‘None of us are rewarded as we deserve, certainly not in this life. But I will do what I can, if you warrant it.’
That seemed to satisfy him. ‘Then know this. A man has approached me, a monk, though he was no man of God. He offered me an investment. He told me that, like Christ, he would tear down the temple of your empire and build it anew. He said the old order would be swept away, that there would be opportunities for the downtrodden and meek to claim their inheritance, that those who aided him now would not be forgotten later — after the Emperor was dead, and his throne occupied by another.’
Somewhere outside the window a seagull uttered its wheedling cry, but inside all was silent. I could hardly move for the shock of what the man had told me, the disbelief that he actually had something to offer. As for him, his restless energy spent, he watched me closely.
‘Can you describe this monk?’ I asked at last.
‘Sadly not. He wore a hood over his face and would not remove it. All I saw was his chin: bony, and creased with age.’
‘And did he explain how he was to accomplish this regicide?’
‘He said he had agents close to the Emperor, against whom he would be defenceless. All he needed, he said, was gold to make the final arrangements.’
‘Did you give it to him?’
Domenico looked wounded. ‘Certainly not, Demetrios. I am a friend of your people; I know that it is my own countrymen who conspire to bar me, not yours. My loyalty is unswerving. I told him he would have nothing of me, and that he should depart in haste if he did not want me to turn him over to the Watch.’
‘He said nothing more?’
‘He departed, as I suggested.’ Domenico licked his lips. ‘Perhaps I could have pressed him for closer detail, but I was afraid. I know the Emperor has many ears — even in this corner of his realm — and I would be mortified if it were thought I had any time for such treachery.’
I thought a moment as my pulse slowed again. Though the information was useful — and though I would probably send word to the eparch commending the merchant to him — it took me no further. It confirmed the monk’s ambitions, certainly, but those I knew. It suggested he might have spies in the palace, but that too I had long suspected. Beyond that, nothing.
‘And this would have been about three weeks ago?’ I asked, thinking back. Presumably before the monk found the money elsewhere, and hired the Bulgars and journeyed into the forest.
But Domenico was shaking his head vigorously. ‘Three weeks ago? Indeed not. Do you think I would hide such information for three weeks, when the very life of the Emperor might be in jeopardy? Not for three weeks, no — not even for three days.’ He swallowed. ‘This was the day before yesterday.’
13
Through the next week the city grew ever more oppressive, as if the very walls themselves squeezed in on us. Each day the crowds in the streets were thicker, and each night the colonnades along the great roads brimmed with those who could find no shelter. The churches were thrown open, and when they were filled the hippodrome became a vast, open hostel. Prices rose, and food became scarce.
Nor was the weather kind. A bitter wind came down from the north — a Rus wind, as we called it, after the wild men who followed it — and even the wealthiest of citizens covered their finery with heavy cloaks. By night the streets danced with the candle-flames of priests and nuns who worked tirelessly to keep the poor and the homeless from freezing, while the smell of wood smoke lingered on every corner. Never were the bakers more popular.
Through all this, the rumours spread. There was a barbarian army coming, some said; yes, but to offer their lives to the Emperor against the Turks and Saracens, argued others. No, the despondent insisted: they would finish the work that Bohemond the Norman had begun once before, devouring our lands and putting our cities to the sword. And why did the Emperor Alexios not go out to fight, they demanded? There was no hour when the streets did not echo with the tramp of soldiers, when a squadron of cavalry magnificently attired did not thunder past — why did he not use them? Had he betrayed us, or been petrified by a fit of panic? Why could he not show himself to reassure his people?
Many sought my opinion, for they knew I had dealings with the palace, but in truth I knew as little as they. Krysaphios had barely acknowledged my report that another assassination might be imminent, and I had not seen him since I delivered it. Nor Sigurd: Aelric told me that he worked every hour to get the walls into good defence, and had not even returned to the barracks for three days. Aelric stayed with me guarding Thomas, but otherwise I was forgotten, left to spend my days asking unwanted questions of distracted nobles. The fact of the villa in the forest belonging to the Sebastokrator’s wife inevitably drew my attentions in his direction, but however many of his servants I discreetly questioned, I could find none who had ever heard of him having dealings with a foreign monk. With reluctance, at least until I could find greater proof, I had to allow that perhaps the monk had used the house unbeknownst to the Sebastokrator.
Every other day Anna came to my house, to examine Thomas’s wounds and change his bandages. Her visits were a rare source of pleasure in those nervous days, and on the third occasion I invited her for dinner.
‘The moralist Kekaumenos tells us that we should be wary of dining with friends, lest we be suspected of plotting treason and betrayal,’ she said, smiling as she tucked away the loose ends of Thomas’s dressing.
‘The old misanthrope also tells me that you’ll mock my servants and seduce my daughters. But I have no servants, and I will trust you with my daughters. If you will trust their cooking.’
She brushed back a loose strand of hair that had fallen from her hood. ‘Very well. Tomorrow night?’
I had hoped she could come that same evening, when the Sunday break in the fast would allow me to serve her a finer meal, but I mastered my disappointment and agreed. So, on a cold Monday before the feast of the Nativity, Anna, Thomas, Aelric and my daughters and I sat down for supper together.
‘You’ve made a virtue out of the church’s proscriptions,’ Anna told the girls, spooning another steaming portion of the meatless stew onto her plate. ‘Some day you’ll make your husbands fat.’
I rubbed a hand over my temples. It was the wrong thing to say, and Helena took her opening ruthlessly.
‘Not if my father has any sway. The spice-seller’s aunt wishes to make a bargain for her son, but my father will not even meet her. He would rather I tended him until he was dead and I was shrivelled, than that I should find happiness with another man.’
‘You shouldn’t cook so well then,’ suggested Zoe. ‘You should spit in the pots and serve nothing but beans.’
I noticed Aelric and Thomas watching their plates intently, both now taking smaller portions in each mouthful, as if trying to eke out their meals.
‘When I have earned enough dowry to find you a man who deserves you, then I will look for him,’ I tried. ‘You don’t want to squander yourself on some unworthy wretch who stinks of garlic.’
‘You wouldn’t want me to squander myself on a prince in the palace, even if his estates stretched from Arcadia to Trebizond.’ Helena’s face was red now. ‘And how am I to know what a worthy man should be, if the only people I see are the women in the market?’
‘A husband is not everything,’ said Anna gently. ‘I have survived without one.’
‘But you chose that it would be so. You did not have a father who would rather see you married, like Persephone, in Hell, than in this life. And you had a noble calling to sustain you — I merely buy vegetables, and prepare them for this table.’
‘Very successfully,’ offered Aelric.
I turned to Anna, desperate to change the tone of the conversation. ‘Talking of your calling, I must congratulate you on the healing you have given Thomas. It seems nearly miraculous. When I found him bleeding to death in that fountain, I thought he would barely survive the afternoon.’
Anna smiled, her skin golden in the candlelight. ‘Wounds like his are straightforward, and whether he lived or died was more in God’s hands than mine. I simply staunched the bleeding and cleaned away the evil humours which might have grown there. It was as important that you brought him to me so readily. And that you took him into your
