The Mosaic of Shadows (18 page)

‘I’ve never heard of him.’ I put the paper on a table. ‘Perhaps he wants to sell me an arbalest.’

‘If that’s so, you’d better see the eunuch first to collect your pay,’ Aelric chuckled. He poked his head around one of the dividing curtains. ‘Who sleeps in here?’

‘My daughters.’ Although they were away, I did not want Aelric or Thomas staying in that room. But I had yet to consider how I would manage that combination in my household. ‘The boy and I can sleep in my room; you can sleep on the bench in here.’

‘I’ll get a palliasse from the barracks tomorrow.’ Aelric was clearly unimpressed at the prospect of another night of hardship.

In the absence of my children, I chopped up some leeks and onions, and mixed in some Euxine sauce which a former client had sent me. Sweyn returned with bread he had had from the palace kitchens, and the four of us shared a coarse meal by the light of my candle. Then Aelric took the bench and pushed it against the bolted roof door, while Sweyn descended to the street.

‘Better to guard at a distance,’ he explained solemnly. ‘Otherwise, if you miss them, it’s too late.’

I retired to my bed chamber with the boy and lay down on the bed, gesturing that he could share it. Instead of gratitude, though, he recoiled, cowering by the wall like a cornered hare, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He stared at me with bitter eyes, and his legs, I saw, were trembling.

‘Do you take me for some sort of pederast?’ I was angry and embarrassed. At the tone of my voice he cringed still further; a tear ran down his cheek.

With a sigh which might have been exasperation or pity, I rolled off the bed and stood on the far side, pointing first to him, then to it, then to myself and then to the floor.

Still he did not move.

‘Very well.’ If words and signs would not suffice, he would have to judge me by my actions – or stay cramped in his corner all night. Very deliberately, I laid out a blanket on the floor, reclined myself on it, and blew out the candle. Then I listened in the darkness.

It must have been a full half an hour before I finally heard the boy creep into the bed above me. And it was long after that that I at last fell asleep.

ι β

Early the next morning I went straight to the palace, thinking Krysaphios would demand to know my progress immediately. He did not. Instead, a clerk directed me into a long arcade lined with benches, where scores of petitioners had already gathered, some so settled they seemed scarcely different from the marble statues around them, as if a gorgon had come and gazed on them. I tried to explain my importance to the clerk but he would not hear me: promising that my name would be noted, he vanished.

I leaned against a cold pillar – the benches were all occupied – and waited. The pale sun moved above the fountain behind me; clerks and secretaries, men and eunuchs, bustled about, talking in urgent voices and ignoring the supplicants who lined their way. In over an hour, I did not see one of them granted an entrance. And an entrance to what? I wondered. I doubted the Emperor Alexios, or even his chamberlain Krysaphios, awaited me on the other side of the doors at the end of the passage. They would admit to another secretary, who might direct me to yet another vestibule or atrium, where another clerk would take my name and ask me to wait. In these heavenly surroundings men moved like the stars, their path prescribed by a higher law and destined never to deviate, nor to touch another body.

I would go, I decided. The thought of the boy and the two Varangians in my house made me anxious, and the eunuch’s gold made me only less tolerant of time wasted. I pushed myself away from my column, and for a moment thought that I had committed some grave offence: there was an almighty clash of cymbals from the far end of the corridor and a great commotion all about me. Men who had not twitched a muscle all morning were suddenly off their seats and on their knees, touching their foreheads to the ground and trying to mumble the words of an adoring hymn. I could hear the tramp of many footsteps, stamping out a rhythm over which rose the plangent cadences of flutes and harps. I knelt; but did not make my bow so low that I could not see who was coming.

First there was a company of Varangians, though none that I recognised. Their burnished axes were held over their shoulders, the hafts capped with the plumed feathers of great birds, and even in the wan light their armour gleamed. Behind them came the musicians, their faces pursed in concentration, and then a priest, swinging a censer before him and filling the air with its rich perfume. Finally came their master. The pointed toes of his mismatched boots moved serenely over the floor, as though he did not touch it; his head, under its pearl-crusted crown, was bowed in solemn contemplation and glowed with the radiance reflected up from his golden robes. It was far removed from when I had last seen him, in a simple, white dalmatica standing before his unsettling mosaic. The Sebastokrator Isaak. Whose wife’s decrepit hunting lodge, I thought, I had visited only the day before.

As he came level with me, I saw my chance.

‘May you live a thousand years, Lord,’ I called. ‘It is Demetrios. I must speak with you.’

Not one hair on his beard moved, and his eyes remained fixed on whatever it was that he could see that other men could not. Then he was past me, and the space was filled with his retinue, dozens of nobles following like crows after an army. He was long disappeared behind the bronze doors before the last of them had passed.

As soon as the way was clear I made to go, but again I was delayed, this time by a stout, dwarfish slave tugging on my elbow.

‘Come with me,’ he said, his eyes very bright. ‘You are summoned.’

‘Where?’

But he had slipped behind the column, and I had to make haste to find him again. He led me to a door – not the great doors that the Sebastokrator had entered, but a small door more suited to his height than mine, set into the wall a little to the side of the main gate. Nor did it lead into any jewelled hall, but into a tight, low-roofed passage whose lamps gave little protection against the erratic steps and turns which beset it. We met no-one, until suddenly the way ended abruptly in a stone wall.

‘To your right,’ whispered the dwarf.

I stepped to my right, and suddenly I was out of the tunnel and in a bright, airy room. Its high-domed roof was set with many windows, and painted with ancient kings, while the light from the gilded walls shone like an eternal dawn. I blinked, and looked back, but behind me there seemed only solid masonry. Of my shrunken guide, and the passage by which I had come, there was no sign.

‘Demetrios.’

I looked back to the centre of the room, where two men stood ringed by marble columns. One was Krysaphios, more immaculately dressed than ever; the other . . .

For the second time that morning, I prostrated myself before the Sebastokrator. He took my homage with a smile, then gestured me to rise and approach.

‘I summoned you, Demetrios, when I saw you in the hallway. I have come with tidings which concern you – and I am quick to share with those who will find use in it.’ He lowered his chin and stared at me. ‘Terrible news has reached me from my wife. Her forester has reported that a monk and a company of Bulgars broke into her hunting lodge in the great forest; I fear they used it to concoct the plot which almost murdered my brother. I rushed immediately to tell the chamblerlain, for my conscience cannot bear the burden that I may have given succour to my brother’s enemies, however unwittingly.’

Now it was my turn to eye him sceptically. ‘Did your wife’s forester also relate how a dozen Varangians were at the house yesterday, and discovered all this before an inhospitable steward named Kosmas evicted us?’

The Sebastokrator did not flinch. ‘I did not know that, Demetrios. This message only came this morning. I think it took many days to reach me. I would have sent a messenger to you, but I thought it wisest to tell the chamberlain first. I feared that he might see me more readily than you.’

‘Indeed,’ said Krysaphios. ‘Sometimes I have more urgent matters to attend than belated, inconclusive gossip.’ He was looking at me, but I felt he spoke to the Sebastokrator.

‘More urgent matters?’ Isaak made to defend me. ‘What could be more urgent than the safety of the Emperor?’

‘The safety of the empire, as you well know, Lord.’

‘They are the same. And where is my brother?’

‘He is at the walls, seeing to the defences. The masons have been labouring since dawn to put them in good repair.’

‘Why?’ I broke in. Did this bear on the crowds I had seen pouring in from the country the night before?

‘Because we may soon be attacked,’ snapped the eunuch. ‘Why else? But that is not your concern, Demetrios. Your concern is that if a barbarian army does besiege our gates, there is not a homicidal monk at large who could destroy the Emperor when he is most needed. I do not think you will snare him by loitering in this room.’

He jerked his wrist, and the doors behind me opened noiselessly. Taking his meaning, I bowed low and left, passing a host of musicians and sycophants loitering in the next chamber. As I walked in they leapt to attention, and as quickly forgot me when they saw who I was.

As I was already at the palace, I sought out the archivist at the imperial library, for there was a small detail I wished to know better. He was a fastidious man, and would not let me touch his precious books and scrolls, but insisted I wait in the scriptorium among the rows of monks hunched over their desks, while his acolytes searched through piles of parchments and papers. It was a bright room, lit by enormous arched windows at either end; the only sound within was the reed pens scratching like chattering insects.

After a wait, which could have been minutes or hours, I saw one of the assistants emerge from the rampart of shelving and whisper something in the archivist’s ear. The old man nodded slowly, then shuffled across the room to where I stood.

‘We have found what you sought,’ he whispered to me. His voice was like the rustle of dry papers. ‘This Saint Remigius you ask of is not known in our church, but he has much importance to the barbarian Franks.’

Again the Franks. The boy had said that the monk prayed in their language; now it seemed he venerated their saints also. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What is this Remigius’ story?’

The archivist clasped his hands together so that they disappeared in his long sleeves. ‘After the fall of the West, when the barbarians had made themselves masters of Roman Gaul, and paganism and heresy were rife, Remigius converted their king to the true faith. Thus the Franks were saved for Christ.’

‘What else?’ Though doubtless important for ecclesiastical history, I could see little reason why that should win the saint an assassin’s devotion.

The archivist looked at me severely, as if my impatience were a slight on his scholarship. ‘There is nothing else. He was made a bishop, and died at a venerable age. His shrine is in the Frankish town of Rheims, where the barbarians keep one of their few centres of learning. It is written that there he effects many miracles.’

I could not tell whether he considered the education of barbarians to be one such miracle, but it was obvious that he drew little pleasure dispensing from his hoard of knowledge to an ignorant supplicant like me. I gave my thanks and left, unsure whether I had gained anything of importance. It was another link which tied the monk to the barbarian west, but I sought ties with Romans, with men who stood ready to assume the imperial throne if the Emperor fell. Whichever saints the monk prayed to, and whether he worshipped in Latin or Greek, I needed to find his masters.

That morning, however, I had little idea where I might seek them. I could try to talk further with Thomas, but I was impatient and could not find the enthusiasm for it. There were still many eminent names on the list to interview, but I feared a shared language would not make them any more forthcoming than the boy. And walking the streets hoping to glimpse a monk with a crooked nose would avail even less.

I fished out the paper that I had found under my door the night before and re-read it. ‘The merchant Domenico wishes to see you at his house in Galata.’

It would be a change to speak to someone who wished to see me. I turned onto the steeply sloping stairs, and made my way down to the harbour.

A boatman rowed me across the Golden Horn, wending his way between the dolmans and biremes, skiffs and dhows which choked the wide bay. I have ever wondered that they called the Horn ‘golden’, for though enough of it was loaded on the decks and wharves – in specie and in kind – the water itself was rank with flotsam: the splintered wood of discarded crates, dead fish fallen from the nets, and the floating effluence of the sewers. None of which, thankfully, I could dwell on, for the boatman had constant need of my eyes to look over his shoulder and guide him between the crushing hulls of the larger vessels.

‘Fleet’s come in,’ he said, nodding to his right. ‘Came up last night.’