We stood by the Adrianople gate, shivering even in our cloaks. The rain which had relented on the previous day had returned with an implacable constancy in the night, beating on the tiles above my head so loudly that I could not use even the few hours I had for sleep. Two hours before dawn we had met at the gate — Anna, Thomas and I — the only light a beleaguered pitch torch in the shelter of the archway. Burning fragments dripped from it, hissing as they fell into the mud below. It was not a propitious beginning to what was already a slender hope.
‘If they ask, tell them the truth of your story — how you came here, the fate which befell your parents, and how you escaped to live in the slums of the city. Perhaps blame your misfortune on the Romans: curse us for not having provided more aid to your army, or more succour when you returned.’ I did not wait for Anna to translate my words, or worry if the boy had understood them. I had told him all this a dozen times the previous afternoon, and I spoke now more to quell my own nerves than to rehearse his duties.
‘You will have to go all the way around the Horn and come back down its other side. It will not be a pleasant journey, but we cannot risk the chance of them seeing you rowed across from here. Give me your cloak.’
Unwillingly, Thomas pulled the sodden cloak from his shoulders and handed it to me. Underneath, he wore only a thin tunic which had been purposely torn on stones and dragged through mud.
‘He’ll die of cold before he’s halfway to the silver lake,’ Anna muttered. I half expected that, even now, she would try to persuade him to abandon the plan.
‘He will look bedraggled, mud-splattered, and forlorn.’ I let concern shade my voice with anger. ‘As befits an urchin who has lived for weeks in the slums. He’s already too fat.’
I turned my attention back to Thomas. ‘Try and evoke pity with your story, and find a kind knight or soldier who will take you as his servant or groom. Then try and discover if the monk is in the camp, and where we can catch him. As soon as you know that, make for the house of Domenico the merchant. You remember where I showed you on the map?’
Thomas nodded, though perhaps only because I had stopped speaking.
A sentry ambled out of the guardhouse, his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. The briefest glance at the pass I carried from Krysaphios satisfied him, and he started drawing back the bolts on the heavy door. I hoped that with the rain in his eyes he would be unable to see much of Thomas, for I did not want anyone to remember him leaving the city.
‘I do not like this course,’ Anna told me. There was sadness in her face. ‘But Thomas has agreed it, and you think it necessary, so I cannot argue.’
The last bolt came free, and the sentry pushed the door open. It took the full weight of his shoulder to force it. In the night beyond, I could see only driving rain and darkness.
‘Go, Thomas.’ I gave him a little push to hasten him forward. He stooped to hug Anna, who held him tight for a moment, then turned his back on me and stepped out into the night. Long before the gate was drawn shut, he had vanished.
I returned home to my bed, but my broken night had upset my soul and it would not permit sleep. I lay there for hours, sometimes rolling onto one side or another, sometimes trying to lie very still, but even with my eyes shut the visions of my mind continued unblinking. A grim daylight and the hustled noises of the street pricked at my senses, and even when I could forget my concerns for Thomas, and keep from revisiting the memories of his departure, I found no solace.
Eventually, I surrendered and threw off the covers. A glance out of the window revealed nothing of the hour, for there would be little change between dawn and dusk that day, but it must have been near the middle of the morning.
I pushed through the curtains, ambled across to the stone basin and splashed some water on my face. It was as cold as the floor, though it did little to wake me.
‘You’ve slept even later than Helena.’ Zoe was sitting at the table stitching a tear in her camisia. ‘She doesn’t approve. She says a father should wake before dawn to provide for his daughters.’
‘She can save her indignation — I couldn’t sleep.’ I found the end of a loaf of bread, spread it with honey, and chewed on it without enthusiasm.
Zoe looked up from her needlework. ‘Did you leave us in the night? Helena thought she heard the door.’
I winced as a shard of crust scraped the roof of my mouth. ‘I did. Sometimes the dark hours are the best time for dark secrets.’
‘And dark fates,’ Zoe admonished me.
I heard a door shut below, and light footsteps on the stairs. It seemed to take longer than usual, but at length the inner door swung open.
‘You’ve risen.’ Helena surveyed me reprovingly. She carried a basket of bread and vegetables under her arm, and her palla was streaked with mud. ‘I thought you might have become the eighth sleeper of Ephesus.’
‘And my heart rejoices to see you too.’ A hammering pain was beginning behind my eyes and I did not welcome Helena’s contempt, but I tried to remain calm. ‘What have you brought for my lunch? Mutton?’
‘There was no mutton.’ Helena dropped the basket on the table with a bang. ‘Only this.’
I peered at what she had brought. ‘The fast doesn’t start for another week and more,’ I told her. ‘Couldn’t you have found some fish, or some gamebirds?’
‘The righteous need no priest to tell them when to fast and when to feast,’ said Helena stonily.
‘Was he not there, then?’ asked Zoe.
I looked between my daughters. ‘Was who not there?’
‘The butcher,’ answered Helena quickly. ‘No, he was not. He had sold his meat and gone home. The rest of this city must be as gluttonous as you, father — and they at least leave their beds at a decent hour.’
‘Well, I want some stewed lamb. If my own daughter cannot provide for me, I will have to go to the tavern.’ I pulled a heavy dalmatica over my head and tugged on my boots, then added: ‘Perhaps in the afternoon we can go to see the spice-seller’s aunt, and her nephew.’
I had meant it as conciliation, but at the sound of my words Helena stamped her foot, glared at me and swept into her bedroom.
I threw up my hands and looked at Zoe. ‘Why should she do that?’
But Zoe was suddenly much preoccupied with her sewing. She stared at her needle and gave no answer, as inscrutable, in her own way, as her sister.
I abandoned my attempt at being the dutiful father. ‘I will be in the tavern along the road,’ I told Zoe. ‘Eating lamb stew.’
But it seemed I was fated not to eat my meat that day: I emerged from my house to meet a quartet of Patzinaks. Three were mounted; the fourth, just moving away from his horse, was approaching my door. Another held the reins of a fifth horse.
‘You are summoned to the palace,’ announced the man who had dismounted. ‘Immediately.’
I rubbed my temples. ‘Has the monk been found? If not, I am going to eat my lunch. Tell Krysaphios he can wait.’
The Patzinak stepped closer, bristling. ‘Your orders do not come from the eunuch. They are from a power you cannot defer. Come.’
I went.
There were many reasons I regretted the exile of the Varangians to the walls, and not least was their company. Coarse and erratic though they were, they had welcomed me into their conversations; the Patzinaks showed no such warmth. They rode two ahead of me and two behind, at a pace which allowed little more than an occasional grunted direction. I even found myself grateful to the horses for hastening the journey, though their jarring progress added a fresh dimension to my headache.
The Patzinaks’ route was as direct as their manners: we rode straight up the Mesi, past the milion and the tetrapylon, and into the Augusteion, under the gazes of our ancient rulers. As soon as we halted the guards were off their mounts and on their feet, pushing away the candle-sellers and relic-merchants who flocked to the forecourt of Ayia Sophia. They barged a path to the great Chalke gate, thrust the horses’ bridles into the hands of a waiting groom, and pushed past the petitioners and tourists who streamed into the first courtyard of the palace. In all this, I was their helpless obedient. I lost count of the turns we took, the corridors and courtyards we navigated, for with two Patzinaks at my back I had never a second to orient myself. The endless marble halls and golden mosaics made it hard to distinguish one part of the palace from another, and everything we passed seemed at once both strange and familiar. Only the ever-diminishing number of people around us suggested we were moving into more private
