‘Not here. He came, but he did not stay. He did not have the means to enjoy all the fruits of the city, and — though he did not say as much — I think he fell in with immoral companions. After he escaped them, his wanderings took him to the ends of the earth, to the lands of the Kelts and the Franks and the other barbarian tribes who cling to the fringes of the world. There he found his salvation.’
‘In the western church?’ No wonder he had taken a barbarian name, after the fashion of his new religion. ‘When was that?’
‘Some time in the past.’ Paul looked at me hopelessly. ‘I heard nothing from him in all those years after he left the village. Everything I know I have from what he told me when he returned. Some three months ago,’ he added, anticipating my inevitable question. ‘He sent no word that he was coming — I did not even know that he knew I was here. I had come much later, after our father died. One day I returned from my work to find Michael — Odo — sitting on a stone by the grocer’s door. I scarcely recognised him, but he knew me immediately and told me he had come to stay with me. How could I refuse?’
‘Did he say what he purposed here?’
‘Never. And after one attempt, I did not ask again. He was always a private man, my brother, and he grew more so in his wanderings. He told me nothing, not even when he would be here. Sometimes he disappeared for days or even weeks, leaving no word, and I thought that perhaps he had gone back to his friends in the west, but then he would return unannounced and demand my hospitality again. Only yesterday did he say that he was going forever. As I told you.’
‘Where was he going?’
‘He did not say.’
I should not have been surprised. ‘Did your brother ever mention any notable men of the city?’ I asked, wondering if I could at least draw some hint as to his masters.
As so often, Paul shook his head, then looked up doubtfully. ‘One evening I rebuked him for eating all my dinner. I had prepared none for him, thinking he would not return that evening. As was his habit, he responded with a bitter harangue on the pre-eminence of his work: he told me that he was employed by a great lord, and lesser men should presume nothing but to make straight his way.’
I kept my tone restrained. ‘Did he say which lord?’
‘Of course not. I assumed he meant the lord God. He often spoke of his calling as the Lord’s avenger, the cleansing flame of the Holy Spirit.’
‘Did he speak of what he would avenge?’
For the first time, I drew from Paul a feeble smile. ‘Constantly. He wanted to cleanse the city of her filth, her heresies, and restore purity to her streets. To him she is Babylon, the great mother of whores and abominations, drunk on the blood of the saints. Michael swore that in the hour of her doom she will be made desolate and naked, her flesh will be devoured and burned with fire, and he will be the agent of this destruction.’ His smile widened a little. ‘If you read the apocalypse of the divine Saint John, you will understand.’
‘I know the apocalypse.’
‘During his years in Rheims, he had somehow been persuaded that this was his proper task.’
‘His years
‘Rheims, I think he called it. A barbarian town. He spent some time at a school there, and later took orders in its abbey. It is where he was re-baptised as Odo. I do not know where it is.’
I did not know where it was either, but I knew I had heard of it. I thought back to a dusty library and a severe archivist lecturing me on Frankish saints.
‘Did your brother ever speak of a Saint Remigius?’ I asked. ‘Or show you a ring inscribed with that name, mounted with a cracked garnet.’ I reached into my pocket, fumbling for the ring which I had carried with me ever since that day in the forest, as if by holding his totem I might gain some grasp over the monk himself. ‘This ring?’
Impervious to the excitement in my voice, Paul shrugged. ‘He did have a ring, but I did not see it closely. It was red; it may be the one you hold. I glimpsed it only when he washed. He said it was a token of the barbarian town.’
‘Did you ever see any others with such a ring?’
‘None. As I have said, no-one visited my brother here.’
I spent another hour throwing questions at the prisoner, checking the details of his story and prodding for any clue he might reveal, wittingly or not. I asked about his own circumstances — he was unmarried, it transpired, and worked as a minor clerk for a notary, taking a fraction of his employer’s earnings for the documents he prepared. He worshipped in the approved manner, fervently but without the zealous self-righteousness which the fathers condemned. He told me the name of his village and I wrote it down, for someone would have to travel there and ask about his brother. It would not be me: a journey through the Macedonian mountains in winter would not, I decided, afford the best use of my time and talents.
Outside the windows, evening was coming early to the dark day, and I was keen to be away. I had only a single question remaining, and it was more curiosity than hope. ‘Tell me, Paul, was your brother a violent man?’
The words seemed to agitate the prisoner greatly. He did not answer, but jerked his head against his shoulder as if shaking water from his ear.
‘Unbind me, and I will show you.’
I ordered a Patzinak to cut his bonds. Paul gave a grimace of acknowledgement as his hands were freed, and pulled up his sleeve. I drew in a breath, for all down to his wrist the entire arm was black, as if it had been burned or rotted away. Only after a few moments could I see that they were in fact a mottled patchwork of overlapping bruises.
‘It does not become a man to speak ill of his brother,’ said Paul heavily, ‘but even in our childhood Michael was cruel. I told you he departed our village because he disagreed with my father’s choice of bride. In truth, he fled before the vengeance of her father, after his rage had left the poor girl almost dead. He has learned many new things on his travels since then, but he has forgotten nothing. If he could throw down our city in a cauldron of blood, he would not hesitate.’ He rubbed his loosened wrists. ‘Indeed, he would revel in it.’
‘So he is a Roman, corrupted by Franks into turning on his mother city, and returned to work violence and sedition.’ Krysaphios licked the honey from his fingers as he considered this; he had been eating when I found him at the palace, and the urgency of my news would not deter him from his meal. ‘And just across the waters of the Horn we have ten thousand armed Franks, who spurn our hospitality and provoke our ambassadors. Who arrived mere weeks after your monk. I imagine you have noticed the coincidence?’
‘I have.’
‘But how could they profit from killing the Emperor unless they could take the city. And what could give them to think they could do that? They have no siege engines to batter down the land walls, and no fleet to attack us from the seaward side. They depend utterly on the Emperor to provide for them. If they risked an assault and failed, we could starve or execute them at our leisure.’
‘Then they must be confident. Or fools.’ The contradictions bothered me too, for it was ever my task to question the anomalies which other men dismissed or did not notice, but here I could not resolve them. They were barbarians, I told myself — they did not think as we did. ‘Perhaps they relied on the monk, or Aelric, to open the way for them.’
‘It would need more than one treacherous Varangian to open our gates to an enemy horde.’ A honeyed nut crunched between Krysaphios’ teeth. ‘And my spies have yet to discover any others who were complicit with Aelric.’
‘Yet the Varangians remain exiled from the palace,’ I observed. Every door and alcove still had a Patzinak by it.
‘The Varangians are posted on the walls, away from the gatehouses, and will remain there indefinitely. We need men we can trust about us, Demetrios, and the Patzinaks are ferocious in their loyalty.’
‘Until the monk manages to corrupt one of them.’
Krysaphios’ smooth forehead wrinkled with mock confusion. ‘But the monk is gone, you told me. His brother said so. Do you not think he has fled back to Frankia?’
‘I doubt he is further than a mile beyond our walls, and probably safe in Galata with the barbarians.’
‘You think he will come back? Attempt to murder the Emperor a third time?’
