The performance opened with an explosion of two dozen male and female athletes, clad only in loincloths spangled with shiny, rainbow-coloured metal bits, who could spin like tops, roll like hoops, and whirl through the air like throwing axes; eventually they built a human tower crowned with the bare-breasted women. Then came dogs that dressed and walked as men; monkeys that raced into the audience and plucked coins from men’s purses, then danced in celebration; a lion whose roar seemed to shake the walls, then a lion with stripes; a striped horse with a neck so long, it seemed certain he would topple over; and finally an incredible beast with a back that reached to the second-storey balcony, legs shaped exactly like tree trunks, and most wondrous of all, a snout as long as a man was tall that could also pluck coins from the audience (leading Halldor to ask if there was any living creature in Constantinople that could
Then came the truly extraordinary portion of the amusement, if indeed this was an amusement at all. It was well past midnight, the Varangians roaring with wine and lust, when a chorus trilled and the stage was momentarily screened. The brocade curtains parted, and the music, provided by a portable pipe organ, droned dramatically.
‘I’ll draw the curtain! You find Euthymius!’ Haraldr shouted to Halldor. Wearing purple brocade, a dark, full beard, and an elaborate sparkling diadem, the first actor was clearly a representation of the Emperor. Haraldr’s heart screamed with alarm as he rushed to the stage. Was this a plot to involve them in a treason? Clever, indeed!
‘Haraldr Nordbrikt! Haraldr Nordbrikt!’ shrieked Marmot-Man as he clung desperately to Haraldr’s thigh. ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt, you must stop! Please! If only for a moment!’
Haraldr finally gave up. He was not making much progress through the crowd – the Varangians kept clasping him gratefully – and the enactment was rapidly proceeding. The mock Emperor had already been followed onto the stage by a second, thinner actor, also dressed in mock Imperial raiment, and then three younger, purple- robed women: one beautiful, one less attractive, and one wearing a mask representing some sort of pox or skin disfigurement. These five characters burst into simultaneous action. The first Emperor mimed the defeat of numerous men, in rough brown tunics who streamed endlessly onto the stage; the thinner, purple-clad man drank from a wineskin and rolled dice; the beautiful woman primped and dabbed paint on her face; the plainer woman looked on enviously; and the ugly one retired to a corner and knelt in prayer.
‘Haraldr Nordbrikt!’ gasped the shaken Marmot-Man. ‘You must know that this is customary among the Romans. It is permitted to lampoon the Emperor even should he himself be seated among us. In fact, there has never been an Autocrator who did not himself witness at least one such performance at his expense. Believe me, Haraldr Nordbrikt. Euthymius says he has prepared this mime particularly for you!’
Haraldr understood. A Norse king would also permit a skald to jest with him. Of course, the skald who dared such jibes was like the man who hunted walrus alone in a small boat; if he was not extremely skilled, he was dead. Haraldr waved Halldor back, and they stood together to watch the show.
‘Basil the Bulgar-Slayer?’ asked Halldor as the first stage Emperor continued to bash various mock enemies.
‘I think so,’ said Haraldr. ‘Bulgars wear those brown tunics.’ Suddenly the Bulgar-Slayer slumped motionless to the floor, and the other actors indulged in great floor pounding and wailing. The Bulgar-Slayer’s crown was handed to the thinner man who after placing the diadem on his head paused and appraised the beautiful woman and the not-so-beautiful woman; the disfigured woman apparently had disappeared, though Haraldr had not noticed her departure from the stage. Another actor, a rather elderly man in a green robe, entered, and with elaborate comic motions the Emperor urged the not-so-beautiful woman to embrace this new character, but she merely turned her head and turned up her nose. Then the Emperor cajoled the beautiful woman, and after considerable reluctance she finally took the green-robed old man in her arms; the not-so-beautiful woman erupted into hysterical, mocking laughter. The Emperor threw up his arms in glee, promptly fell in a heap, and the beautiful woman picked up his crown and purple robe and gave them to her aged companion. Once crowned, this new Emperor piled bricks into little walls and sprinkled them with coins, to the accompaniment of long-haired men who threw pages torn from books in the air and shouted in a nonsense language.
Then something quite remarkable happened. The pace of the actors’ movements slowed, the music became funereal, and a towering black-frocked monk entered, mounted on a real horse, and pranced about the stage.
‘Not the black-frock you saw at Nicephorus Argyrus’s?’ asked Halldor.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps we have reached the present Emperor. This one is certainly portrayed as a buffoon.’
The black-frock paused for a moment to study the new Emperor and the beautiful woman, who had turned their backs to each other. The monk cantered offstage for a moment, and when he returned, another man, much younger than the Emperor and clad in a very plain yellow wool robe, rode behind him on the horse. Both men dismounted, and the monk took the yellow-robed man by the hand, pointed out to him the apparently feuding Imperial couple, gave him a pat and a kiss as one might to a young child, and shooed him over to the woman. The beautiful woman took the yellow-robed man’s hand, held it shyly for a moment, then devoured him with kisses, knocking him to the floor.
‘Fuck her! Fuck her!’ The first few Varangians to shout were quickly joined by a rhythmic chant.
The couple kissed prone for a moment – the not-so-beautiful woman just observed all this with elegant amusement – then rose, turned to the Emperor, and stood and watched while he grabbed his throat like a man choking or poisoned. Neither they nor the monk attempted to help, and the Emperor collapsed in a heap.
‘They’re saying someone murdered an Emperor!’ hissed Halldor. ‘His wife and her lover.’
The monk plucked the Imperial diadem from the fallen Emperor’s head and removed the purple robe. The monk then placed the crown on the yellow-robed man’s head and wrapped him in the purple robe. The beautiful woman turned to the not-so-beautiful woman, erupted with arm-flailing anger, and drove her off the stage. Then the beautiful woman went to one side of the stage to paint her face while the newest Emperor sat contemplatively on his gilded throne, the monk hovering over him in a somewhat sinister tableau.
‘Kristr!’ Haraldr released the strangled oath as a tall blond man wearing huge padding and the uniform of the Varangian Guard entered the stage. The make-believe Varangian stood on the side of the throne opposite the monk, his great axe extended over the Emperor; it was unclear as to whether he was protecting the Emperor or preparing to behead him.
‘Mar Hunrodarson?’ asked Halldor.
Haraldr nodded, his veins iced. He had suspected that the Imperial Throne might be an illusion masking a greater and more sinister power, but to finally see his speculation confirmed by a Roman source, and to know that Mar himself was that power . . . But it wasn’t that clear. What of the black-frock? Was he the mysterious Joannes, and if so, did he and Mar share power?
Before Haraldr could begin to sort through these alarming new questions, the organ raced to a triumphant flourish and a second tall, blond, padded and armoured actor entered the stage, followed by a band of makeshift Varangians. This second mock Norseman was quickly swarmed by a band of actors wearing white robes; he held his Varangians back, then stepped forward and one by one knocked the white-robed actors to the floor.
‘Haraldr! Haraldr! Hardraada! Hardraada!’ chanted the audience.
Haraldr uncomfortably watched his stage persona finish bashing the mock Saracens, then reach into the stage floor and pull out a chest filled with brilliant gold coins. The mock Haraldr proudly displayed the chest to the Emperor, and as he presented the offering, both Mar and the black-frock bent simultaneously and mimed speaking garrulously to the Emperor, each taking an Imperial ear. With that the curtain was drawn.
Haraldr leapt for the stage, intent on asking Euthymius just what message this cryptic, unfinished drama had been intended to convey, even if it meant posing his question with the blade of his sword. But he was quickly intercepted by his pledge-men.
‘Haraldr! Haraldr!’ yelled the Varangians as they swarmed around him.
‘Find Euthymius!’ Haraldr frantically shouted to Halldor.
The Varangians boosted Haraldr to their shoulders, then ebulliently tossed him high into the night sky; they caught him and continued to throw him into the air again and again.
After several minutes Halldor returned and shouted to his still soaring leader. ‘I can’t find Euthymius!’
Someone opened the gates and the whores came in.
Silence. The Grand Domestic Bardas Dalassena turned the brass cock at the base of his water clock and
