King's Man (6 page)

It was that statement which, in due course, convinced me to throw in my lot with Harald Sigurdsson. Later I was to join him, not for riches, but because I believed that I had finally met the one man capable of restoring the fortunes of the Old Ways. If I could help Harald to gain his throne and show that Odinn and the Old Gods had favoured him, then he might return his kingdom to the Elder Faith. My scheme was refined and shaped in my mind over the weeks and months to come, but it began on the day that Halldor Snorrason told me of Harald's ambition.

'You should know that Harald's more than just a bold warrior,' Halldor went on, unaware that his every word was adding to my certainty that Odinn himself had groomed Harald as his champion. 'He's a great patron to skalds. He can judge their poetry because he knows the ancient lore as well as any man alive, and gives a handsome reward to any skald who skilfully portrays the world of the Gods. And he's more than just a critic. He composes good verse himself. Most of us in his war band can quote the couplet he composed as he fled from the battle that killed his half-brother
—'
Here Halldor paused. Then he took a breath and recited:

'Now I go creeping from forest

To forest with little honour;

Who knows, my name may yet become

Renowned far and wide in the end.'

'Not bad for a fifteen-year-old wounded while fighting on the losing side of a battle that decides a throne,' he commented.

Yet again I felt that Odinn was pointing the way. I too had been fifteen years old when I fought and was wounded in a great battle that had decided a kingdom, the throne of Ireland. The Norns, who determine men's destiny, had woven the same patterns into the lives of Harald Sigurdsson and myself. Now Odinn had brought us to where our paths crossed.

The sound of a footfall behind me made me turn, and there was the man himself. With the sunshine falling full on his sea eagle's face, I saw something that I had not noticed before: his features were regular and well made, and he was a very handsome man, except in one strange detail — his left eyebrow was very much higher than the other. I took it to be a shadow of Odinn's lop-sided mark, Odinn the one-eyed.

'So
what did
you make of this Araltes?' asked John the Orphanotrophus when I reported back to him the following day. I noted a sheet of parchment on the desk in front of him, and guessed that it was the written report from the office of the dromos. It was widely acknowledged that the imperial bureaucracy had never operated so efficiently as when John had taken over the running of the state.

'He seems genuine, your excellency. In Norse his name is Harald, son of Sigurd,' I answered, standing to attention and staring fixedly at a semicircle of gold paint. It was a saint's halo in an icon fixed to the wall behind the Orphanotrophus's head. I was still frightened of the man and I did not want him looking into my eyes and reading my thoughts.

'What about this tale that he is some sort of nobleman?'

'It is correct, your excellency. He is related to the royal family of Norway. He and his men have come to offer their services to his majesty, the Basileus.'

'And what would you say is the status of their morale and equipment?'

'First-class morale, your excellency. Their weaponry is workmanlike and well maintained.' 'Their ships?'

'In need of some overhaul, but seaworthy.'

'Good. I see that you kept your wits about you. My pedantic colleagues in the dromos have taken care to remind me of the regulation that no foreign prince may serve in the imperial Life Guard. Too risky, it seems. In case he gets ideas above his station. But I believe I have a use for these barbarians. I am sending a note to the akolouthos, the commanding officer of the guard, telling him that you are detached for special duties. You are to be
the liaison between my office and Araltes and his force. You will receive a bonus above your regular guard's pay and, unless you are employed otherwise by me, you will continue to perform your normal guard duties. That is all.'

I left the room and was immediately intercepted by a secretary. He handed me a scroll and I opened it to see that it contained my written orders. It seemed that the Orphanotrophus had decided on his course of action before I even reported to his office. I read that I was to prepare 'the visitor Araltes' for an audience with his imperial majesty, the Basileus, at a date yet to be decided. Until that time I was to assist in familia
rising Araltes with the organis
ation and operational structure of the imperial navy. I reread this sentence, as it was not what I had anticipated. The imperial navy was very much the junior branch of the imperial forces, though it possessed the most powerful fleet in the Great Sea. I had expected Harald and his men to be recruited into the Varangians-without-the-walls, the brigade of foreign mercenaries which included Armenians, Georgians, Vlachs and the like. But instead Harald and his men were to be marines.

When I next visited the camp at Mamas, I explained these orders to Halldor, who merely grunted. 'Makes sense,' he said. 'We're used to sea fights. But what's all this about preparing us for reception by the Basileus?'

'You've got to get the details absolutely right,' I told him. 'Nothing angers the emperor's councillors more than mistakes in court etiquette. It reinforces their view that anyone unfamiliar with court procedures is an ignorant savage, utterly uncouth and not worth dealing with. They've been known to turn down the requests of foreign ambassadors simply because of some minor transgression of court protocol. For example, a visiting ambassador who uses the wrong title to address the Basileus will be refused further audiences with the emperor, have his ambassadorial privileges withdrawn, and so on.'

'So what should Harald call the Basileus?'

'Emperor of the Romans.'

Halldor looked puzzled. 'How's that? This is Constantinople, not Rome, and anyhow isn't there a German ruler who calls himself the Holy Roman Emperor?'

'That's what I mean. The Basileus and his entire court are convinced that they are the true heirs of the Roman empire, that they represent its true ideals and continue its glory. They are prepared to grant that the German is the "the king" of the Romans, but not "the emperor". Just the same way that their own holy men claim that their Great Patriarch is the high priest of White Christ worship, not the person in Rome who calls himself the pope. It also explains why there's such a confusing mix of Latin and Greek in their military ranks — they speak of decurions and centurions as if they were soldiers in a Roman army, but the higher ranks nearly all have Greek titles.'

Halldor sighed. 'Well, I just hope you can persuade Harald to use the right phrases and do the right thing. I'm not sure he will like grovelling to the Basileus. He's not that sort.'

Halldor's worries were needle
ss. I found that Harald Sigurds
son was fully prepared to rein in his usually arrogant behaviour if it was to be to his advantage, and because I desperately wanted the Norwegian prince to succeed, I worked hard at tutoring him in exactly how to behave during his visit to the Great Palace. The emperor's subjects, I told him first, thought it such a great privilege to be allowed to meet the Basileus in person that they would wait for years to be granted an audience. For them it was the equivalent of meeting their God's representative on earth, and everything inside the palace was regulated to enhance this impression.

'Think of it, my lord, like a service in the most lavish White Christ church,' I said. 'Everything is ceremony and pomp. The courtiers wear special silken robes, each man knows his exact duties, the spot where he must stand, the exact gestures to use, the correct words to say. Everything focuses on the emperor himself. He sits on his golden throne, wearing the jewel-encrusted costume they call the chlamys. Across his shoulders is the loros, the long stole that only the emperor may wear, and on his feet are the tzangia, the purple boots exclusive to his rank. He will be motionless, gazing down the hall towards the door where you enter. You will be ushered in and then must advance down the hall and perform proskynesis.'

'What's proskynesis?' Harald asked, leaning forward on his stool.

I realised that I had got carried away with the splendour of the ceremony, and hesitated because I did not know how Harald would react to my explanation.

'Proskynesis is the act of homage,' I said.

'Go on.'

I swallowed nervously. 'It means lying prostrate on the floor, face down, and staying there until the word comes from a courtier for you to rise.'

There was a long pause as Harald thought this over. I feared that he was about to refuse to debase himself this way, but instead he asked, 'How far am I from the throne when I have to do this lying-down performance?'

I had been holding my breath, and let it out gently. 'As you walk down the hall towards the Basileus, look downward and you will see that there is a purple disc set in the marble floor. That marks the spot where you should lie down.'

Harald asked promptly, 'How do you know all this?'

'Because a detail of the guard stands behind the emperor's throne during the ceremony, and I have watched it happen many times. The guardsmen get to know the little tricks which make the ceremony seem more impressive. In fact sometimes it is difficult to keep a straight face.'

'Like when?'

'If the court chamberlain thinks the visitor is impressionable enough, the Basileus's throne is made to elevate during the proskynesis. While the supplicant is face down on the floor, a team of operators winds a lifting jack hidden behind the throne so that when the supplicant lifts his head he sees the emperor seated higher than before. The look of astonishment on the supplicant's face can be very entertaining. But,' I added hurriedly, 'I don't think they will try that ruse on the day you have an imperial audience.'

Recalling my first conversations with Harald, it occurs to me now that I was possibly making a mistake. I thought I was merely preparing him for his meeting with the Basileus, but I fear that Harald was in fact learning a very different lesson: the importance of establishing dominion over others, how to dazzle them. If so, in my enthusiasm for Harald's success I was preparing the seeds for my own later disappointment.

The Orphanotrophus had also instructed me to familiarise the Norwegian prince with the imperial navy, so I took Harald to the naval arsenal on the Golden Horn. There the eparch of the dockyard, fearing espionage, received us coolly and insisted that an official from the dromos as well as his own deputy accompany us on our tour. I showed Harald rank upon rank of slipways, where the warships were built and repaired, warehouses filled with naval stores, mast sheds and sail lofts, and I explained how most of the seamen were recruited from the coastal peoples across the straits in Asia Minor. Harald, who had an expert eye for shipwright's skills, asked such probing questions of the master carpenters that I was sometimes at a loss for the right words as I translated into Greek. Then he demanded to inspect a warship in commission. When the eparch's deputy hesitated, Harald insisted. If his men were to serve on the imperial ships, then at least they should know what to expect. He pointed at a dromon of the largest size, a three-masted fleet battleship which lay at anchor in the Golden Horn, awaiting orders. He would like to inspect that vessel, he said. As I was to notice many times later, when Harald Sigurdsson put a request, it sounded more like a command.

A naval pinnace rowed us out. Close up, the dromon was even larger than I had expected. I had never been aboard one before, and she was immense, at least half as long again as the largest longship that I had seen in the past and two or three times as broad. But what really made her seem imposing was her height above the water. Our Norse warships are low and sleek, but the imperial battleships are built upwards from the waterline. The intention is to overawe the enemy and give a superior platform from which archers can shoot downwards. So the dromon loomed over us as we approached, her height increased by a castle-like structure built amidship. We clambered up her side and on her deck immediately came face to face with her kentarchos, her sailing master. Angrily he demanded to know who this strange-looking foreigner with the long moustaches was who came climbing aboard his ship as though he owned her. When the man from the dromos explained that Harald had a letter from the sekreton of the Orphanotrophus, the kentarchos glowered, then accompanied us at every pace around her deck, watching us suspiciously.

Harald missed nothing. Fascinated by this unknown design of war vessel, he asked how the dromon handled in a seaway, how her sails were set and reefed, how nimbly she could alter course, how fast she went when all two hundred oarsmen were at the benches and for how long they could keep up a cruising pace. The kentarchos answered reluctantly. To him a bearded Norseman was a natural foe. Time and again I had to remind our guide that it was the Orphanotrophus's order that Harald should be familiar with the imperial war fleet, and one day Harald's men might be aboard as his marines. The kentarchos looked as if he would prefer to scuttle his vessel.