Ever. Under any circumstance.’
‘This is a matter of military, not civil protocol!’ shouted Dalassena.
‘Understand that I defer to you in the matter of command, Grand Domestic,’ said Michael, perfectly content as he was to relinquish responsibility for this ill-starred campaign. ‘Permit me to allow my children the comfort of knowing that the Hand of the Pantocrator will be the first to smite their enemies.’
Haraldr steered his dappled Arabian away from the circling combatants and looked over at Mar. ‘We need to do something,’ he said in Norse. Haraldr reined around to face the east. Thorvald Ostenson, at the head of the mounted ranks of the Grand and Middle Hetairia, held aloft the golden dragon standard of the Grand Hetairia; company banners demarcated the five vanda behind; the Varangians were uniformed in newly lacquered Roman steel byrnnies with brilliant scarlet plumes atop their helms. Behind the Varangians the units of the Taghmata, headed by the golden-armoured Scholae beneath their gilded eagle standards, disappeared down the Mese, a metallic river of latent fury. It was not wise to dispatch an army of this size with any sort of doubts over their leadership. But weren’t such doubts now unavoidable?
Haraldr wheeled and faced the crowd to his right. Most of these spectators were various dignitaries from the Palace precinct – he could see Anna Dalassena and her mother standing in front – a few were prosperous merchants from Haraldr’s own neighbourhood. Even these, with their sophisticated understanding of the predicament, had the look of peasants watching their village leader flaunt some ancient superstition. Haraldr could only imagine the speculation among the labourers and minor tradesmen whose dun-coloured masses filled the western end of the Forum. If they did not get this column under way, this army’s first action might be against the people of Constantine’s great city.
Mar looked up at the green bronze face of the Emperor Constantine as if asking for advice. He shouted for the bandmaster, who commanded the two ranks of drummers, trumpeters, flautists and cymbal players arrayed on either side of the Varangians, to count twenty and commence playing. Then he charged his Arabian between Michael and Dalassena. The Manglavite will lead,’ Mar said, nostrils flaring but his voice even and dignified. ‘The Grand Domestic and the Caesar will ride side by side behind the Manglavite. The Hetairarch will follow the Caesar and Grand Domestic’ Just then the band blared into the lightening sky, effectively cutting off debate, the Caesar and Grand Domestic, at a loss to do otherwise, lined up as Mar had ordered but edged forward as each tried to move a neck ahead of the other; Haraldr finally blocked them with the rump of his horse. Anna Dalassena ran out of the crowd and handed her father a spray of golden marigolds; he took them with a look of mixed surprise and anger. Then Anna came beside Haraldr’s horse and handed him a single white lily. She held his hand as he took the flower. He could not hear her well but he could read her lips easily: ‘From Maria.’ Anna kissed his hand and ran back into the crowd. As if on her signal, the petals of spring flew into the air like snow.
The acclamation began at the Chalke Gate and swept forward with such force that it seemed like some great gust of wind. Even the band was palled to silence and the group of four horsemen at the front of the column turned in alarm; Haraldr wondered if the Excubitores back on the Mese hadn’t begun to riot among themselves. He looked at Mar helplessly. The sound was a hurricane that seemed as if it would throw the statue of Constantine to the pavement. Petals flew into the air. What could possibly be going on?
The horseman rode alone alongside the ranks; in a huge rippling motion all the Taghmata cavalry dismounted and the infantrymen dropped to their knees. The oncoming horse was a white Arabian caparisoned with gold and purple, and the horseman, in the finest gold armour, wore purple boots with a purple cloak flowing behind. His head was bare save for a single jewelled band round his forehead. Is Joannes mad, thought Haraldr, engaging an imposter to play the Emperor?
The horseman was fifty ells away when Haraldr realized that what he saw was not an imposter but a vision, a miracle. The man in Imperial raiment was the Emperor Michael. Not the same man whom Haraldr had adored a lifetime ago, but not the same pathetic wretch who had writhed in dying agony at his convent for prostitutes. He was still noticeably swollen, but he rode erect in the saddle and handled his horse with power and ease. And when the Emperor was still a dozen ells distant, Haraldr could see that his eyes were more powerful, more resolute than ever, the eyes of a man who had seen the abyss and with the force of ultimate will had leapt over it.
‘Grand Domestic! Caesar!’ shouted the Emperor, his voice audible even over the storm of his fame. ‘You will ride together, preceding the Imperial Scholae.’ Michael Kalaphates and Dalassena made no attempt to compose their astonishment-slackened faces and spurred off, exchanging looks that might have been passed between the centurions of old Rome when they saw the door of the Christ’s tomb rolled aside. The Emperor turned on Haraldr and Mar with a gaze of full recognition and furious purpose. ‘Hetairarch! Manglavite! You will ride behind me! I alone will ride at the head of the armies of Rome!’ Mar and Haraldr bowed deeply and fell in behind. The Emperor made the sign of the cross three times. Then he spurred his horse slightly and the powerful beast took the first step west. Responding instantly to this signal, the ranks behind began their march towards the destiny of Rome. Above them, the first clear shaft of the morning light caught the bronze rays that wreathed the head of the Emperor Constantine and gilded that ancient metal with the brilliance of the sun.
‘And so, I must reiterate my conclusion that the author of the
‘A persuasive and coherent summary of the advocacies of the esteemed Leo,’ said the Emperor non- committally before he finally looked up. He directed his incisive eyes to the group of junior officers arrayed behind Dalassena; all of them, like the Grand Domestic, were attired in court robes rather than military uniform, even though reconnaissance units of the Bulgar army had already been engaged that very morning. ‘Domestic of the Excubitores,’ said the Emperor, ‘would you give us, in the spirit of free and open speculation, the views of the author of the
Haraldr peered over the heads of the officers ranked in front of him and tried to get a glimpse of Isaac Camytzes, the new Domestic of the Excubitores. Haraldr wished that his old friend Nicon Blymmedes could have been here to see this; unfortunately Blymmedes, former Domestic of the Excubitores, had been transferred to command of a garrison in Sicily, ostensibly for his failure to protect the Empress near Antioch – actually because he opposed Dalassena’s chronically timid strategies. But Blymmedes had taught Camytzes well, and apparently the Emperor was giving a competent junior officer an opportunity to speak without exposing him to charges of insubordination by his senior officer.
Camytzes strode to a position equidistant between the Emperor and his fellow officers. He was probably only in his early thirties, of medium height, with dark Armenian colouring that seemed to be characteristic of so many of Rome’s best soldiers (although Dalassena himself also had the swarthy look of the Armenikoi.) ‘Nicephorus Phocus, the esteemed author of the
‘Cataphracti!’ Dalassena snorted with a discourtesy designed to humiliate his young subaltern. ‘Where are the cataphracti?’ He looked about comically. ‘Rome has not employed heavy cavalry for almost a century, Domestic’ Dalassena wagged his finger for emphasis. ‘Because they were too clumsy to be effective in battle.’ This time the Grand Domestic looked around with immense self-satisfaction.
Camytzes waited for Dalassena to step back among the other officers. ‘Majesty, I of course an aware that we no longer employ cataphracti. We do, however, employ a powerful force of heavily armoured infantry accustomed to fighting in phalanx formation--’
Again Dalassena burst forward. ‘I must protest, Domestic. You are ill. I will summon your unit physician to attend you in the field hospital immediately. You imagine all sorts of mythical warriors have joined our campaign. Next you will call out for the Achilieus himself to lead the strong-greaved Achaians in this attack of yours!’ Dalassena guffawed boorishly at his own joke.
‘Majesty,’ resumed the long-suffering Camytzes, ‘the force to which I am referring is the Varangians of the Grand and Middle Hetairia. I have heard reports of the effectiveness of the wedge formation employed by the Manglavite and his unit against the Seljuks in Asia Minor’ – here Dalassena snorted again, since that battle had, in
