‘Indeed.’ Joannes’s voice had the same effect that the sound of the dome splitting might have had. The hush spread backwards through the room and within a few breaths the entire vast hall was silent. Even the eunuchs paused at their tasks, their glistening white forms rigid, as if they had suddenly turned to ice. ‘I am curious as to your musings on this subject, Nephew.’ Joannes’s head extended forward from his supine body like the bobbing head of a serpent.
And the Emperor looks like a rat transfixed by the serpent, thought Haraldr. Michael would never have the courage publicly to challenge Joannes. That was the problem.
‘Yes . . .yes . . .’Michael faltered, and glanced at Constantine, whose forehead had begun to bead with perspiration. ‘Yes.’ Michael cleared his throat and the entire assembly of dignitaries seemed to shift on their couches at once. ‘It ... it is my thinking that the tax we now collect - or perhaps more often fail to collect - in Bulgaria is assessed in a manner that is injurious to our defence of that frontier and also deprives us of needed revenues.’ Michael seemed to have commanded his tongue, but his dark eyes were surrounded by gleaming whites, as if he were reading an order calling for his own execution. ‘It is customary among the Bulgar people to pay their taxes in kind with portions of their crops and herds, rather than to render payment directly in silver and gold, of which there is an acute shortage among the small farmers upon whom we rely for the preponderance of our revenues. The Bulgar-Slayer recognized this and allowed payments in kind in lieu of coin, the result being a steady flow of revenue and relatively little discontent over tax exactions among the subjugated people. The recent policy has been to abolish payments in kind and force collections in coin, which has actually decreased our revenues and inflamed sentiment against Rome, providing an opportunist like the Khan Alounsianus the necessary grievance to convince his people to rise against us. The net result, as I say, heaps predicament upon predicament. We lose the revenues needed to expand the Taghmatic regiments or employ suitable mercenary forces, while creating a situation that requires constant attention to our northern borders, at the added expense of our interests to the south.’
Joannes ruminated for a moment, his head tilting gently, and then his voice slurred out. ‘Indeed--’
‘Indeed,’ interrupted Constantine. ‘On the one hand we have our Emperor’s astute policy, and on the other the belch of a drunken monk who should perhaps consider returning to the cloister, where he might find the frontiers of his cenobite’s cell less demanding of his intellect than the far-flung polities that govern the fate of the Roman Empire.’
A Magister knocked over his goblet with a dull thud. Joannes’s head continued its sotted, marionette’s bob. Finally he spoke, his words more distorted by drink than Haraldr had heard even on that first night at Nicephorus Argyrus’s. ‘And what does our nephew think of this . . .suggestion.’
Michael’s eyes literally seemed to retreat from Joannes’s droopy-lidded stare. ‘I--I--’ he stammered, and stopped, his words fluttering from the dead air like birds struck with an arrow.
Constantine’s flushed brow glistened. Then he erupted. ‘His Majesty does not concern himself with appointments on the level of Orphanotrophus. He is concerned with matters that attend to the eternal glory of the Roman Empire and maintenance of Roman hegemony in a Christian world. He is quite above the petty intrigues generated by his servants.’
Joannes’s entire body coursed with sudden, remarkably supple energy, and his huge python head snapped to confront Constantine. ‘Make your accusation, Brother!’ he thundered, all trace of inebriation vanished from his voice.
Constantine’s smooth face was as red as if he had raced fifteen circuits in the Hippodrome. His glaring eyes made him look more like Joannes than he ever had before. He gripped his apple with a whitened fist. ‘Your secreting of our young cousin to the Empress City!’ The dome echoed with the shouts. ‘His elevation to Magisterial dignity without his presentation at court! This reeks of connivance, Brother!’ Constantine’s shoulders lifted as if he were straining to rise, but some fierce, contrary discipline kept him seated. ‘This reeks of treason.’
Joannes’s face flushed very slowly, like a corpse gradually revivifying. ‘Of course I have committed no treason, Brother.’ There was a remote edge of hysteria to his calm voice; not hysterical fear, but hysterical violence. ‘The Emperor himself signed the Chrysobull creating the dignity of Magister for his young cousin. I invite any of the esteemed dignitaries present to examine the document, which is now in the offices of the Parakoimomenos.’ And then he was on his feet. Goblets and platters clattered on the floor as Joannes’s huge black span milled wildly; the Emperor dived for the floor and clutched madly at the table-cloth, trying to shield his body with the stiff brocade. Haraldr had risen in virtual concert with Joannes, his quickly produced knife still held close to his forearm in a last hope he would not need it. Constantine had reflexively cringed from his brother’s sudden movement, but now he sat upright on his dining couch, his face so brilliant and glistening that one expected to see a cloud of steam around him. His jowls trembled slightly.
‘Let us discuss treason, Brother.’ Joannes’s even-toned menace held the entire hall transfixed; Haraldr stood almost at attention beside him, Constantine still sat, and the Emperor still cowered behind the tablecloth. ‘Let us discuss how you have already killed one emperor. Let us discuss how my Michael was destroyed by the burden he had to carry every day, the burden of his idiot brother-in-law and his pathetic, cringing nephew, and, most onerous of all, his corpulent, utterly incompetent brother, Constantine. Had he not carried all of you on his back each day, he would still be beside me. My Michael always despised you. He despised you for the way you sat on your fat arse in the cart that I pulled all the way from Amastris. But he never could hate you as I did. With every step I cursed every fibre of your bloated being. I prayed that you would no longer be useful to me, so that I could dump you in the gutter like so much offal. I prayed that for so long that I finally stopped praying.’ Joannes leaned forward; his boots creaked in the moment of silence. Constantine’s eyes were liquid with fright and pain; his lower lip protruded and twitched. Joannes’s next words were almost a whisper. ‘And now that God no longer listens, I find that my prayers have been answered.’ Joannes leapt across the table, his motion mirrored in Constantine’s recoiling eyes, but Haraldr gripped Joannes’s huge shovel pelvis and pulled him back. Joannes’s arms flapped frantically, but Haraldr easily pinned them. Haraldr embraced the struggling, deformed creature until he felt the violence rush out like air from a deflated bladder.
Joannes turned to Haraldr. His eyes were incredible, repulsive; they seemed to squirm within their dark pits, as if dozens of tiny, silvery maggots worked in the skeletal sockets. ‘So you are one of them,’ he hissed. He stepped away from Haraldr and surveyed the virtually motionless, utterly silent Senators for a long moment. Finally he turned as if to leave. He did not look at Constantine, but he glanced down at the Emperor, who now sat staring distantly, seemingly without orientation, as if he were a man who had suddenly found himself floating high in the air, with no clue as to how he had got there. Then, in violation of all prescribed protocol, Joannes walked away, unexcused, his arms at his sides, from the Emperor’s table. His boots rattled like drums on the marble floor.
Constantine looked after Joannes’s disappearing black back. He blinked his eyes as if quickly and stoically settling with some great torment. When the sound of Joannes’s boots had faded, Constantine raised his apple to his mouth and took a bite that was audible throughout the silent hall.
The main storeroom at the Kauleas Monastery was a long, vaulted chamber; much of the plaster had peeled away to reveal the fine, almost delicate brickwork that had created this massive, almost brutal architecture The scored stone floor had been freshly swept. The storeroom contained hundreds of large earthenware jars, as tall as a man’s waist, stacked in perfect rows against the long wall. The jars were all new, the immaculate, lightly textured terracotta surfaces so vivid that they seemed to be living tissue, like great ripe melons. Each was sealed with a lead sheet, to preserve their contents for eons.
The Orphanotrophus Joannes had convened the Senate of Imperial Rome in this storeroom. The location was not according to prescribed practice or protocol, nor was the manner in which many of the Senators had been summoned, pulled from their beds in the middle of the night by soldiers of the Imperial Taghmata. Now they stood, wrapped in their cloaks against the chill of the dank interior, and listened to the reason for this extraordinary convocation.
The light of the tapers threw Joannes’s shadow across the rows of terracotta jars. ‘Brothers,’ he said, his tone as brusque as his greeting, ‘an extraordinary treason was revealed this evening. Evidence gathered by our Logothete of the Dromus’ - Joannes gestured at the rodent-faced Logothete, who stood with the Dhynatoi Senators of the Attalietes clique - ‘has proven beyond doubt that our beloved Emperor Michael, the late and lamented Michael, may the Pantocrator keep his soul, was in fact poisoned by his own brother, the Nobilissimus Constantine. Having murdered our beloved Emperor Michael, the felon Constantine has now corrupted the other Michael and promises to lure our new Emperor into errancies that threaten the foundations of Rome’s thousand-year Imperium.’
The Dhynatoi growled in an obedient chorus. ‘How can we stop them, Orphanotrophus? What will you do?’
Joannes nodded gravely at the clearly previously solicited questions. ‘It has occurred to me that the agent of our peril is this considerable ambiguity as to who rules Rome. In their confusion, many of the people have come to view as their saviour this false Emperor, who is only leading them into perdition. I intend to make a gesture in which you are all invited to participate.’ The Dhynatoi Senators rumbled with grateful anticipation. ‘I intend to retire to my country home outside Galatea. In this way I will manifest my refusal to collaborate with the traitors. I am inviting all of the ranking dignitaries of our illustrious Imperial Administration to join me in that gesture of profound outrage. The people will quickly perceive the enormous consequence of allowing the treasonous Nobilissimus and his puppet Emperor to preside over our Imperium. The Emperor will be forced to supplicate our prompt return in order to preserve his own life amid the chaos of our untended city. And return we shall, on the condition that the Emperor acknowledges his criminally negligent congress with Rome’s enemies and resigns his office.’
The shouts of approval from the Dhynatoi chorus rang in the vaults. When the echoes had faded, a single voice emerged. ‘Where is this evidence of the Nobilissimus’s treason?’ The speaker was Theodore Tziporoles, the leader of the moderate faction in the Senate. He was a small, balding man, with intense, perpetually questioning Asiatic features.
‘The Quaestor will deliver the indictment to my home in the morning. You are welcome to study it there.’
Tziporoles sniffed fearlessly and looked at the soldier standing next to him. ‘Has this evidence been presented to the command of the Imperial Taghmata? I think that the Grand Domestic Camytzes will want to read this indictment before he commits his forces to the usurpation of his Emperor.’
‘Camytzes no longer commands the Imperial Taghmata. He resigned his position as Grand Domestic a short time ago.’
Tziporoles was visibly shaken, but he composed his fierce features. ‘You realize that you are inviting a bloodbath in the streets of the city? The small merchants and tradesmen will oppose even the Imperial Taghmata in defence of the Emperor who has brought them so much prosperity.’
‘I have spoken to the leaders of this faction,’ said Joannes. ‘They will not oppose the resignation of their benighted Emperor. I will let you speak to them.’ Joannes’s eyes again had that curious, squirming animation. His voice was slightly distorted, as if he had a small bone lodged in his throat.
‘This is madness,’ said Tziporoles. He was clearly more apprehensive about staying than making a motion to leave. ‘I regretfully decline your invitation, Orphanotrophus.’ As he turned to go, Joannes snapped at the soldiers and several of them blocked his exit. He turned frantically to face Joannes.
‘Talk to them!’ thundered Joannes. ‘Talk to them! They have been persuaded to join us! Soon they will all join us! We stand on the threshold of Rome’s perfection, and only a handful of miscreants remain to deface that splendid creation. Talk to them!’ As the Senators watched raptly, Joannes grabbed a spear from the hands of one of the soldiers. In a mighty motion he rammed the butt end into one of the terracotta jars. A thick, yellowish oil spouted from the rupture. Joannes continued to shatter the vessel, and in a moment something white slithered out. A human arm. As Joannes battered the jar to shards, additional limbs slid out like giant albino eels. The head tumbled onto the floor and came to rest near Tziporoles’s feet. Tziporoles’s face was paler than the noseless visage that looked up at him.
‘If you cannot hear this man’s petition to reason, Tziporoles, I can offer you a chorus.’ Joannes gestured at the rows of jars. Then he prodded the oil-soaked, disembodied head with his spear and looked directly at the stunned Senator. ‘His eloquence would shame the ancients, would it not?’
It was a dawn such as had inspired the Immortal Bard. This Aurora was not yellow-robed, however, but a cool pink flame that flickered above the domes of Chrysopolis, still tinted blue with night, and suffused her glow across the Bosporus to wrap the columns of the Imperial Palace in a mauve mist. Maria and Haraldr stood on the roof-top terrace of their town palace and watched the horizon flare in silence. The chill of early spring iced the thick clear air, and Maria slipped beneath Haraldr’s cloak and wrapped her arms tightly round him. The movement of the wagons, horses and litters on the streets below was strangely muffled, as if nature held sound in partial abeyance to celebrate the miracle of sunrise. The processions moved with the slowness of a dirge, the silken backs of uniformed retainers and the armour of the private guards still dulled by the dove-coloured shadows in the streets of Constantinople.