Haraldr was already on the dock. He decapitated the nearest Khazar and with a single swat sent another sprawling into the water. The third Khazar dropped his bow and went to his knees on his own accord. ‘You know who I am?’ Haraldr said in Greek. The trembling Khazar nodded. ‘I let you live.’ He pointed to the boat. ‘Go back to your unit and tell them that Haraldr Nordbrikt and his Varangians will come against them soon, and there will be no mercy for those who oppose us. But there will be amnesty for all who refuse to take arms against us and the Empress of Rome.’ The Khazar dipped his head to the wooden slats. Then, still crouched and looking back at Haraldr like a frightened cur, he crawled to the boat, tumbled in, and paddled back towards the palace.
‘I am … inspired, Uncle,’ said Michael, flourishing his gem-encrusted pallium. His dark eyes flashed beneath the blazing candelabra of the Chrysotriklinos. ‘I am not a fool. The employment of Hunrodarson is merely expedient. I have no more intention of making him Basileus than I do of placing a dead fish on our glorious throne. Do you think the Pantocrator would continue to sanction me if I were that foolish? No, Mar Hunrodarson will serve his purpose and then join his former accomplice, Haraldr Nordbrikt, in the Neorion.’ Michael’s lips quivered and his teeth flashed momentarily. ‘I rather fancy that little girl he has abducted. She is so … pristine. I quite see her as my mistress. My virgin Magdalen. “White Mary” is what her name means.’
Constantine’s forehead prickled and his stomach roiled. How had his nephew fooled him for so long? Or, perhaps, why had he for so long dismissed his nephew’s obvious symptoms as mere impetuosity or youthful caprice? But he should have known, he should have been alarmed, he should have slowed things down. But Michael could be so brilliant, so able. Was it a family curse, or was it in the nature of the Imperial Office to drive men mad? Perhaps the man supplied the madness, but the office supplied the form of that madness. The endless enactment of the Pantocrator’s life in the ritual at court, with each journey through the city a restaging of Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem, with each state banquet a repetition of the symbolism of the Last Supper; the implication, by the very breadth of the Imperial Throne, that the Pantocrator himself sat next to the Emperor. Little wonder that Michael had come to believe he knew the Pantocrator intimately; it was perhaps a tribute to Michael’s qualities that he did not yet believe he
‘Majesty,’ said Constantine delicately, ‘I fear that the Pantocrator is … testing us with yet another travail in this enterprise of ours. I am informed that both the Tauro-Scythian Haraldr Nordbrikt and the woman Maria have escaped from their respective confinements.’
Michael’s eyes widened for a moment. He tilted his head slightly, listening. ‘My mistake was in choosing a Magdalen who was both sullied and unrepentant. That is why my White Mary has now been sent to me.’ His gaze was distant, as if he looked off towards the vast, shimmering golden domes of new Jerusalem. ‘My mother must be a virgin. I know that now.’
‘Nephew!’ snapped Constantine in desperation. ‘If Haraldr Nordbrikt has escaped to lead the citizen rabble, the consequences could be grave. You, yourself, have said never to bet against a man who has won so many times that it seems he cannot possibly win again. Haraldr Nordbrikt has cheated destiny so often, I am most reluctant to wager against him now.’
‘Mar Hunrodarson is also a man favoured by fortune. I rather think that the good fortunes of both brutes will quite cancel each other.’
Constantine nodded, grateful that the Pantocrator’s companion still enjoyed moments of lucidity. ‘Still, Nephew, even if the Tauro-Scythians neutralize each other, we are confronted with the unabated wrath of the rabble.’ Constantine steeled himself and offered the only counsel that a man of reason and ability could in a situation like this. ‘Majesty, I think we should call the Empress back from the convent at Principio. We merely need have her read a proclamation to the citizen rabble, and then maintain her under house arrest, as your predecessor did. I am certain she will be amenable. They say she was entirely undone with the prospect of leaving her city when she was taken aboard ship.’
Michael paused and waved his hand airily. ‘Oh, that, Uncle. Yes, quite. I have already dispatched four of my fastest galleys of the
Constantine bowed. ‘Majesty,’ he whispered with relief, ‘I believe you are indeed inspired.’
‘So I will place my linen weavers and bakers and grocers here,’ said John, a thick-armed, short-haired leather cutter who had emerged as the leader of the guildsmen. He knelt and pointed at the rough map Halldor had sketched in the sand of the Hippodrome track. Halldor forced himself to concentrate, as he had all evening.
He was certain now that Haraldr was dead, and his implacable shell was beginning to crack. But he had to hold himself together until tomorrow. Until the day of vengeance. He prodded the indicated place in the sand with the point of his sword. ‘Yes. Tell them that the diversionary attack at the Chalke Gate is of crucial importance. And if they can force the gate, all the better. Our success here depends on the vigour of their assault there.’ Halldor turned to the Blue Star’s son, who leaned over the scrawls in the sand and studied them so intently that it seemed his jutting beard would erase the plan. ‘Nicetas,’ said Halldor, ‘your . . . associates will be the first to strike. Just before dawn, at the Bucoleon gates. That is the last quarter from which they expect an attack. You will probably achieve initial success and then meet strong resistance. Remember that holding your ground is just as important to us as an advance.’ Halldor looked at the Blue Star, who stood with her arms folded and a keen, steely look in her eyes, as if she heard the echoes of her earlier triumphs on this track. ‘Your attack is the most important, Madame. Especially since we know that Mar Hunrodarson’s Varangians are coming against us tomorrow. I am certain that they will defend the Imperial Box. It is imperative that the Imperial Taghmata is not permitted to come down into the stadium and encircle my Varangians while we assault the Imperial Box.’
‘Tomorrow the high and mighty will reap the whirlwind of the Studion,’ said the Blue Star. ‘There are accounts to be settled.’
Halldor dismissed his curious assortment of officers and looked up to the Imperial Box. ‘Mar will have the advantage of high ground and numbers,’ he told Ulfr. ‘When Odin sends me a Valkyrja, I hope she is tight and wicked.’
‘The web of man is now being woven,’ said Ulfr sombrely. ‘The Valkyrja will cross it with their blood-red weft.’ He looked at the stars, only faintly visible through the pall from the fires and torches. ‘We have an account to settle as well. I hope Odin will spare me long enough for that.’
‘Yes,’ said Halldor, his voice breaking for the first time in Ulfr’s memory. ‘We will never see our comrade again in the middle realm. But tomorrow we will see him in the Valhol. If there is joy in this, it is that I will drain Odin’s mead trenches with Haraldr tomorrow.’ Halldor’s voice firmed again. ‘And bring him a thousand souls as a gesture of my love and respect.’
Ulfr manfully grimaced to stop his tears and pointed down the track where a contingent of guildsmen were practising their spear assault. ‘We will bring many souls with us. Your idea of forming units according to profession was a good one. These guildsmen are already becoming an adequate army. And what the folk of the Studion lack in tactics they will make up for in ferocity and courage.’
‘And I have never seen Varangians so thirsty for the eagle’s brew. It is as if every man has Odin’s Rage.’ Halldor nodded to the groups of Varangians, many already in full armour -they would sleep tonight with their helmets as pillows – as they worked over their blades or assembled siege ladders. Halldor turned and observed a Varangian in a ridiculously undersize rough wool tunic stagger through the ranks of the drilling guildsmen. ‘All eager except this sot,’ said Halldor with mild derision. ‘He must have found the only inn open in the city. Tomorrow he will think that someone is pounding his helm with a broad-axe before he even sees Mar’s men.’ Halldor squinted into the flickering light provided by hundreds of torches. ‘Who is that? Erlend?’
Ulfr lurched forward as if drawn by a stunning vision. He stopped after a few steps and an incoherent sound came from his throat. Then he dashed towards the stumblebum Varangian and almost knocked him down with a frantic embrace. He sobbed like a woman. The drunken Varangian pulled Ulfr to his feet and virtually carried him over to Halldor.
Halldor grinned broadly in spite of his effort not to. ‘Haraldr,’ he said, his impassive voice betrayed by the tears in his eyes, ‘I thought that was you. You look like something a gull has dropped. No wonder the black-bitch Valkyrja sent you back to us.’
