Byzantium (95 page)

‘Continue to trust me, Nephew.’ Constantine patted Michael’s arm and stepped quickly away from the throne.

Rumour stalked the streets of the great city on a cool, windless night. Haraldr could hear the low, murmuring anxiety that drifted in the still air, and he awakened often to its fevered, wordless voices. For a long while he listened to Maria’s troubled, fitful breathing and wondered if she dreamed tonight, and what fate she knew. Towards dawn he was awakened by a rattling at the window. It was too insistent to be a bird. He kissed Maria’s shoulders and got up and opened the shutters. For a moment the face at the glass startled him. He peered into the gloom and recognized the white streak in the black hair: an ‘associate’ of the Blue Star’s son. With hand signals he directed the little man to come round to the front gate. He threw on a silk cloak and silently padded downstairs.

The little man scurried through the big oaken doors, glancing up at them anxiously, as if he had never entered a house in this fashion. He wore a black hooded cloak like a monk’s. ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt,’ he whispered quickly, ‘the Blue Star is aware that you might be experiencing some difficulties. She says she intends to help you, but she is having difficulty convincing the people of the Studion that Joannes is their enemy. Or at least that it is worth dying to oppose him. But she offers you what resources she can muster. She says she owes you this much.’ The little man nodded vigorously as if to second that judgement.

Haraldr had already considered the issue. ‘Even united, her people would not be able to tip the balance against the Imperial Taghmata. My Varangians are far too reduced in strength. I see no purpose in sending innocents to the sacrifice in a lost cause when the only result would be to focus the wrath of Joannes on the Studion. And he may decide that with his other enemies in the city, it is prudent to continue his programmes there. But tell my comrade the Blue Star that her offer alone is worth a thousand men at my side. And tell her that should I soon find myself at the feet of the Pantocrator, I will say a prayer for her each day.’

The messenger nodded grimly and offered Haraldr his hands. As he gripped the little man’s forearms, Haraldr was struck that he felt far more sincerity and honesty in the parting clasp of this petty thief than he had in the lavish greetings of the men who ruled Rome.

One hundred marines of the Imperial Fleet stood to attention along the flat stone surface of the jetty. Armoured from head to toe in steel mail-coats, helms and embossed greaves, they were a wall of silver in the morning sun. Behind them, the brilliantly enamelled scarlet-and-white superstructure of the Imperial Trireme rose above the massive black hull. The Droungarios of the Imperial Fleet, attired in gold ceremonial armour and attended by four komes of the Imperial Fleet, waited to welcome the Orphanotrophus. Joannes descended the marble steps to the jetty, his enormous black form a curious magnet for the sparkling dignitaries who trailed behind him like rapt children. The officers fell to their knees and the marines bristled a line of spears in acclamation. ‘Orphanotrophus!’ The shouts rolled across the Bosporus, a warning to the city that now awaited its conqueror. ‘Orphanotrophus! Come forth, champion of Christ! Come forth, victorious Lord of Rome!’

Joannes’s misshapen fingers urged the supplicant Droungarios to his feet. ‘Well executed, Droungarios,’ rumbled Joannes as he surveyed the fearsome marines. ‘Are you confident that the Imperial Taghmata understands my instructions?’ ‘They await your personal signal, Orphanotrophus.’ ‘Very well. Let us embark and reclaim our City from the usurper and his
barbaroi
accomplices.

‘Hetairarch.’ Halldor stepped forward, his mail byrnnie chinging as he walked. ‘The barricades are set.’ Halldor pointed with the polished steel blade of his broad-axe, noting in turn each of four entrances to the main hall of the Imperial Gynaeceum; the tall bronze doors, visible behind the columns of dark red Carian marble that supported the building’s main dome, were bolstered with heavy ceremonial dining couches. Twenty Varangians clustered at each door, talking quietly and adjusting their armour or inspecting their weapons. The sound of axes being fine-honed shrilled through the hall. The Valkyrja song, thought Haraldr. But there was a beauty to that music when he thought how unhesitatingly his pledge-men had vowed to remain at his side in spite of the Emperor’s craven capitulation to Joannes. They were fighting for him now, and for their own honour. They would not be known as the Varangians who had been driven from Miklagardr like whipped dogs.

The Decurion Stefhir Hrafnrson ran over from the north end of the hall, where the bronze gate was still slightly ajar. ‘Hetairarch!’ he snapped as he handed Haraldr a rolled document.

‘The new Grand Domestic,’ Haraldr told Halldor as he broke the lead seal. Haraldr read the text quickly and looked at Halldor. ‘Ducas is the new Grand Domestic. You remember him, of course. A Dhynatoi stooge in the tradition of Dalassena. His men will not fight well for him, but being good soldiers, they will fight. Ducas writes well. He calls upon the men of the Grand Hetairia to surrender and end this day before it begins.’ Haraldr’s pause was punctuated by the shriek of a whetstone across Hunland steel. ‘Decurion,’ he told Hrafnrson, ‘have a reply drafted. Tell the Grand Domestic to prepare himself for the longest day of his life.’

Haraldr dismissed his officers, strode to the west end of the hall, and climbed two sets of marble staircases to the roof of the Gynaeceum. Ulfr stood on the terrace that ringed a large, colonnaded cupola used by the Empress and her ladies to view the races in the Hippodrome; the enormous, empty, bleached bulk of the stadium extended beneath them to the north. The sun was three hours above the horizon, and the surrounding domes of the palace complex seemed coated with quicksilver. No sails or painted hulls marred the sky-blue Bosporus; the docks had been rife with rumours of some sort of naval engagement between supporters of the Emperor and the Imperial Fleet, elements of which were visible as neat rows of miniature
dhromons
in the distant Neorion Harbour. The single dark shaft of Neorion Tower stood against the brilliant red and white of the ships like the sole remaining column of a temple raised in some distant time by an evil god. Haraldr thanked the Pantocrator for allowing him to love a woman whose courage would not allow her to enter the black steel doors of Neorion. May the Christ forgive him, but he would plunge the dagger in that beloved breast himself before he abandoned her to that place.

Ulfr scanned the northern horizon. ‘I expect Joannes soon,’ he told Haraldr without looking away from the sea. ‘If there is to be fighting, he will want it to start promptly. I’m certain he wants to make his triumphal entry before dark.’

Haraldr laughed derisively. ‘The Orphanotrophus will wait in Bucoleon Harbour for many days before he makes that entry. And he will have to climb over the corpses of his Imperial Taghmata when he does. The defences you and Halldor have prepared are excellent.’

Ulfr looked around as someone emerged from the staircase.

‘Gregory!’ said Haraldr. He had tried to think of some excuse for getting the brave little interpreter to some place of safety but had decided that Gregory would perceive any such effort as an insult. ‘You have come to soar with the Norse Eagles!’

‘I am afraid you will want to see if I actually can fly from this perch when you hear what I have to say, Hetairarch,’ said Gregory with none of his customary levity. ‘First, I have discovered the signal that Joannes will give the Taghmata to begin their attack. The Imperial Trireme will hoist a black flag to the centre mast before it docks in Bucoleon Harbour.’

‘The colour is apt,’ said Haraldr. ‘That is important intelligence, Grand Interpreter. Why did you think I would--’

‘That was merely the flower on the dung heap, Hetairarch. The piece of intelligence that you will find most foul is this: the Nobilissimus has not been seen this morning. He was last seen during the night past, in the inns near the Pisan Quarter. Looking for a ship.’

‘Damn!’ Haraldr smashed his axe against his shield, and the thunder boomed off into the sky. ‘I knew from the moment I laid eyes on that. . . that ... I knew he was a craven, praise-tongued, charcoal-chewing . . . damn!’ Haraldr stood fuming at the sea for a moment, as if he hoped he could spot the fleeing Nobilissimus and cut him down with a prodigious toss of his axe: ‘Does the Emperor know this?’

Gregory shook his head. ‘Since we are discussing cowards,’ said Ulfr, ‘where is our Emperor?’

‘He is in the Empress’s chambers,’ said Haraldr. ‘The purple-born and Maria are trying to steady him.’ Haraldr again pounded his shield with his axe and glared at Ulfr. ‘Get our Emperor up here, Centurion, if you must carry him over your back. I’ll tell him myself about his uncle’s defection. And then I am going to make him stay here and watch his fate sail towards him.’

The Emperor followed Ulfr up the stairs a quarter of an hour later. Michael wore a purple scaramangium but no other insignia of his office. His face was flushed but his dark eyes were blank, as if his soul had fled, leaving only its shell to confront fate. ‘Majesty,’ said Haraldr, trying to conceal the disgust he felt, ‘I am concerned about the Nobilissimus.’

Michael’s eyes darted from side to side. ‘He is - working on something,’ said the Emperor, his words coming in rapid bursts. ‘He - has a plan.’ Suddenly Michael fell to his knees. ‘Hetairarch!’ he shrieked, his hands clasped before his hysterical face, ‘he has left me!’ Michael clutched Haraldr’s legs. ‘I am lost, Hetairarch. Hetairarch, swear to me you will not let me dies. Swear to me . . .’ He rubbed his nose against Haraldr’s boots. ‘If there is mercy in you, swear it to me.’

Haraldr could only feel pity. He remembered how Jarl Rognvald had both literally and spiritually lifted him up after Stiklestad. ‘Majesty, Majesty,’ said Haraldr as he lifted the sobbing Emperor to his feet. ‘You had courage once. I saw the proof of that courage pounded into your armour that day near Antioch. Today you will find that courage again.’

Michael made a worthy effort to draw himself together. ‘You are right, of course, Hetairarch.’ He looked out to sea resolutely. ‘I hope this - outburst will not - prejudice your loyalty. You and your men are all I have.’

‘Majesty,’ said Haraldr, ‘I swear by all that is sacred to me that as long as I remain in Rome, I will defend your life with my own.’

‘Thank you, Hetairarch.’ Michael’s eyes teared, and he looked down at his purple boots. Ulfr motioned to get Haraldr’s attention and pointed to the neck of the Bosporus, to the north. Haraldr left the Emperor and walked round the cupola to get a better look.

The masts were clearly visible on the horizon. ‘Joannes and his Senators,’ whispered Ulfr. ‘I think I can make out the Imperial Trireme--’ Ulfr stopped as both he and Haraldr saw the activity along the portico-lined avenue that ran between the Hall of Nineteen Couches and the Sigma, the principal north-south axis of the palace complex. Preceded by gold-armoured officers mounted on white horses, the units of the Imperial Taghmata were moving into position.

The next hour was excruciating. The Taghmatic units surrounded the Gynaeceum while Joannes’s flotilla moved steadily south. The Senators’ galleys steered into the Golden Horn to make their anchorage at Platea Harbour, while the Imperial Trireme bearing Joannes sailed conspicuously alone around the tip of Byzantium, heading well past the city so that the populace would have time to watch as the imposing, sea-going fortress turned back to the north and came head in to the Bucoleon Harbour. Somehow Michael was able to watch it all without another breakdown, and Haraldr was touched by his composure. It was no easy thing for a man to march with his head up into battle after he had already soiled his breeches in front of his comrades.

The Imperial Trireme trailed white wake and the three rows of oars dipped and rose inexorably; from a distance the armoured marines looked like granulated silver spilled on the deck. Haraldr watched as the swift-moving craft plunged like an elaborate spearhead directly towards the Bucoleon quays just below them to the south. Then something at the periphery of his vision distracted him. Another wake streaked the finely silvered water; a ship had emerged from the Harbour of Contoscali, a very small U-shaped bay about five bowshots west of the Bucoleon.

‘What is it?’ asked Ulfr.

‘A
khelandia
of the
pamphyloi
class. Imperial Fleet,’ said Haraldr. The
pamphyloi
were half the size of
dhromons
but still lethally armed and faster and more manoeuvrable. The single tier of oars fluttered in rapid cadence and the narrow-beamed vessel moved quickly on an intercept course with the Imperial Trireme; as Haraldr judged it, the two craft would make contact just a bowshot beyond the Bucoleon breakwater.

‘A curious rendezvous for an escort vessel,’ said Ulfr, pointing to where the wakes would converge. Haraldr looked at Ulfr and shook his head. It was obviously a desperate rendezvous for a Nobilissimus intent on begging for his life.

Michael pointed at the racing
khelandia
with a limp finger and quaking arm. ‘Uncle is on that ship, isn’t he?’ he said in a voice so low that had there been wind, his words would have been lost.

‘Signal him to return to his anchorage!’ shouted the Droungarios of the Imperial Fleet. He stood at the stern of the Imperial Trireme, high above the hissing sea, atop a cottage-size stern-castle that resembled a small palace in its ornate gold fittings. The Droungarios was a slight man; no doubt he had been tough and wiry in his youth, but now that he was well past seventy, shrivelled and stooped, his authority was in his rough, wine-pickled voice and insignia of rank rather than his physical presence. His command soon produced a sequence of flags along the yard-arm of the trireme’s central mast.

‘He’s not responding!’ shouted one of the Droungarios’s attendant komes, shortly after the flags had been raised.

The Orphanotrophus Joannes appeared at the Droungarios’s side and leaned against the gilded railing. ‘Let him come on,’ Joannes said, his face struggling with a grin. The Droungarios looked at him in surprise. ‘See that man,’ he said, pointing to a purple-clad figure at the bow of the
khelandia,
now only two stades distant. ‘Those are the robes of the Nobilissimus. My brother has come to negotiate the terms of his nephew’s abdication.’