unable to move, awake in that nightmare for many years. Because of the love of an old man who is dead now, and the help of the gods, I no longer live in that nightmare. But my soul still sears with the shame and agony of that day. I am marked by it for ever.’
Maria’s grip was fierce, astonishingly powerful. ‘I am not ashamed of what I did. But I am still angry. It is the anger that reduces me, because I have let loose its misguided arrows all my life.’
Haraldr could say nothing. She had bared her breast to him and indeed had no reason for shame; there was nothing in her tale that did not make him think more of her. He felt shame because the lie born at Stiklestad was still with him, and the anger he should proclaim to the world was still hidden. But he could not answer her truth with one of his own. He thought again of the ambivalent fate that had whispered to him high above the Hippodrome, and heard again its caution. Was this new truth of hers merely another mask for her soul? Or was her soul merely a mask for some devious fate? He did not know. And so all he could do was hold her desperate hand and listen to the hot wind rise and rattle among the sycamore leaves.
‘The Magister and Strategus of Armenikoi, Constantine Tztezes, paid a common prostitute to costume herself as the whore of Babylon, go about her business with a young man while he watched, and then . . .’ Michael Kalaphates let the letter drop onto the stack, a look of profound disgust added to the weariness that creased his handsome young face. ‘You don’t want to hear the rest, Uncle. Suffice to say that when the young man had finished with this ersatz Whore of Revelations, Tztezes proceeded to enact the rulers of biblical notoriety who had “drunk deep of her fornication”.’ Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘And this, Uncle, is the kind of narrow-minded prig who calls a sportsman like myself an apostate to Satan.’
‘It is remarkable that Father Abbot Giorgios did not despair of human nature,’ said Constantine wryly.
‘Yes, the Father Abbot seems to have been remarkably magnanimous as long as human nature brought him marble revetments for his cenobite’s cells and gold-and-ruby icons for his personal treasury. I tell you Uncle, if I ever … I would make these pompous dignitaries think that the trumpet of judgement has sounded.’ Michael picked up the stack of documents and set it down on the table with a muted thud. ‘Well, enough of that. Let me review what we have.’
Constantine straightened his pile of parchments and watched Michael attentively. It
Michael placed his hands on two stacks. These are living holders of Imperial dignities who would be subject to immense . . . embarrassment if the contents of these letters became known.’ Michael lifted the hand that rested on the other, taller stack. ‘These documents pertain to deceased individuals whose families still hold positions of responsibility.’ Michael strutted for a moment, enjoying his moment of latent power. ‘We will use this only as a last resort, or to protect ourselves if circumstances should prove to our benefit. I quite think extortion a rather limited sport. One always begins with an outcome, which becomes quite tedious to the true speculator.’
Michael moved with new assurance to a small stack of perhaps a dozen letters and placed both hands upon it. ‘This, Uncle, has all the indications of a superlative wager.’ Michael riffled the dry parchments. ‘The account is graphic, is it not? The purple-born Eudocia, the late sister of our present Empress Zoe and the Augusta Theodora, becomes enamoured of a young courtier – by the way, Uncle, they say Eudocia was a fright, her face blemished by some pox. She becomes enamoured of this young swain, lets him have his way with her, his seed bears fruit, she confesses to her father, and her young man mysteriously takes the tonsure of a monk and disappears to a lavra in Syria. She goes off to the convent at Prote and brings her bastard into the world, and the child’s rather deeply blue blood – in fact, one could almost make the case for it being purple – is known only to Father Abbot Giorgios. Eudocia gives up the child and lives out the rest of her woefully brief years in an even more remote cloister, the Emperor Constantine dies, we even have the death of the child’s father recorded. It is all here, the account of an artfully buried secret.’
Michael sorted through the stack and picked up two letters. ‘Except for this. Here we have a letter in which Eudocia thanks the Father Abbot for seeing to the confidential delivery of her child and promises her confessor a new gold altar table.’ Michael waved the other letter. ‘Here we have the unfortunate woman’s profuse gratitude for seeing to her own placement in another convent, and of course the promise of one hundred solidi to purchase bound manuscripts for the library. Both letters are marked in both the Father Abbot’s and the Chartophylax’s filing notations, and both sets of notations indicate that one letter is missing, the letter written between these two. The letter, I am willing to wager, Uncle, that describes the disposition of the child.’
‘Yes,’ said Constantine; he also rose and began to pace with excitement. ‘And the fact that the Chartophylax’s notation indicates the missing letter proves that he was in possession of this rather propitious secret.’
‘Is it possible that the Chartophylax did kill this Father Katalakon in order to preserve the secret?’
‘Possible. But remember that the scent – or perhaps one should say reek – of Joannes is on all of this.’
‘Yes, that is the key, Uncle.’ Michael pulled an ear thoughtfully. ‘Let us consider three possibilities. One, that Joannes found the letter and knows the secret. Two, that Joannes looked for the letter and did not find it. Three, that Joannes knows nothing of the letter and merely suspended the typicon for some other reason; you know how meticulous his management is and how extensive his piques are.’ Constantine nodded agreement. ‘Two chances out of three, Uncle, is considered very attractive odds to an experienced sportsman. I say we should send someone to Cappadocia to locate this Chartophylax – or his remaindered effects in the event of his death, which seems likely – and bring us back that letter.’
‘There is no one we can trust with such a … treasure.’
Michael’s face collapsed into his usual boyish irresolution. ‘I had not thought of that. Poor Ergodotes, the only casualty of my plot against Joannes.’
Constantine approached Michael and slapped his shoulders. ‘Of course there is someone we can both trust. By the goodness of the Pantocrator you have an uncle who knows the area passably well. The former Strategus of a neighbouring theme.’
Michael’s lips were slack with shock. ‘Uncle, you cannot mean to … Uncle, the heat alone . . .No. Nothing is worth the prospect of having you away for those months, not to mention … I will not allow it.’
‘Nephew, you yourself have traversed most of the route. The caves of these eremites are only three days from Caesarea Mazaca. A most propitious destination, is it not, my Caesar? I should be able to join a caravan within the next two weeks, and be in Cappadocia by early September. I will be back before December.’
Michael’s eyes were wet with gratitude. ‘Uncle, bless you. I only hope that upon the occasion of your return I will still be here to welcome you.’
Maria awakened to the brilliant early September light streaming into her bedchamber. The curtains rustled b with the already tepid morning breeze. Her arcade was a wall of gold. She had dreamed again, of thunderbolts fracturing a glassy sky, a flaming sea, her own death.
Maria sat up at the knock on the door. Her chamberlain entered and ushered in Maria Diaconus, daughter of the Patrician and Senator Alexius Diaconus, and Maria’s new lady-in-waiting; because of their shared name, Maria referred to her as Little Maria. Little Maria was fourteen, blonde, as slender as a reed, and entirely too young to be gambolling about court, but clearly her parents were eager to auction her innocence in the interests of their ambitions. Maria had resolved to keep a keen eye on her.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Little Maria in her flute-like girl’s voice. ‘I have been up before the sun. I cannot believe this day is actually here.’ Little Maria walked to the open arcade and looked out over the domes of the palace and across the Bosporus. They say there will be dancers and a drama in mime and an illusionist and acrobats and animals and that women will have their own hunt,’ she rattled off without pausing for breath. ‘Do you think we will be able to dance?’
‘If the Empress decides we can dance, we will dance.’
‘With men?’
‘Perhaps. If you are extremely good, you might be permitted to dance with men.’
