Emperor’s brother proved how much all those cooked-up titles were worth. Yes, the swollen-heads at court came and went, but Giorgios Maleinus was always in business: the business of buying cheap and selling dear.
‘Eminence,’ said Maleinus, his inflection deceptively rustic, ‘I would like to invite you as my guest to see the property. Make your own judgement of the facilities. When you compare what you see to the price I am asking, you will consider yourself Fortune’s favourite.’
Fortune’s favourite, thought Constantine bitterly. The Emperor’s miraculous recovery was Fortune’s boot in the ass. His poor nephew the Caesar was in virtual exile, denied even the privilege of entering the palace. It wasn’t fair, either; perhaps the Caesar hadn’t been a hero in the Bulgarian campaign, but no one had given him the chance to be.
‘Excuse me, Eminence,’ said Maleinus, rubbing at his swollen red nose with his stiff fingers, ‘but would you like to see the property?’
‘Ah, quite. Tell me why this superlative establishment is offered at the price one might expect to pay for a rocky hillside and a wooden chapel?’
‘Well, Eminence, you’re not a man to toy with, that is certain, so I will give you the truth in the sight of the Pantocrator. The monastery on the Isle of Prote once enjoyed a generous typicon drafted under the Bulgar-Slayer, may the Pantocrator keep his soul, and it grew surpassingly wealthy, some say under the patronage of someone in the Bulgar-Slayer’s family; they don’t say who. Apparently the patron died and the typicon was not renewed. Now, just so you can’t say Giorgios Maleinus concealed the entire truth from you, the reason the typicon wasn’t renewed is because there was a bit of a scandal out there.’
‘Really?’ said Constantine, faintly interested. At least some outrageous rumour would enliven this dirt merchant’s pedestrian presentation. Constantine looked out of the window of the virtually non-functional office he had been so generously granted in the palace complex – the view was of the blank south wall of the Numera – and longed for Antioch.
‘Yes, Eminence. It seems that the Chartophylax of this monastery, an ancient fellow, got it into his head that the Brother Abbot of the establishment was actually a demon. They say this old book-buzzard murdered the Brother Abbot and fled to Cappadocia. I think the sin of Sodom was about the place, and that was the cause of the trouble. But whatever, the Emperor wouldn’t renew the typicon, and the establishment was out of business. But I’ll tell you, Eminence, though the monks have been gone for four or five years, the establishment is a jewel in the diadem of the Pantocrator, so to speak. You’d just have to clear out the bird’s nests and you would be back in business.’
‘So why hasn’t someone already bought it for this “immorally scant” price you have mentioned, arranged for a new typicon, and reaped the bounty of Prote? Surely anyone with even minor influence at court could obtain a new charter.’
‘That’s the trouble, Eminence, and why I see yourself as a prospective purchaser of unusual qualities. It seems that your brother, the esteemed Orphanotrophus Joannes, had mandated that under no circumstances may a new typicon be drafted for the monastery at Prote. I thought that with you being cut from the same bolt, so to speak . . .’
‘Indeed.’ Constantine hoped his flushed forehead would not bead so quickly as to betray his sudden fascination with the monastery at Prote. ‘Well, sir, you are a most persuasive orator. I can hardly see what harm could come from sailing out to view this establishment, particularly since we are enjoying fair weather.’
The Emperor indicated to his chamberlain that he would speak informally with the visitor, and the white- robed eunuch backed away like a statue on wheels. Mar was invited to approach the immense, purple-canopied golden throne. The Emperor had resumed his daily audiences in the Chrysotriklinos, the main throne room for non-diplomatic receptions, and he presided beneath the exact epicentre of a huge golden cupola supported by eight regularly spaced apses; a ring of silver candelabra wreathed the dome with light. The day’s business had run well into the night.
‘Hetairarch.’ The Emperor’s voice betrayed no weariness of his resumed duties. He assumed his usual perfectly erect posture, his hands resting flat on his thighs. His eyes were as hard as the gems of his diadem. ‘You are well?’
‘Yes, Majesty.’ Mar wore no uniform or badges of his office, only a dark wool cape with a cowl he had been ordered to keep over his head. He had been brought from Paristron in a curtained carriage and had been escorted to the Chrysotriklinos as soon as he had arrived in the city.
‘I have learned that you have completed your assignment in Paristron with industry and thoroughness. My children, particularly those of the Paristron theme who were displaced from their homes, are grateful to you, and in the name of the Pantocrator I thank you for them.’
Mar bowed. ‘Majesty.’
The Emperor flexed his fingers and propped his hands lightly on his thighs. ‘I have been considering your next assignment, Hetairarch. In your absence I have reflected upon the performance of the Grand Hetairia in the battle in which we were victorious over the Bulgars. I have concluded that your contribution, both personally and as commander of the Grand Hetairia, was short of the standards expected of a unit commended not only with the protection of Rome’s Autocrator, but with the preservation of the glorious history and legacy of the Grand Hetairia.’ The Emperor leaned forward slightly and stared intensely at Mar, as if looking for something behind his glassy eyes. ‘There are those around me who suggest that the actions of the Grand Hetairia, and principally the Hetairarch, were either treason or cowardice, or both. The man who led us to victory that day, your fellow Tauro-Scythian Haraldr Nordbrikt, is particularly suspicious. Having experienced that battle myself, and having seen the very real difficulty you and your men were in, I think Haraldr Nordbrikt’s interpretation of your actions, while understandable, has been inflected by the loss of his men and the emotions of that day. But since I do understand the feelings of Haraldr Nordbrikt, and since I can hardly afford to have my Varangians fall on one another to settle this matter among themselves, I have made certain that you and Haraldr Nordbrikt have been separated so far, and I intend to continue that separation. Hence your assignment in Paristron, and the secrecy with which you have been brought here. Perhaps at a time when our borders are more secure, I will permit Haraldr Nordbrikt to discuss your actions with you personally. But for the moment I need you both in my service.’
The Emperor allowed his hands to settle slightly. ‘Hetairarch, I know, as perhaps no other man does, that you are an officer who has served me well and faithfully through many campaigns, and who until this regrettable incident has had to apologize to no one for his courage or his loyalty. But you are also an officer who has let his performance erode to the point where comment has been occasioned. As I am certain you understand, such comment cannot be permitted of the Emperor’s personal guard, for it invites active, indeed armed, speculation that could be fatal not only to the Regent of Rome but also to the Empire itself. Accordingly, I have determined to relieve you of your office of Hetairarch, and to transfer you and your men to Italia. Henceforth your title will be Droungarios of the Catapanate of Italia. This new position, as you know, is a significant responsibility.’ In fact, the situation in Italia was critical, and the Emperor considered the dispatch of the suspect Mar a necessary gamble; right now the province was as good as lost to the Saracens, and any treachery of Mar’s could hardly make the situation worse. And perhaps Mar would redeem himself. The Emperor regretted that Haraldr Nordbrikt would not have his vengeance as soon as he had hoped, but the Emperor regretted many of the things this office had forced him to do. ‘I intend that you interpret this appointment as an expression of my confidence that you will regain the discipline and effectiveness that have served your Emperor, and the Roman Empire, so well in the past.’
The Emperor made the sign of the cross, the indication that the audience had ended. Mar crossed his arms over his breast and retreated from the colossal throne. The deposed Hetairarch, concealed within a ring of Khazar guards, was escorted through the silver doors and ushered to the curtained carriage waiting beside the porch of the Chrysotriklinos. Before he was sealed inside, Mar took a final look at the black, light-rimmed Bosporus. The torches of his escort cast an orange reflection in his brooding irises, and for a moment it seemed that Mar was gazing out on a sea of fire.
‘Hetairarch Haraldr, may I fill your goblet,’ said the wife of the Magister whose name Haraldr had not remembered. She fluttered lashes as thick as bowstrings and revealed her fleshy bosom as she filled her own gold cup from a stream of amber-tinted wine flowing from the lips of a bronze ram.
The tribute fame demands, thought Haraldr. He smiled politely and accepted. Above him, the gilded, intricately perforated cone of the Mystic Fountain of the Triconchus rose like a golden cypress; amber-hued wine gurgled from within the elaborate fountain and collected in the bronze pool at the base, then was spouted to the guests via the mouths of various bronze breasts. Plates full of nuts, pastries and fruits surrounded the wine spouts,
