Byzantium (70 page)

‘So perhaps all my cautions don’t seem so foolish now,’ Haraldr said goadingly. He was tremendously relieved to hear that the Emperor was mending, because otherwise he and Mar had got nowhere with their increasingly fitful conspiracy to rid Rome of Joannes. Even Mar had admitted he was making no progress on the miraculous alliance he had promised weeks ago; it was obvious it would come to nothing.

Mar shrugged placidly. ‘Well, we shall see what we shall see. Do you know what this is?’ Mar pointed to the gleaming new building, set back from a quiet side street by a broad, tree-rimmed lawn. The two-storey edifice looked much like a prosperous new monastery; a freshly plastered chapel with five tiled domes rose in the midst of a four-sided block of living quarters.

‘They say it is a convent,’ said Haraldr.

‘Yes. A peculiar convent. Come with me.’

The entrance to the convent was beneath a large arch supported on polished columns of rare green porphyry from Sparta. The massive wooden door was carved with images of the life of Christ. A grate opened, and they were admitted by a young woman in the black frock worn by nuns and monks alike. A black cowl covered her hair, and she drew part of the cowl around to veil her face, but Haraldr glimpsed that she was strikingly attractive, so much so that he was ashamed of the thoughts he had about her. ‘He has come?’ asked the nun anxiously.

‘Soon,’ said Mar. ‘We are ordered to check the building. It is simply a ritual.’ The nun led them through a vaulted hallway into a large refectory lit by rows of circular bronze polycandelons. Beneath the lamps sat hundreds of nuns in uniform black; they tittered in a very undignified fashion when Haraldr and Mar entered, and many, if not most, forgot to veil their faces. Their meal seemed extremely lavish, the silver plates and glass ewers immediately apparent; servants scurried among the tables carrying gilt platters piled with roast meats. Most remarkably, many of the women were as young and attractive as the nun who had opened the door, although many others seemed careworn or had pocked faces.

‘Do you see the way they are looking at us?’ said Haraldr. ‘I thought nuns would have their eyes cast down in Christ-like humility. These women are as brazen as--’ He broke off in astonishment.

Mar nodded and tried to keep from staring. ‘You will probably recognize some of the faces. You may have passed them on the streets of the Studion.’

‘Odin. Theotokos. Whores.’

‘Every one of them.’

The simple canvas litter was borne up the marble path a short while later; only a handful of armoured Hyknatoi and a single sad-eyed eunuch, apparently the Emperor’s personal chamberlain, were in attendance. Haraldr stood by, at a loss to determine the protocol involved in this strange circumstance, and then fell to his face as the curtains of the litter were drawn aside. When he stood again, he could not avoid the sight, though he damned his eyes for what they saw.

It was not the same man, of course, but an impostor, a decoy. No, it was the man; the essence, the profound eyes, and the decisive nose were still there. But the rest was a painful parody of the magnificent Lord of the Entire World who had awed Haraldr those long months ago. The Emperor had swollen grotesquely, his cheeks and limbs and torso as sickeningly bloated as those of a floating corpse; his fingers were like thick sausages. His skin was jaundiced, with red streaks. It clearly pained him even to set his feet on the ground. He looked around, as if searching for someone to comfort him. Haraldr could not bear it. He stepped forward and offered his arm. ‘Glorious Majesty, please let me help you.’

The Emperor looked at him, his eyes struggling for recognition. ‘Hetairarch,’ he gasped, obviously mistaking Haraldr for Mar. ‘Thank you, Hetairarch ... I need ... no assistance.’ And then he began to walk, an effort so pitiful to watch that it broke Haraldr’s heart.

It seemed an eternity before the shuffling, hobbling Emperor could drag his stiff, dropsied legs across the inner courtyard to the chapel. The nuns already knelt before the glimmering silver chancel screen and the huge mosaic of the Virgin in the apse, and they bowed when the Emperor entered. Yet another lifetime passed before he reached the small rectangular ambo. Haraldr prayed that the Emperor would not attempt to climb the marble steps to the canopied platform, though it only rose to the height of a man’s shoulders.

The sad-eyed eunuch tried to restrain the Emperor with a touch to his cloak. But the Emperor resolutely climbed, so slowly that he seemed a wooden figure poised at each step. He finally attained the platform, steadied himself on the rail, and turned about. A dreadfully long interval passed before he could compose himself enough to speak; his legs seemed to sway like fat bladders partially full of water. ‘My daughters,’ he finally said, raspily. ‘Our Lord the Christ implores us to judge not others lest you be judged yourself. As He cast the seven devils out of Mary of Magdala, so let His hand on earth cast out the devils that afflict these daughters. But I know, then, that my daughters would fear for the poverty of their mortal flesh if they abandoned all traffic in their beauty and, through this cruel extortion, might never know the face of the Pantocrator’s forgiveness. But the Christ also told His disciples, whatever you pray for in faith you shall receive. So your Father instructs you, His daughters, that if you pray to remain free of your sin, and continue to abjure the flesh and renounce the profession of the harlot, you shall receive whatever bounty my offices can provide, and never labour again except to praise the Pantocrator.’

Haraldr was stunned. The man was providing free and luxurious lodging for prostitutes while his Empire decayed like his own walking corpse. Better that he did die soon.

The Emperor finished his discourse and repeated his excruciating procession, the nuns kneeling throughout, no doubt profusely grateful to the Virgin for their extraordinary fortune. The Emperor reached the courtyard and looked up into the spring sky as if questing for some gesture of approval from the Heavenly Tribunal. His head twitched, then drooped slowly. He gagged and fell to the pavement before anyone could steady him. His limbs instantly stiffened and palsied. His head pounded like a coppersmith’s hammer against the pavement even as Haraldr and the sad-eyed eunuch knelt to help him. Haraldr looked at the Emperor’s face in astonishment. It was the colour of blood, and his eyes were white, the demons having deprived him even of his vision. The Emperor’s teeth gnashed like a beast’s, and his limbs were utterly rigid beneath the spongy, morbid tissue that cloaked his entire form.

After many terrible minutes the fit passed and the Emperor’s eyes returned to normal and he looked up apologetically. His head was bloodied from his exertions against the pavement. His breath rattled in his throat and he could scarcely lift his head, much less rise to his feet. Haraldr had a curious instinct that there were two maladies present, and that this one sapped his strength and left him vulnerable to the second, which swelled his limbs. But he was no learned physician. He only knew for certain that the rumours in the street, not the reassurances from the palace, were the truth. The Father he had admired and respected was already dead. And now even this bloated corpse would soon be mercifully interred.

Haraldr stood in the Empress’s ante-chamber, wondering if her invitation had anything to do with her husband’s imminent mortality, and if he would see Maria. The eunuchs quickly ushered him into her dining chamber. The small table had only two elegant settings, chased silver dishes and goblets fashioned of engraved gold leaf pressed between glass. Haraldr’s breast emptied of the last hope that bound his heart to Rome.

He performed the usual prostrations when Zoe entered, and she laughed as if the ritual were a jest, not an obeisance to her purple-born majesty. When he rose from the thick crimson carpet, Haraldr was not prepared for what he saw any more than he had been two days previously, when he had witnessed the sad spectacle of her husband. It was as if Zoe had taken youth from her consort’s catastrophic deterioration, as if only here, in the palaces that were her native soil, could her true beauty be fully manifest.

Zoe wore the simple scaramangium that she had made fashionable, but this high-collared robe was completely beaded with pearls; her form appeared all light and silhouette, without apparent volume, much like a living mosaic. She wore her hair braided over her head, somewhat in the style that Maria had displayed to such effect at Argyrus’s hostel, but with pearl- and diamond-studded ribbons laced through the stunningly gold tresses. Her blue eyes did not have the heat of Maria’s, but tonight they were ineffably deep, almost like amethyst.

‘Keleusate.’
The eunuch helped Haraldr to his seat, after which Zoe sat, twinkling like a galaxy as she moved. A priest appeared and intoned the blessing, and servants brought in the miniature olives and caviar. The wine was poured and watered.

‘I have missed you, Manglavite. Of course Maria speaks of you.’

‘I have missed you as well, Majesty,’ Haraldr said sincerely; he was bedazzled. ‘I must awkwardly and impudently confess that I had not realized the extent of my deprivation until I saw you a moment ago, and indeed shame myself with the fervent desire of my eyes at this moment.’

‘Your Greek is vastly improved, Manglavite.’ Zoe tilted her head slightly, and her deep red, almost amaranth lips gave a hint of amusement. Haraldr realized he had presumed too much; she was not only more beautiful here but also more regal. His forehead flamed.

Zoe devoured her little olives in silence for a while, occasionally looking up at Haraldr as if he were a servant in front of whom she could eat without any sort of self-consciousness. Haraldr was only slightly ashamed by the thoughts he had of her as he watched her sumptuous lips suck at the morsels. He had grown up at courts, and he knew that a dying king was a dead king, and that his widow would, if only by necessity, soon take another man into her bed. He remembered the way Zoe had looked at Michael Kalaphates in Antioch, and reflected that this Empress had no doubt already entertained her husband’s successor; Maria had told him several times that she shared the same suspicion. Haraldr himself had had to consider a succession to the Emperor: the man he had fully expected to deal with Joannes and right the wrongs of the Studion was a grotesque, moribund impostor. Everything had changed. Mar had been right; they would have to take the initiative against Joannes. But how?

When the fish course had been served, Zoe peered from beneath her fine, paint-darkened lashes and blithely asked, ‘Are you in love with Maria?’

‘Yes.’ If it is a single combat you wish, Purple-Born, then the King of Norway will oblige you.

‘Are you aware that I have opposed her liaison with you?’

‘No. But I am not surprised. She is a lady of the highest rank. I am merely a
barboros
Manglavite, a servant of Rome. I hope my service to her has brought her some satisfaction. I consider myself free to serve elsewhere.’

‘So you are angry with her.’

‘I am pained by her. But I am a Norseman. We do not curse the sun when it sets.’

Zoe set her chin on her exquisite hands. ‘How candid you are. Your heart is great enough to confess the pain that it carries. I am sorry I have not importuned you about romantic matters before. Your outlook interests me.’

Zoe ate her fish in silence, occasionally idly prodding the sauce-laden fillet with a slender, two-pronged fork. When she had finished, she stared at Haraldr for a while, and he held her gaze, in equal parts defiant and mesmerized. ‘Do you think I love my husband?’ she finally asked.

‘I would not presume to know your heart, Majesty.’

‘I love him. I will never see him again. I will ask, but it will not be permitted.’

Haraidr fell into the sadness of her amethyst eyes; he perceived that she did love her husband, even if she had taken a lover in his absence.
Perhaps much like me,
Haraldr thought,
with my Alan girl.
‘You bear your pain with a grace that nourishes the soul, Your Majesty.’

‘Any moment we have with someone we love is time stolen from destiny. I had my interlude with the sun in my arms. Like you, I do not curse the sun when it embraces the night.’ Zoe paused while the meat course, a roast kid, was sliced by a eunuch. When the servant had moved away from the table, she leaned slightly towards him, her lips glistening in the

candlelight. ‘I have heard that you keep, or have kept, several women. Have you gone back to them?’

‘Only to the whore I purchased from Anatellon. It is a hollow joy.’

‘Yes. But most of our pleasures are small. And the great joys in life almost always turn on us and bring us pain.’

Unwatered wine accompanied the desert. Zoe talked gaily for a long while, regaling him with stories of the Bulgar-Slayer, ancient gods and scandalous romances. When she called the priest to say the closing grace, Haraldr was greatly disappointed. He had hoped to hear her husky voice long into the night, and forget Maria for a few hours.

He stood as protocol dictated and crossed his hands over his breast. Her pale eyebrow twitched slightly. ‘It is the first night it has been warm enough to sit on my balcony. Come and talk with me.’

Zoe’s balcony was a large arcade opening off her apartments. The multicoloured constellation of the palace complex sloped to the sea beneath them. Chrysopolis blazed across the water to the east. Haraldr remembered the other balcony across the water, and what he had felt as he stood by Maria and watched the Great City in the night. Now his soul faced a different meridian.
My return journey has begun,
Haraldr thought.
I leave behind not only Maria, but the other love that can no longer hold me, the Empress City. I have spent the night in these twin lovers’ arms and have known their narcotic passions and their lethal madness. Now I want nothing more than to abandon them to their own tormented fates. I have a duty to perform for the people of Studion and the soul of Asbjorn Ingvarson to avenge. And then the vengeance that howls across the endless plains of Rus and shrieks in my breast like the ravens’ song waits for me. Norway.