows of carnation- and sulphur-coloured marble pillars towering above him like gleaming stone forests, the spray from the fountains turning into crystal fragments that melted against his face. He wondered at an enormous golden building made of domes fanning out like the petals of a flower, cyan-blue ponds teeming with darting orange fish, marble cypresses carved into foliate traceries so delicate that it seemed they would crumble in the breeze; in the distance shimmered a vast silver dome, huge enough to swallow a
dhromon.
Chalk-white avenues fanned out in the sun, swarming with eunuchs in silk, soldiers in armour, and occasional groups of ladies who seemed to float along in the coral-tinted shade of endless porticoes.

The escort steered Haraldr sharply right in front of a massive, shell-coloured building; Khazar bowmen stood at attention within a towering portico. Haraldr and the Topoteretes were admitted through the massive silver doors. They crossed a marble hall busy with scurrying, sumptuously dressed eunuchs, then wound through a jade-columned portico, a courtyard with gurgling fountains, and halls decorated with endless ochre and gold mosaics depicting scenes of battle; half a dozen times they had their passes inspected by guards posted at each entrance to a new room or passageway. Finally they halted in front of a cottage-sized, vault-like structure made of porphyry marble as deeply purple as a ripe plum.

Two Varangians in their golden armour stepped from a door at the side of the vault and looked at the passes. The Topoteretes nodded and stepped aside while the Varangians came round Haraldr’s back. Haraldr hated the fear that crawled up his spine; had he not resolved to remove all speculation from his mind and leave his questions to Odin and Kristr? And yet how else could he feel at this moment?

‘Sir, please accompany us,’ said one of the Varangians in Swedish-accented Norse. The menace thawed slightly, and Haraldr stepped into a lurid purple chamber. Half a dozen armoured Varangians stood rigidly at attention; a single Varangian faced them, his huge back to Haraldr. The golden broad-axe crossed over his chest glimmered as he turned.

Haraldr resisted the swoon. Yes, he had been prepared for this encounter. But now, face to face with Mar Hunrodarson, he wanted to fall to his knees and toss the fear from his surging stomach.

Mar stepped forward, the axe moving in his hands, and Haraldr heard the rustle of the raven’s wings. But Mar merely passed the axe to the Varangian flanking Haraldr on his left. He extended his hands in greeting. ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt,’ he said, without even the ominous emphasis on the last name that Haraldr would have expected. Then Mar grabbed Haraldr’s arm and drew him close. Haraldr could not mask the terror in his eyes.

‘Before you go in, listen,’ Mar whispered. ‘I have heard of a plot against you. If you have been threatened, I must know of it.’ Mar paused and drew Haraldr into his insane, glacial eyes; the rest of the Hetairarch’s face was utterly void of meaning or inflection, as if he were a walking corpse that had lost its spirit but not the heat that still flushed its cheeks. Haraldr remembered that he had been fooled once by that face.

‘You wear doubt like a battle standard,’ Mar continued. ‘But you have nothing to fear unless you challenge me. I would use your secret as a shield for myself, not a sword against you. Look, my plan will benefit us both. We are both Norsemen . . .’

Mar stepped away as two eunuchs entered the chamber through a rear door. The taller and elder of the two was a pale-browed but firm-fleshed man who wore cream-hued silk so heavy, yet so finely woven, that it seemed like a metal foil. The other man, similarly splendid, held an ivory baton with a golden dragon atop it. This eunuch was short, with a receding jaw marked with a large dimpled scar just below the corner of his mouth.

The white-haired eunuch reached out and fingered the heavy blue fabric of Haraldr’s new tunic of the finest Hellas silk. He nodded and the eunuch with the scarred jaw spoke in Norse.

‘Haraldr Nordbrikt, I am the Grand Interpreter of the Varangians. The honoured dignitary assisting me in preparing you for your audience is the Imperial High Chamberlain. Listen carefully to your instructions. You will enter and prostrate yourself three times. At the command
Keleusate,
you will be invited to stand. Your Father may wish to examine you. Should you be questioned, the High Chamberlain will nod if you are permitted to answer. You may look upon the face of the Autocrator, but be certain that your expression is one of reverence, humility and gratefulness. When the interview is concluded, your Father will bless you with the sign of the cross. You will immediately withdraw, arms crossed over your breast, from the presence of the Pantocrator’s Hand on Earth.’

Haraldr’s blood, drained by fear, almost audibly roared back into his veins. He had expected he might be displayed to the Emperor again, and perhaps receive yet another warning from this curiously godlike puppet of a Norseman and a monk. Yet to speak with him! Haraldr could look this man in the eyes, weigh the timbre of his voice, and in every way discern if he was a man to command all men or a mere illusion. Perhaps Haraldr had seen nothing in the inscrutable face of Mar Hunrodarson, but now the veils of Roman power would be stripped aside. He would see into the heart of the Roman dragon.

The two eunuchs preceded Haraldr through an antechamber with a gold-coffered roof; Mar, his axe upon his chest, followed at Haraldr’s back. Four Varangians stepped aside while two white-robed eunuchs parted the silver doors.

After the ritual prostrations were completed, Haraldr stood and steadied himself. Above him soared a vast, celestial blue dome speckled with golden stars, but the area in which he stood was a small one, cordoned off with heavy scarlet brocade curtains. The Emperor, seated in a jewelled gold throne, was flanked by several standing, white-robed eunuchs. He was aflame in scarlet silk medallioned with gold eagles, but he wore no crown upon his head. Haraldr noticed out of the corner of his eye a man in monk’s garb; for some reason this figure was the only person of the eight or so in the room who was seated in the presence of the Emperor.

Haraldr reminded himself that he was of royal lineage and that this Emperor was not. He breathed deeply and forced his eyes to search the face of the man who sat no more than three ells from him. His hands trembled, but he locked his gaze upon the sable-hued irises. Within seconds he knew that everything he had assumed about this Emperor was wrong.

He was no god, certainly, but a handsome man of perhaps two score years with a bold, sharp nose; noble, high forehead; and long, grey-flecked dark curls. But he was also just as clearly a man above all men. His entire carriage as he sat bespoke stature and confidence, his red-booted feet flat upon the floor, his shoulders square and chest erect, his hands set in his lap with the fingertips lightly touching. Haraldr had grown up in royal courts, and he knew the importance of a king’s sheer physical presence in maintaining the respect and fealty of his subjects. But he knew just as well that this mysterious aura of command was not as simple as donning silk robes or projecting a fine masculine swagger. It was something in the eyes, an intangible yet undeniable quality that left no question of a man’s mastery of both himself and those around him. Haraldr had seen this look before, and he had learned to discern men who pretended to have it and did not. And what he saw in this Emperor’s black, chasm-deep eyes was all he needed to know; they were somehow infinitely sorrowful yet terrifyingly obdurate, the shafts to some unshakeable resolve. This Emperor was no puppet; even a man like Mar would be but a toy to him.

The Emperor spoke several sentences in an even, deep, yet natural voice that did not turgidly solicit respect, as did the exhortations of so many weak leaders, but simply projected keenness and innate authority. The Grand Interpreter translated, maintaining much of the Emperor’s original inflection.

‘Your father greets you, Haraldr Nordbrikt, and applauds your resourcefulness in dealing with the plague of Saracen pirates who have disrupted our maritime commerce. There were some who did not welcome you when you first came to our environs, but his Imperial Majesty has seen to it that your enemies now respect you as a true soldier of Christ. Your Father asks if you are now willing to perform a task that will more directly serve his Holy Person.’

Haraldr was almost euphoric in his desire to serve this magnificent man, and yet another region of his mind screamed with confusion. He had burned the body of Asbjorn Ingvarson only yesterday. Had these enemies been chained in hours? And even so, the young Swede’s soul pleaded for revenge. He again saw the monk at the corner of his vision and thought of Mar at his back; it was likely that Asbjorn’s murderer was no more than two steps away.

Haraldr noticed that the High Chamberlain was nodding at him. He broomed his mind by drawing in his breath, then gave his tongue to Odin. ‘Your Imperial Majesty and chosen hand of Kristr, though it is my most passionate desire to serve you in any way I can, your invitation assumes more honour than I am now worthy of. Two nights ago one of the men pledged to my keeping and guidance was slain in a cowardly and villainous manner. Until I avenge this murder I am soiled by a disgrace that renders me unfit to serve a sovereign so glorious as the Emperor of the Romans.’

After the translation the Emperor stared intently at Haraldr; it was everything Haraldr could do to keep from flinching before that lancing gaze. Then the Emperor looked up at the eunuch nearest to him - Haraldr recognized this man as the aged, sad-eyed eunuch who had spoken to him at his first audience - who bent to the Emperor’s ear and began a whispered discussion that lasted perhaps a minute.

The elderly eunuch disappeared through the red curtains behind him while the Emperor studied Haraldr in almost total silence; the seated monk seemed to have difficulty breathing and wheezed slightly. Haraldr also noticed that the seated monk’s robe was rough brown burlap; hadn’t Joannes worn fine black wool?

The eunuch re-emerged and whispered to the Emperor, who nodded and immediately addressed Haraldr.

‘His Imperial Majesty is pleased to tell you that even now the assassin is being interrogated. He has confessed to everything.

You will be able to see the perpetrator when you leave His Majesty’s presence. Will this satisfy the admirable requisites of your honour?’

Haraldr could scarcely believe his ears. He cast his eyes quickly in the direction of the monk. Kristr! He was almost certain that the seated monk was
not
the Joannes he had seen; this monk was much smaller, with a crown of short hair. Could Joannes possibly be this ‘perpetrator’ now in custody? That was too unlikely, given the monk’s evident power; not even this Emperor’s justice would be so implacable. But clearly Haraldr’s enemy had been identified and dealt with, and he would soon know him.

The Imperial Chamberlain nodded again, and Haraldr gushed praise. ‘Your Imperial Majesty’s pursuit of justice, as swift as the flight of an arrow, makes me all the more eager in my desire to dedicate to you my arm, my allegiance and my life, and the lives and allegiances of the five hundred men I have pledged to lead to glory in the service of the Emperor of the Romans.’ Haraldr’s skin tingled with conviction; he meant these words with all his suddenly unburdened heart.

Haraldr raptly watched the Emperor reply. He thrilled at the eloquence of His Majesty’s speech and imagined himself walking beside him in stately procession. And yet some tiny parcel of Haraldr’s intellect saw something else, even as the rest of his consciousness floated on this dream. What was it? Something about the Emperor, the shape of his cheeks, his lips; where had he seen these features before? But the memory was too fleeting.

‘His Majesty delights to command an arm so strong and yet so obedient. His faith in you is boundless, so he offers you a task that might have exhausted Heracles, and yet he is assured you can perform it.’ The Grand Interpreter went on to describe the pilgrimage to Jerusalem; an entire regiment of the Imperial Army would accompany the Empress and her ladies, but Haraldr and his men would comprise the Empress’s personal bodyguard. It was an honour second only to guarding the person of the Emperor himself.

Haraldr quickly and ardently accepted, and the Emperor rewarded him with an intoxicating, perfect smile. The Emperor began another address, and Haraldr was again transported with devotion. But the Emperor blinked in mid-sentence, stopped, and tipped his head slightly towards the seated monk.

The commotion was immediate. The High Chamberlain glared at Haraldr and made an entirely indecorous whisking motion. Haraldr sensed Mar, still at his back, spring forward. The crushing grip stung his arm, and then Haraldr spun; his heart, now cold lead, slammed against his ribs. No! The ultimate ruse!

Mar’s grip vanished and Haraldr stood outside drawn curtains that seemed to shrink around the Emperor and his party like a crimson silk cocoon. The Grand Interpreter was beside him; he yanked Haraldr’s arm and frantically urged him into the guardhouse. Behind him, Haraldr heard a rustle of brocade, calm whispers, and painful gagging, as if someone had got a bone lodged in his throat. Haraldr’s mind raced. Had someone become ill? Had someone, perhaps even Joannes, sent an assassin to avenge himself on the Emperor? Just when he had thought he knew the heart of the Roman dragon, this. What was happening?

Mar, still inside the curtains, watched with disgust the twitching figure on the floor before him; he reflected that this spectacle was becoming enticingly common. But the Emperor’s disclosure had caught Mar by surprise. Had they really caught the Norseman’s assassin, he wondered, or was this ‘perpetrator’ merely the usual scapegoat to be sacrificed to the absurd notion of Roman justice?