passage from Cesare Mazacha to Adana in the heart of Roman Asia Minor!
Joannes turned his lowered palm forward, signalling the Emperor that he should reply. Of course the Lord of the Entire World would accede to this request; the idea of a pilgrimage would appeal to his ardent piety, but less so than the opportunity to remove himself from the scheming harlot who plagued him to distraction with her unyielding demands for the most lascivious affections. The woman was a menace, and Joannes longed for the day when she would prove unnecessary.
When the Emperor had given his approval, Joannes thought of the small matter that had troubled him earlier. He was fatigued from the meeting but reminded himself that the enormity of his responsibility required unremitting attention to detail.
‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ said Joannes, ‘let me presume to acknowledge the angelic quality of your affections for our Mother the Empress, a model of devotion such that even those of us who love the Holy Theotokos as we do cannot hope to exceed the adoration you have vested in our earthly Mother’s precious vessel. And so to protect this wondrously adorned yet fragile vessel, I would suggest her guard be augmented with a special gift to her Holy Presence, a force of Tauro-Scythians of proven ferocity and dauntless ability in dealing with foes of Christendom. The Tauro-Scythians who vanquished the despicable Saracen miscreants off the coast of Africa are languishing in disuse, and I fear that their services will soon be lost to the Roman Empire if they are not given employment suitable to their evident worth as champions of Christ. Name these men as the Empress’s special guard, and the Mother of God herself will take our Mother’s hand as she ventures forth to pray for us at the shrines of Christ the King.’
The Emperor quickly agreed, and Joannes watched the Grand Domestic Dalassena’s eyes, looking for a sign. As he had suspected, he saw nothing.
‘Purple.’ Even Halldor’s voice was edged with fatigue, shock and rage. Asbjorn Ingvarson’s funeral pyre, which had burned in the courtyard all afternoon, still sent a raven-sooted plume into the indigo sky. The authorities had barred the gates and prevented the Varangians from burying the young Swede at sea, and it had taken all of Haraldr’s force as a leader to keep his men from breaking out and assaulting the city walls.
‘Purple?’ asked Ulfr numbly. He jerked his head up. His chair scraped against the stone paving of the little store-room.
Halldor spoke like a man in a trance, determined to make his point to listeners he could scarcely see. ‘When the first two Emperors died, the woman passed the crown to their successors, neither of whom wore purple when they first appeared. Purple implies royal lineage.’
Haraldr tried to focus on Halldor’s words through his own scarcely controllable fury. Although he had not known Asbjorn Ingvarson well, the agreeable young pagan had been one of his most devoted pledge-men, and his death screamed for Odin’s vengeance; Asbjorn’s soul could not begin the long journey through the spirit world while his murderer remained in the middle realm. But Haraldr realized that his sword was sheathed by his own ignorance; as yet he could only guess at the identity of the murderer of Asbjorn Ingvarson. He was convinced, however, that Euthymius’s curious mime provided them important clues. He struggled to make sense of Halldor’s reasoning.
‘So you see,’ Halldor droned on, ‘the man the monk brought in on his horse, who was surely intended to represent the Emperor who received you, Haraldr, is not of royal blood.’
Haraldr nodded, his intellect finally stirring. ‘So this “bitch-whore” is the last of the Bulgar-Slayer’s lineage, and the kiss of her loins can legitimize any would-be Emperor skilled in aiming the lance he carries between his legs.’
‘The monk gave the last Emperor his crown,’ rebutted Ulfr.
‘But the Emperor still had to embrace the “bitch-whore” in order to receive the crown and purple robe,’ countered Halldor.
‘Why would the monk pick this particular man?’ mused Haraldr, almost to himself.
‘You’re certain this monk is the same one you saw that night at Nicephorus Argyrus’s?’ asked Ulfr.
‘No. There are so many black-frocks among these Romans. I could never be certain. But this Joannes – I am certain that was his name – inspired fear, as if he could indeed topple an Emperor and raise up another in his stead. And his name is whispered, here and there, again and again.’
‘I believe that this Joannes was the monk portrayed here last night,’ ventured Halldor. ‘And clearly the Emperor, a usurper with no blood claim to the throne, is but a puppet of both Joannes and Mar. The question left is: what were they telling their puppet to do with you?’
Haraldr massaged his aching temples. ‘I’m not certain any of it is that simple. Yes, Mar and Joannes are very powerful, but the very fact that they might need a puppet to represent them indicates the limits of their power; after all, one is a eunuch, the other a
‘Or the other way around,’ said Halldor.
Again Haraldr felt the awful stirring deep in his entrails. Even now, especially now, he could not tell everything to Halldor or Ulfr or any of his men. It was not only the oaths he had sworn to Olaf and Jarl Rognvald, but he now realized that the Jarl had been agonizingly prescient when he had warned him that his deadly secret could also condemn the men pledged to his keeping. Haraldr would have to deal with Mar as he had dealt with Hakon, in the arena from which the only exit was victory or death.
Haraldr pressed out the piece of parchment prised from Asbjorn’s frozen teeth. The message had been written in runic symbols, obviously drafted by an interpreter who had made several mistakes. Still, the message was clear enough. Haraldr read it aloud again, as if the words were some sort of chant that would induce a state in which a greater truth would be revealed. ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt. The next head is yours. Think well with it while you yet own it. Leave Miklagardr.’
‘Mar would not have needed an interpreter to write the runes,’ offered Halldor.
‘Perhaps the interpreter’s hand is a clever ruse,’ suggested Ulfr.
Haraldr followed his own silent line of reasoning. Why would Mar want Haraldr to leave if he had, as he had said, use for him? But perhaps Mar had butchered Asbjorn Ingvarson simply to unnerve Haraldr, to remind him of the blade he held at Haraldr’s back. If Haraldr could prove that, he would not wait. He would ask Odin to choose between his two Rage-gifted champions. But what proof? A mistaken judgement now would almost certainly doom five hundred men.
Haraldr examined the remains of the red wax seal, again cursing himself for destroying most of it that morning; by the time he realized what he had done, the remaining bits had been flattened on the stone walkway by dozens of feet. Still, the fragment that remained had a recognizable detail, an arm holding a sword. That could easily be Mar, but then many men carried swords – though it was unlikely that monks did. Haraldr fixed every detail of that fragment in his memory. If he saw it again, his sword would be swift.
‘Could it be Mar’s seal?’ asked Ulfr.
‘Why would Mar use his own seal but try to disguise his hand?’ countered Halldor.
‘Or perhaps Joannes is trying to make us think that Mar opposes us.’
Haraldr just shook his head. Each thought was like a box within a box within a box. Were Mar and Joannes themselves merely ruses? Was the whole intent of the play and its grisly aftermath to confuse? Yes, a man could be beaten by ruses alone. To march on the city that day would have been suicidal, but soon Haraldr would have to take some action; they could not fester here indefinitely, eventually to turn on themselves. He considered the bitter irony: by defeating an army of phantoms he had won enough gold to buy a kingdom, but now all the gold in the East could not help him against the phantoms the Romans had set upon him. And the names of these phantoms were fear, confusion and indecision.
How could a garden so beautiful be so empty? she had wondered, but she knew that only the iridescent peacocks watched. The huge leaves, so green that they seemed flaked from giant emeralds, bowed deeply with the moist heat. Her robe was hot, so she had slipped it up to her hips as she sat on the cool marble bench and dangled her legs in the little pool. The peacocks rustled and spread their silky fans. She touched herself, and she was already wet. Then his hand came over hers and held it there. He stroked her gently with her own finger, her spine became fluid, and she rocked her head back and saw the sun, distant and filtered through the emerald
