Byzantium (52 page)

‘Worship, you outdo fortune in the beneficence your unimaginably august and noble presence is capable of bestowing to those who are given life by the merest reflected ray of your shining being . . .’ The Squirrel trailed off. The Hetairarch had disappeared through a doorway like the Archangel ascending back among the heavenly host. Theotokos. Theotokos.

The Squirrel clutched the stolen purse as if it contained his miraculously redeemed life. Good information, he happily told himself. There is no limit to the value of good information.

‘What did you tell Gabras?’ asked Mar.

‘That you would be drilling me on the night postings around the Chrysotriklinos and Trichonchos,’ answered Haraldr.

‘Good. You are starting to think like a Roman. Now, if he is told - and I am certain he will be - if he is told that we were seen together, he will think nothing of it.’

Haraldr looked down from the terraced slopes that rose towards the massive, colonnaded flank of the Hippodrome. The lights of the vast palace complex glimmered below; the reflections off the variegated marble turned the intricate architectural tracery into a dazzling, multicoloured blaze. It was impossibly lovely. And impossibly painful to think that Maria slept there; he could see distinctly the brightly illuminated porticoes of the Gynaeceum, the Imperial women’s quarters. He could feel her breathing beside him like the faintest breeze, her slightly damp warmth. It hurt him more to think that she might have used him in a just cause; it was easier to imagine her as devoid of any redeeming virtue. With some perverse hope he wished that Mar’s ‘proof’ of Joannes’s conspiracy would turn out to be as counterfeit as her love. Then he would give Mar a last battle that would awaken every old god who slumbered in this city, and die cursing her for her treachery.

‘I could drink this view until the last dragon takes wing,’ said Mar, his eyes rapt at the shimmering nocturnal mosaic. ‘And yet here you must always be wary that you do not become intoxicated by this beauty.’ Mar shook his head. ‘Do you know the lays of Homer and the other tales of the Trojan War?’ Haraldr nodded. ‘Helen. I think of her at these times. Too much beauty. When there is too much beauty, men will do anything to possess it, to feel that she writhes in their arms alone. Sometimes I think that is true of this city and the glory it can offer men.’ He looked over at Haraldr. ‘Were you thinking of Maria?’

‘I ... yes.’

‘You have loved the stars. I envy you. And I pity you.’ Mar clapped Haraldr on the back. ‘We must go.’

The garden, with its neat rows of shrubs pruned back for the winter and its fountains stilled, ended beneath the Triclinium, a little-used ceremonial hall abutting the Hippodrome. Haraldr followed Mar through the main hall, a space so enormous that Mar’s sputtering oil lamp could not illuminate the walls or ceiling. The two Norsemen’s footsteps echoed eerily, as if they were giants overwhelmed by the dwelling of even greater Titans. Finally the embossed eagles on the bronze doors flickered and materialized; Mar took a key from his belt and unlocked them. They entered a gallery that abruptly narrowed into a passageway only large enough for three men abreast. Then another much smaller bronze door. The gallery turned this way and that. More doors, clanging like thunder in the dark, narrow passages. Up steps. Down. Finally they reached a large circular chamber. A marble-balustraded spiral staircase rose into the darkness. ‘The Emperor’s box is above,’ said Mar, gesturing with the lamp. Mar turned towards the wall. The smooth plaster curve was frescoed with floral patterns; the squarish wooden panel hidden by twining painted vines was impossible to discern until Mar slid it aside and crawled through the opening.

Haraldr followed, sliding on his belly for a dozen ells. The crawlspace opened into another mazelike gallery. Eventually they halted at a banded iron door; after some difficulty with the lock Mar finally pushed the creaking door ajar. A large vaulted gallery led to a waist-high stone railing. Mar leaped over the barricade.

The night seemed almost lustrous; a whipping cold wind pushed the clouds towards the south-east and revealed a diamond-studded sky. The Hippodrome was completely darkened, but the towering obelisks and columns that ran the length of the central
spina
were sharply defined against the uncountable rows of seats; along the portico that crowned the enormous sweep of the stadium, hundreds of statues stood as silent witnesses.

Mar trotted across the firm sand to another arch barricaded by a stone railing. This gallery ended in a staircase that dropped two storeys. Music and voices rose up as the Norsemen descended. An ancient crone waited on the landing at the bottom of the stairs. She turned quickly. ‘A divination,’ she crowed. ‘I’ll divine the both of you for a single coin.’ She appraised the two giants with rheumy, sporadically focusing eyes, and smacked her toothless lips. ‘When I was a beauty, I took on two like you whenever I wanted.’ She tilted her head back and cawed. ‘You paid, and you came back the next night! Both of you did!’ The crone crawled forward on her knees. ‘Don’t I know you, gentlemen? Indeed! Indeed! Fair-hairs. The Bulgar-Slayer’s boys. You’ve got gold, that I know. The Bulgar- Slayer gave you each a coin for every nose you brought him. Butcher boys.’ She crawled closer, her eyes suddenly acute. ‘I’ll divine you the time, my fair butcher boys. Then take her! The whore’s yours; she’ll spread her legs and take on every one.’ The crone punched her tiny, nutlike fist obscenely. ‘I know you boys.’ Her head slumped and she muttered something incomprehensible. Mar dropped a coin at her feet.

Beneath the southern end of the Hippodrome unfolded a tawdry, haphazard maze of stables, hovels, inns, brothels and small tenements, all lit by so many flaring tapers that the smoke hung over the district like a local fog. Wherever a street was visible amid the densely packed buildings, people were visible coursing and clamouring along; little figures could also be seen perched in windows and balconies. ‘The Empress City has many faces,’ said Mar. ‘You will find this one interesting.’

Mar followed a main street that zigged and zagged. Men in short tunics, some carrying sacks of feed on their backs, others driving donkey carts, zipped across at the intersections, heading down dusty side roads towards the Hippodrome stables. A cart with two huge, striped cats caged inside rolled past, followed by dozens of filthy, barefoot children who ran along singing a song. Beside an intersection a woman stood on her hands; her tunic had fallen away to leave her lower limbs completely exposed. A man threw a coin to the pavement beneath her head, and she spread her legs open. The various fortune-tellers were everywhere, sitting on carpets or sheltered beneath painted booths. A diviner, an old man with greasy silver hair, beckoned to them from one side of the street; a palmist, young, with beautiful black hair and a big scar that parted her chin, waved from the other, ‘Hetairarch!’ she yelled; Mar nodded and walked on. A noseless man ran past them, a small costumed dog under his arm.

Mar turned left. A dwarf directed singing by three pretty, sad girls in clean white tunics; a large crowd joined in choruses and coins showered onto the filthy street before the poignant little songbirds. After a right turn the street ended against a cluster of wooden buildings wedged round a tenement with a crumbling, vine-laced facade. ‘Big man, big, big man . . .’ The coarsely seductive woman’s voice came from a shallow porch in front of one of the wooden buildings. Mar ignored the disembodied invitation and slipped into an alley next to the brick tenement. Finally they stopped at a thick wooden door at the rear of a large, newly plastered, three-storey building. A viewing grate in the door slid aside at Mar’s knock. The door opened. Inside was a storeroom that smelled of sharp fish sauce and flour. Another door and they were into the light.

‘Hetairarch!’ A short, bald man in a sparkling blue silk tunic clasped Mar’s arms. His crooked teeth flashed in an open smile. He had a clipped, dark, wiry beard. ‘Welcome! Welcome!’

Mar turned to Haraldr. ‘This is Anatellon the charioteer. He won seven races in the Hippodrome. The Emperor Constantine had a bronze bust made of him.’

‘Of course the Emperor also made a full-size bronze statue of my best horse!’ said Anatellon. He threw his arms wide and emitted a curiously high-pitched giggle. He looked at Haraldr. ‘And you need no introduction, Har-eld, Slayer of Saracens and Seljuks, and now Manglavite of Rome.’ Anatellon extended his arms; his forearms were as thick as the forelegs of an elk and so hard that they seemed carved of marble. After clasping Haraldr’s arms, Anatellon suddenly raised his hands over his head. ‘So you hacked him right in two!’ he exclaimed, bringing his arms down in a huge motion. He giggled. ‘I like that!’

Haraldr looked around. They stood in a bright antechamber next to a heavy wooden spiral staircase. Whirling music and frivolous voices came from a larger room beyond; Haraldr could see only glimpses of bright silk through a wooden screen carved with intricate leafy patterns. Anatellon led the two Norsemen up the staircase to a dimly lit hallway punctuated with curtained openings every half dozen ells. A woman went past them like a wraith, her face as lovely and pale as a porcelain mask, her white limbs and large breasts seeming to fluoresce beneath a gauzy robe. Her glistening dark hair was coiled in the fashion of the court and sprinkled with gems. ‘She’s an Alan,’ whispered Anatellon to his guests. ‘Too good for this place. I won’t give her to just anyone, even if they can meet the price. I’ve already got a few highly placed gentlemen who want to take her into the palace and make a lady of her.’ He winked at Haraldr. ‘You could afford her.’

The hallway ended at bronze double doors chased with images of four rearing horses. The doors slid open and a young eunuch with a sweet, cherubic face bowed. The principal furnishing of the room was a large canopied bed. Anatellon gestured to three silk-cushioned backless chairs with thick ivory armrests. The eunuch quickly brought wine; he served the glass goblets with overly elaborate gestures, an unintended parody of the polished elegance of the Imperial Chamberlains. Mar motioned with his head at the eunuch, and Anatellon nodded. The boy left the room and slid the doors shut behind him.

‘I haven’t told the Manglavite Haraldr any of the details because I wanted to hear the story myself,’ said Mar to Anatellon. ‘What, exactly, did you see?’

Anatellon bent forward and tensed his bulging forearms. ‘Three nights ago a man came to my establishment and sat downstairs. I recognized him immediately as Nicetas Gabras--’

‘What?’ blurted Haraldr. ‘Not my chamberlain, Nicetas Gabras?’

‘Believe me, Manglavite, it would be most unhealthy for a man in my business not to know the faces of men owned by the Orphanotrophus Joannes.’ Mar nodded, apparently vouching for Anatellon’s reliability. ‘Anyway, I made it my business to keep a sharp eye on Gabras. To no end, it seemed. He drank a few cups, then called for a girl. He wasn’t with her more than a quarter of an hour. Then he left, but as he walked out he passed a man who had been sitting by himself all night, the kind who find melancholy at the bottom of a cup. Anyway, I was watching Gabras very closely, and as he passed this man he held his right arm by his side like this’ -Anatellon let his arm fall straight to the floor - ‘and showed three fingers like this. A gesture you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for something. Anyway, Gabras leaves, and this fellow stays and drinks for another two hours, perhaps. Then he calls for the same girl Gabras was with and, well, you should hear it from her.’

Anatellon got up and slid the doors open; he spoke briefly to the eunuch waiting in the hall. By the time he returned to his seat, a young woman had entered the room. She was not much taller than a girl but fully developed in the breasts and hips; she had heavy, sensual lips and a slight dusk to her skin.

‘Tell these eminences what happened, Flower.’

‘Yes.’ Flower looked at the carpet; there was a soft green tint to her eyes. Her wavy hair, streaked with light and dark brown tufts, hung freely over her shoulders. ‘You see, I had intended to take this man to another booth, Daria’s, because the previous guest had disturbed mine.’ Flower made a comical churning motion with her arms to indicate that the ‘guest’ had apparently vomited. ‘This man insisted that I take him to my booth. The third booth on the right.’ Flower shrugged. ‘Why not? I decided. Men make strange requests. So. I removed the filthy bedding and he reclined himself on the bare mattress. I had begun to unveil myself in the manner most men find provocative when he told me to turn away. So. I uncovered myself and found him still fully clothed, with his arm reaching beneath the mattress. “Turn away,” he said quickly, “modesty commands me to ask you to turn away until I have become accustomed to my nakedness.” ‘ Flower narrowed her eyes. ‘What? I have never heard this before. This is all becoming more curious than I can bear. So. I pretended to hide my eyes, but I looked at him through my hair like this, and as I spied, I saw him reach beneath the mattress again, and this time I discovered the cause of his modesty. From beneath the mattress he miraculously produced a great fat wallet. I could see it sag from the weight of the coins. He concealed it within his clothing, which he then removed. Then, of course, he asked me to join him and proceeded in the manner of men.’

Haraldr shook his head. Gabras, the milk-mouthed little swine. ‘Do you have any idea who this excessively modest . . . guest was?’

‘Yes, Manglavite,’ said Anatellon. ‘Having been advised by Flower of these further coincidences, I made inquiries among my clientele. The man is called the Physician. Not because he dispenses palliatives, purgatives, and healing draughts, but because he can so quickly alleviate all of the pain and suffering that this life brings upon us.’ Anatellon made a slashing motion across his throat.

‘Where would two ailing Norsemen find this apothecary?’ asked Mar.

‘Studion,’ said Anatellon ominously.

‘Studion.’ Mar’s inflection was the opposite of Anatellon’s. He said the word as if it were some sort of rare gem.

The oil lamps cast a yellowish light over the stacks of documents, making them seem ancient, archival. Joannes rubbed the deep sockets of his eyes, wishing that these papers did indeed reflect the great flow of history and not merely the fragile aspirations of a single man whose life span would be so evanescent, so insignificant against the great firmament of time. Unless. Yes. Here, surrounding him, in these figures, this legislation, these tax codifications, were the dimensions of his immortality. Yes. Just as the builders of the great Hagia Sophia had proceeded from mere wooden models to an edifice that would reign through the millennia until the Last Trumpet blew, then so these papers were the architect’s vision of the great edifice to his memory. And yet like the ever-remembered architects of the Mother Church, he needed a builder, a back to hoist the bricks and place them within the exacting strictures of his schemata. Yes, he had thought he had selected his builder well, a back broad and noble. But now that back was bowed, afflicted; each day it carried fewer and fewer bricks to the Heaven-scraping vaults. Each day his builder fell behind the schedule that had to be kept,