Grettir whimpered but fought to find words; his tongue had always been his livelihood but now it was his life. ‘He said you would not need to ask that.’
The knife vanished and Grettir was jerked to his feet. ‘You live, then,’ growled the beast, ‘as Mar once let me live.’ The noseless giant said nothing else, only stared at Grettir for a long, horrifying minute, as if he could pull from Grettir’s terrified gaze the memories of a homeland so far away. Finally he spoke again, with calm finality. ‘The name of the man?’
‘He is called Haraldr Nordbrikt.’ Grettir gulped the dry rock in his throat. ‘His real name is Haraldr Sigurdarson, Prince of Norway.’
‘I cannot bear to look,’ said Gregory. He shut his eyes I and would have buried his head in his hands if he had
not thought he would be immediately flogged - or worse - for such a violation of protocol. ‘You don’t know how many of them fall. I’ve seen it before in the Hippodrome.’
‘I can’t take my eyes from her,’ said Haraldr as he raptly watched the acrobat. The rope had been strung taut between the far ends of the two half domes that thrust up the gilded central dome of the Strategus’s palace. The acrobat stood on one pointed toe, just beneath the balustraded rim of the central dome. Her arms stretched wide like a bird’s, and her breasts, covered only by tiny golden leaves placed over the nipples, were pulled firm against her sculpted rib cage. Her bare buttocks were tensed; a third leaf between her legs was all that concealed what little modesty she had left. She pirouetted and waved, then leapt almost weightlessly to the safety of the stone-railed balcony. The Strategus’s guests, several hundred of them at more than a dozen large tables covered with white brocade cloths and silver settings, roared in acclamation.
‘He wonders if you would like to speak to the acrobat.’ Gregory translated for Constantine. ‘Her name is Citron. A very private conversation, he assures you.’
Haraldr looked at Constantine, who reclined across from him, next to the head of the T-shaped table. ‘Yes,’ he answered in Greek. Then turned to Gregory, who stood in attendance directly behind him. ‘Tell him I do not intend the shroud of night to conceal from me the beauties of Antioch.’
Constantine smiled obsequiously. Haraldr noticed that the Strategus of Antioch was in an active sweat; a bead dripped from his eyelash and darkened the carnelian silk upholstery of the dining couch on which he reclined. Haraldr settled comfortably on his left elbow; Constantine had called this dining ‘in the Roman fashion’, and Gregory had reported that this was considered the height of elegance. One of Constantine’s eunuchs scurried over to arrange the silken pillows to support Haraldr’s back. He studied the gleaming silver knives and forks set before him; after practising for months with the absurd instruments, he could use them as well as axe and sword. And after all, he reminded himself, these are in a sense the weapons of Rome.
The young man who came to stand beside Constantine at first seemed to be the Emperor. Another moment’s scrutiny revealed a less robust torso and more delicate features, but he was a very handsome young man. Constantine gestured between the new arrival and Haraldr. ‘This is my nephew, Michael Kalaphates. Michael, you are privileged to meet the renowned slayer of Saracens, Haraldr Nordbrikt.’
Haraldr stood and bowed. Michael seemed genuinely enthusiastic, his dark eyes lively. ‘Sir, I am your servant,’ he said in an elegant but slightly quavering voice. ‘The smallest thing you wish, or if you wish the greatest thing of your admirers here in Antioch, I would find any request an honour to fulfil. And even if there is nothing I can do for a man as resourceful as your feats prove you to be, I hope I will have the good fortune to converse with you before you leave our city.’ He bowed and took his seat. Haraldr remembered that Joannes had remarked on his nephew’s lack of ambition. But Haraldr also observed that the same had been said of him not too long ago, and he felt an instinctive affinity for this lesser Michael.
Meanwhile Constantine had begun to dither with the eunuch he called Basil; something about his anxiety as to when the Empress and her ladies would appear. Haraldr counted the empty places; the Empress would clearly take the purple-upholstered couch at the head of the table; two guests would be seated between him and the Empress, another directly across from him. Haraldr worried that Maria would take the seat one removed from him; then he would not be able to pass her booth conspicuously without so much as a single glance at her wares.
Constantine frowned involuntarily and then brightened into a clearly extorted greeting. He stood, grinning and perspiring. ‘Strategus Meletius Attalietes, you do us honour!’
Attalietes waved as if he were fanning a slow, stupid fly. He settled languidly onto the couch opposite Constantine’s. Haraldr was astounded to observe that Attalietes’s gold-hemmed tunic was almost as berry-purple as an Imperial blood relationship; was it effrontery? Attalietes made the merest inclination of his head in Haraldr’s direction; the small nostrils that pierced Attalietes’s snub nose flared slightly and then compressed, as if expunging a disagreeable odour. He turned back to Constantine and spoke in a scrolling tongue more imperious, more florid, than even Symeon’s. Haraldr heard
barbaroi
clearly, of course, and something about vulgarity, bad taste. Constantine seemed flustered; his forehead was covered with huge beads and his bare cheeks flushed.
‘The Dhynatoi wants to know why you are seated at his table,’ whispered Gregory. ‘He also says it is vulgar to entertain before dinner. He says that out of deference to Her Imperial Majesty he will suffer these affronts to propriety and remain at the table.’
The music of the organ was the signal for all to rise; like a huge flock of white birds, the snowy-robed guests stood and waited. The large bronze doors at the end of the room slid aside, signalling the prescribed chants. ‘Come forth, Empress of the Romans!’ The dome echoed with the reverent words and Haraldr calmed himself with the reminder that he had dined at a king’s table for most of his life. ‘Come forth, God-protected splendour of the crown! Come forth, purple-born glory! Shed light on your slaves!’ The white-robed chamberlains, led by the frail Symeon, preceded the glittering ladies-in-waiting through the door. Haraldr saw Maria, sheathed in tight white silk, just before the Empress appeared in a burst of brilliant purple. Every head in the enormous hall bowed deeply.
Eunuchs fluttered about the couches. More white-robed figures took up positions behind the head of the table. Silk rustled, and Haraldr, head still bowed, saw a gold-threaded white hem a few ells from his feet; the erotically tiny white slippers were studded with little pearls. He thought of Halldor’s lesson and relaxed. The wise trader. The white-robed figures at the head of the table began to chant, one after the other, in a tongue Haraldr could not understand. When the chants were done, it was permissible to look up.
Zoe reclined at the head of the table; a young woman bearing a golden wand stood motionless directly behind her. The Empress turned to her right and said, ‘Constantine, Strategus of Antioch.’ Constantine removed the long white sash he wore over his shoulder, then reclined on his couch. Zoe turned to her left. ‘Meletius Attalietes, Strategus of Cilicia.’ Attalietes removed his sash as floridly as a dancer discarding her robe and reclined in a single effortless motion, as if he dined in this position each night. Still facing left, Zoe addressed the woman next to Haraldr. ‘Maria, Mistress of the Robes,’ said Zoe in her voluptuous, slightly sibilant voice. Maria settled on her couch; Haraldr could not restrain a glance at her white slippers and a flash of bare ankle. ‘Anna Dalassena, Silentarias.’ The girl who removed her sash and reclined just opposite Haraldr was like a gorgeous bird; her lips bright red, her black hair coiled and set with pearls, her cheeks blazing. She was smaller than the Empress and Maria, with a delicate silk-sheathed neck, and probably not any older than Elisevett.
‘Haraldr Nordbrikt, Slayer of Saracens and Komes of Her Imperial Majesty’s Varangian Guard.’ Haraldr could not suppress his excitement and vanity as he removed his sash and settled back on his couch. As the rest of the guests at the Imperial table were announced and seated, he noticed that the Empress gave Michael Kalaphates a wry, meaningful look.
The five white-robed chanters, or
voukaloi,
began their sonorous, rhythmic exchanges again; the eunuchs fluttered forward and began to mix the wine with water. Haraldr looked across at Anna. He nodded and her brilliant cheeks grew darker. Her dark eyelashes dipped, but her lips quivered with a faint smile. Haraldr decided he would praise these wares with a tongue that would make Odin blush.
‘She wants to address you,’ said Gregory in a panic that almost tied his tongue. Haraldr put his goblet down and looked at the Empress.
‘Have you ever dined in the Roman fashion before?’ asked Zoe. Haraldr could hear Attalietes snort.
‘The position is familiar to me, as we do not have seats on our longships. The comfort, of course, is quite superior, and this I attribute to the glory of the Roman Empire and the divine offices of your Imperial Majesty.’ Haraldr thanked Odin for his words.
The
voukaloi
again droned their chants and the servants brought the first course: miniature olives in silver bowls; boiled artichokes; eggs, cooked and shelled, and cradled in shells of blue enamel set on individual silver trays and served with a long silver spoon. Haraldr thought better of tackling the egg and instead scooped fish roe from a silver bowl onto a biscuit.
‘Anna Dalassena.’ Haraldr was surprised at the civility of Attalietes’s address; somewhat condescending but spoken as if the girl were human. ‘Your father is well?’
Anna blushed. ‘Oh, yes, very well, thank you, Strategus.’
‘Yes,’ said Zoe, pausing to press one of the miniature olives to her erotically puckered lips, as if kissing the tiny morsel. Gregory quickly poised himself to translate, as Haraldr had asked him to do whenever she spoke. ‘The Grand Domestic has to be magnificently . . . robust. He has so many masters to serve that his errands are endless, and it is a pity that those for whom he so diligently labours are never satisfied. I pray for him often, don’t I, Anna dear?’
Attalietes dabbed his mouth with his lace linen napkin. ‘I am certain that is a comfort to the girl. I know how devoutly you prayed for the health of your late husband. May Christ the King--’
‘Strategus, your tongue is not so glib that I could not have it removed.’ Zoe’s voice was a dagger in each heart within hearing. Haraldr could scarcely believe her screaming eyes;
this
was an Empress who could daunt any king he had ever known. He almost flinched as she gestured towards him. ‘You have met the
homes
of my guard, have you not, Strategus? He has hewn suffer stuff than your neck.’ Zoe fixed Attalietes for a moment, then turned and with absolutely deft fingers selected another tiny olive. Her eyes wandered again, to Attalietes. ‘Strategus, I suddenly realize that naughty Symeon must have failed to communicate to you the proper attire for our dining. Symeon, you must make amends. Take our Strategus to the kitchen and find him a garment in a more . . . harmonious hue.’
Symeon came up behind Attalietes; the Strategus coloured like a maiden but his haughty eyes were unrepentant. The wrinkles at the corners of Zoe’s eyes twitched slightly.
Haraldr quickly rose and stepped over his couch. One of the eunuchs handed him his single-bladed axe. Haraldr slammed the blade flat against his chest with a resonant thud.
Attalietes’s jaw quivered with astonishment and anger. He rose reluctantly and Haraldr stepped closer. Attalietes turned to the urging of Symeon’s withered hand on his arm. Haraldr wheeled to follow.
‘No, Komes Haraldr,’ said the Empress. ‘I assure you Symeon has the strength to provide a suitable escort for our Strategus. Besides, you would leave my darlings bereft of company. Resume your place.’
Haraldr returned his axe to the eunuch and settled back onto his couch. He knew he had made an enemy but he had realized an inescapable truth. He was at the Empress’s beck and call, and like her husband, no matter what rumours one heard of her, she was more than capable of that command. Whoever was her enemy was his. A truth, he reflected, that brought him little comfort.
The second course was a large poached fish smothered in the oily, tart sauce called
garos
and topped with more tiny fish eggs. Haraldr was pleased with how he had handled the thin, two-pronged silver fork, particularly since he was still rattled by the incident with Attalietes.
Zoe spoke with Anna for a while; the girl seemed to have taken the outburst with aplomb. Haraldr found this attractive; she seemed so young and blushing, yet she had a woman’s grace. When he had finished his fish, he kept glancing at her until he caught her eye. She looked at him and cocked her head slightly. ‘Komes?’
Odin. No, Homer. Gregory had set him upon the study of the famous ancient Greek skald, saying that it reflected well on one to recite his verse. Haraldr frantically reviewed some remembered passages. ‘ “Laodike, loveliest ... of all ... the daughters . . .” ‘
Constantine’s fork clattered on his silver plate. He stared as if he had heard a dog speak. Even Zoe’s jaw sagged slightly. Anna blushed furiously and fluttered her lashes. Then her eyes widened and her teeth flashed as she spoke.’ “Tall Hektor of the shining helm . . .” ‘ Haraldr understood immediately; Hektor was the hero of Homer’s seemingly endless lay called
The Iliad.
But wasn’t Hektor killed at the end of this lay?
Zoe leaned forward, her eyes sweeping from Haraldr to Anna. ‘I have certainly heard many far more subtly . . . allusive citations of the Bard,’ she said, ’but none quite as . . . extraordinary.’ Zoe looked at Maria - Haraldr would not turn to see Maria’s reaction - and then back at him. ‘I had no notion that your . . . inclinations extended to verse.’
‘I hope that your Imperial Majesty and this estimable lady do not consider it an indignity. In my own tongue, which has not the grace of the Greek but is not without its own beauties, I have composed verses of my own. And I have three men in my company who record in verse the valour of the Varangians as we serve your Majesty. It is customary for a Norse king never to be far from his poets. We call them skalds.’