commander who had become the most successful merchant in all Byzantium; some said he was even wealthier than the Emperor, although that was also said of several of the Dhynatoi. But Argyrus was the only merchant who could persuade the august Dhynatoi to dine at his town palace – at least those Dhynatoi who had been forced because of overenthusiastic land speculation or simple mismanagement of their estates, to borrow money from Argyrus. The very integration of the classes – and sexes – at Argyrus’s dinners was considered a scandal in itself; the tales told of his entertainments were a catalogue of vices, though most of the gossip was patently false or, at best, wildly exaggerated.
‘Argyrus has brought us a famous eremite from Cappadocia, I am told. They say he last left his cave when the Bulgar-Slayer was a boy. I don’t believe that for a moment. But he will bring us luck. Also, Argyrus is going to display for us the Tauro-Scythian who murdered the Manglavite. I have been told that this is the last opportunity we will have to see him.’ Alexandros seemed very keen at the mention of this attraction; even Giorgios cocked his head with interest. ‘I am taking all my little ladies-in-waiting so that they can see him, and the Hetairarch has agreed to come and translate for me, though I think Argyrus also has a man.’ Alexandros did not seem pleased that the Hetairarch would be along; he had heard that Maria had once kept company with him. ‘Then, when we leave Argyrus’s, I can send my ladies home with Hetairarch.’ Alexandros’s scowl fled. ‘And we three can visit that inn in the Venetian Quarter.’
Alexandros and Giorgios looked at each other with naked alarm. The Venetian Quarter, home to the considerable contingent of traders from Venice, was almost as notoriously lawless as the vast Studion slum, though it was a much smaller enclave. The Venetian sailors were considered virtual savages, and the only women who ever entered their environs were the most used-up and disease-ravaged whores, who could find employment nowhere else. Maria had several times expressed an almost morbid interest in a Venetian Quarter inn where these women were said to service their customers on the table-tops.
‘I don’t think you would be safe there,’ said Giorgios, his eyes mournful and frightened.
Maria opened her knees slightly and stroked her fingers once along the tops of her inner thighs, just beneath her vulva; the gesture was as mechanical and distracted as an animal cleaning itself yet almost breathtakingly erotic. She looked up at Giorgios. ‘If you don’t think you can protect me, then don’t go.’
The black waters wrapped around the brilliant galaxy of Constantinople at night. Haraldr knew the source of the many lights now: behind him, the flares along the great wall; to each side, sloping away from the spine of the city, the still-bustling wharves and factories; and just ahead, viewed as if from the mast of a ship, the lights of the Imperial Palace. It was as if he stood at the very centre of this wondrous constellation, and all around him the Empress City glowed and winked with the splendour of her nocturnal life. And tonight, robed in silk and perfumed with myrrh, Haraldr felt part of her. His fears only seemed to inflame his ardour for this new woman in his breast, to encourage the strange feeling that no matter how perilous this seduction, he did not want to stop it.
‘Nicephorus Argyrus has a palace larger than this on the Asian shore of the Bosporus, indeed he does,’ Marmot-Man interjected into Haraldr’s reverie. ‘Larger still is his palace near Ancyra. Yes, yes, Nicephorus Argyrus owns a third of the Bucellarion
‘This new lot’ apparently is not as powerful or competent as the old Bulgar-Slayer, thought Haraldr. Despite the narcotic luxury of the evening, he was endeavouring to note any snippet of information that might be useful.
Haraldr looked around the terrace atop the fourth floor of Nicephorus Argyrus’s palace. He could well imagine that a man with this treasure would long for no other place. The rooftop Eden had been planted with small flowering trees, neatly clipped shrubs and beds of flowers; shallow pools with spouting fountains were surrounded by mossy lawns. Delicate marble pavilions, lit with softly glowing, glass-sheathed oil lamps, were sprinkled among the gardens, and marble pathways meandered from pavilion to pavilion.
‘Well, let us return to the main hall, Haraldr Nordbrikt. Nicephorus Argyrus prefers to conclude his business before he dines, indeed he does.’ They descended a spiralling marble staircase and emerged into a miniature palace hall, much smaller than the Emperor’s but even more splendid; it was paved with pale green marble inlaid with whorls of pure gold and silver and lit by candelabra that looked like silver pine trees bearing scores of light- filled glass cones.
The gathering crowd was equally ornamental. Men and women alike wore elaborate, gold-embroidered silk tunics with high collars and long, gold-laced hems and sleeves; on many of the younger women the fabric seemed little more than a coating of iridescent paint. While virtually every guest was dressed as lavishly as a Rus prince or princess, none of them was accorded the respect shown a miserable beggar literally dressed in rags. His white hair and beard were crudely cropped; his wizened, ghostly pale skin pocked with crusty sores; and his stench was detectable from a dozen ells away. Yet the most corpulent, jewel-laden princes and their ladies crowded around the foul-smelling wretch, kissing his gnarled hands or filthy chest and pressing gold coins to him even though the old beggar simply let the offerings clatter to the floor.
Haraldr was clearly the secondary attraction. Nicephorus Argyrus, a short, well-weathered man with a deeply recessed grey widow’s peak and a stout belly that swelled against his carnation-and-gold silk tunic, periodically flicked his hand discreetly in Haraldr’s direction, apparently briefly explaining to various guests the identity of the giant curiosity.
Argyrus started towards Haraldr.
She is not real, was Haraldr’s first thought of the woman who now entered the hall. She is the product of the Grik artist who can surpass nature. Her hair was raven-black, and the pearls set into the twin coils glittered like the lights of the city. Even viewed from across the room, her cobalt-blue eyes were luminous. She wore a tunic of the sheerest alabaster silk veiled with gold floral patterns, yet both her front and back were more modestly concealed by a long, rectangular, scarf-like garment of gem-studded crimson brocade.
‘Maria,’ said Marmot-Man worshipfully, as if the name itself were a confession of love. For some reason Haraldr repeated the name softly to himself. He remembered that Maria had been the name of Kristr’s mother, the Queen of Paradise.
‘She is Her Imperial Majesty’s cousin,’ volunteered Marmot-Man. ‘The Mistress of the Robes.’ Marmot-Man wandered towards the vision, drawing Haraldr with him. Two young, arrogant-looking men attired like officers of the Scholae followed Maria into the hall; the longing in the soft brown eyes of the thinner of the two was obvious, and it made Haraldr wonder what his own face now betrayed. Another man entered after the two officers. Haraldr felt as if a sword had whirred through his legs at the knees, leaving the severed halves stacked like segments of a column; if he so much as leaned forward a thumb’s width, he would collapse.
The Norseman who walked into the hall was a giant, as tall as and even broader than Haraldr, and yet he bore his enormous strength casually and gracefully. He had a sensitive, slightly feminine mouth and a high, intelligent forehead; the silk-fine hair that swept straight back to his jewelled collar seemed dusted with gold. Haraldr had expected Mar Hunrodarson merely to be a more detestable thug than Hakon; this man had the noble stature of a king. How could he be Mar? And yet if he was not Mar, who was he?
‘Who is that man?’ asked Haraldr urgently, his blood icing at the frozen look on Marmot-Man’s dark little face.
‘The Hetairarch,’ he answered with a tremulous voice.
‘His name!’ demanded Haraldr, irritated by his own rising panic.
‘The Hetairarch . . .’ repeated Marmot-Man weakly. He waved his arm like a drowning man, apparently trying to draw the attention of his master.
Nicephorus Argyrus had already moved to greet the Norseman with an effusion that he had shown towards none of the other guests; he chattered nervously and flicked his hands about. The Hetairarch glanced over at Haraldr, but the look was idle, uninterested. Maria turned to the Hetairarch and in a familiar, faintly erotic fashion
