Haraldr parted the silent, reverent ranks of his Varangians and descended the siege ladders to the stadium. Mar’s body lay on the steps beneath the Imperial Box. His fingers twitched and blood gushed from his mouth and pooled behind his head. His eyes were almost ice-white, a uniform colour to the delicate pale blue of his skin. He still lived. Haraldr bent and whispered, ‘You did not die a coward. In the Valhol tonight, tell the Kings of Norway the name of the champion who sent you as a sacrifice to them.’ Haraldr touched Mar’s forehead gently, almost as if consoling a child. ‘It was you who had my pledge-man Asbjorn Ingvarson killed, wasn’t it?’
Mar’s gory head tilted slightly forward. ‘Yes.’
Haraldr took his hand away. ‘Then we have settled between us.’
The blood gurgled in Mar’s throat, almost as if he were laughing. His words were whispered through pale red froth. ‘I left . . . you … a legacy . . . King . . . Haraldr.’ His purpled lips moved without speaking, and his feet twitched. Haraldr stood, descended to the track, and left Mar Hunrodar-son to die alone, his last words, if any, heard only by the ears of immortal stone.
‘Father!’ The Augusta Theodora rushed forward and kissed the Patriarch Alexius’s jewelled hands. ‘Father.’ She stood speechless, blood visibly pumping into her pale cheeks, unable to ask all the desperate questions that had been running through her mind.
Alexius made the sign of the cross at her forehead and then, uncharacteristically, gently stroked her braided brown hair. He had never looked more defeated. In his rough woollen cloak, his face virtually the colour of penitential ashes, his pacing eyes now exhausted, wounded gravely, he looked like the survivor of a shipwreck. ‘My child,’ he said quietly, ‘we may never see another day like this.’
‘Father, I was not even certain you were still . . . that you were safe. After what we heard yesterday . . .’
Alexius stared at the beige plaster walls of Theodora’s temporary refuge in the Church of St Mary Chalkoprateia. ‘The Mother Church has withstood the assault of the mad heretic Michael. The siege of the Hagia Sophia was lifted half an hour ago when the forces that had imprisoned me were called away to counter a greater threat.’ Alexius shook his head wearily. ‘I confess that the effluence of love and support for your sister has been a revelation to me. She has raised all Rome against the demon.’
Theodora wrapped her arms tightly around her torso, as if she were on the verge of doubling over with pain. ‘Father, is she . . .’
Alexius smiled as thinly as a dying man mocking himself. ‘Your sister is safe. I have been told that the mad heretic brought her back to the palace this morning. No doubt to save his own skin from the wrath of her people.’
Theodora seemed to breathe in the news of her sister’s deliverance; her torso straightened and her small, pained face became fierce and punitive. ‘Father, you must know now that I cannot do it. I have suffered the agonies of the damned just knowing that my sister might be … Father, last night . . . Father, I do not know if my sister still loves me. But nothing in my heart can make me betray her now. If Our Lord had wanted me to make that sacrifice, He would not have put so much love for her in the hearts of her people. Or in my heart.’
Alexius was too weak to resist. His black eyes lay still. ‘Of course, my child. I am returning you to your home immediately. I, too, believe Our Lord has asked us to consider another means of defending our spiritual empire.’ Alexius paused and touched his fine silver beard, as if to ascertain that he still possessed corporeal form. ‘Mar Hunrodarson betrayed us. That does not surprise me. I had reasoned that in such an event we could still deal with him. But he turned against his fellow Varangians. Now I am told that he has been defeated in a great battle that took place in the Hippodrome this morning. He broke his sword, and ours, in the defence of a usurper who never could have been legitimized. I can only assume that Hunrodarson believed that he could place his own
Theodora nodded. ‘If I may, Father, I would like to stay here until all this is resolved. My sister . . .’
Again the weak, moribund smile. ‘Certainly, child--’ Alexius broke off but did not turn to the insistent pounding on the door. Finally Theodora crossed the room and cracked open the heavy wooden door.
The priest burst into the room, his woollen hood flung back, glimmering slices of his white silk vestments visible under his dull brown cloak. His face was brilliant with exertion. ‘Father, this could not wait.’ He handed Alexius a small parchment.
Alexius received the missive with indifference. His long, elegant fingers fumbled with the parchment. His eyes were so dull as he read that it seemed he was only staring at some design. And then, almost miraculously, he returned to life; but not even Lazarus had returned so quickly or vehemently. His face, a moment earlier as grey and coarse as weathered stone, became flesh again. His eyes flickered, awakening rested, eager. He clutched the parchment in a powerful fist. ‘Perhaps our Lord has merely divined to test our faith.’
‘Father . . .’ Theodora was clearly frightened by the Patriarch’s resurrection.
The eyes offered no mercy. ‘My child, the situation has changed. You must now prepare yourself for your climb to Golgotha.’
Theodora flinched but did not retreat. ‘Father, I will not. The crown of thorns I must wear is my love for my sister. And I will never remove that crown, no matter how painful it has become.’ Theodora’s lips set grimly and her eyes were like bits of lapis lazuli. ‘Father, I will not do it. I will
Alexius was stunned into silent acquiescence. Perhaps his ordeal had left him irreparably weakened; perhaps he had always known that his protege would someday challenge his strength. He looked away from Theodora and walked slowly to the simple oaken cupboard. A pair of gold-framed icons had been set on the top shelf. Both depicted the Virgin; one was an intricate cloisonne, a surface of vivid colours and fine gold striations, the other a faded encaustic, many centuries old. Alexius looked between the two images for a long while, his palms pressed together and fingers touching the tip of his powerful humped nose. Finally he turned.
‘My child, would you be agreeable to sharing your sister’s Holy burden? If you will not, I fear that both your sister and the Roman Empire will soon be lost.’
‘What has happened, Father?’
‘I am not yet certain. That is why I must know what you are prepared for me to offer in your name.’
‘Yes. I will share the throne with her. If it is necessary to save her and to save Rome.’
Alexius made the sign of the cross three times and without another word strode urgently from the room.
The future of Rome had been drawn in the sands of the Hippodrome. Haraldr stood over the hastily sketched campaign map; at his side were the co-commanders of the citizen army of Rome, John the leather cutter and the Blue Star. John had a bloody gash over his forehead, but his eyes blazed with triumph; his guildsmen had taken the Chalke Gate, with the help of some Khazar defectors. John pointed to the small square that indicated the Numera, where Michael’s Pecheneg guard was quartered. ‘I have left my bakers and grocers to harass the Pechenegs. When should I give them the signal for the afternoon attack?’
Haraldr looked around the stadium. Ulfr and Halldor and the rest of his Varangians now stood where Mar’s men had that morning, on the commanding vantage of the Imperial Box, ready for the final massive assault on the Imperial Palace. The Blue Star had removed her wounded from the stadium steps and the ranks of the guildsmen and the army of the Studion had reassembled on the track; they were already going over the chants they would sing when they had the usurper Michael before them in chains. He realized that there was no reason to wait. And in an awful way he wanted to wait, because he knew in his soul that when he entered the palace, he would find the answer to the question that now pierced his being. And if fate had answered him with Maria’s death, her life for his? Then fate would have killed them both.
‘Haraldr!’ Ulfr’s voice boomed down from the Imperial Box. He waved. Behind Ulfr were the luminous white robes of the palace chamberlains. The eunuchs rapidly filled the Imperial Box and stood at attention as they might on a race day. The army on the track below looked up and erupted with speculation. Had the Emperor Michael come to capitulate?
A few moments later the solitary black-shrouded figure appeared against the wall of the white-robed
