Byzantium

Haraldr looked at Halldor and Ulfr. He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

‘I think we can trust our friend the Topoteretes,’ said Ulfr.

Yes, thought Haraldr, I can assume I am going to the palace. But has Mar sent for me, or is it Joannes? Do Mar and Joannes work in concert? Then all of the pieces shifted and he felt a sudden tranquillity, almost as it had been when he was a boy struggling to learn the runes and suddenly he had made sense of it all. Fate alone would greet him at the end of this day’s voyage, and the masks destiny wore were not important. If he died, it would be a better end than remaining the wealthiest prisoner in St Mama’s Quarter. If he returned, it would be with the answers to these devilling questions.

A small warship waited at one of the commercial wharfs in St Mama’s Quarter. Haraldr was actually greeted by the kentarchos, the captain of the ship, a wiry man of about thirty who wore a bright brass breastplate embossed with a lion. The kentarchos told Haraldr he could roam the deck freely; Haraldr studied the great throwing engines with the bewildering complexes of gears, ropes, pulleys and windlasses, then went to the bow and examined the ornate bronze spout, shaped like a bellowing lion, that could belch forth the terrifying flames he would not have believed in had he not already seen their devastating effect.

The warship passed the enormous harbour boom and the foreboding grey tower and skirted the tip of the finger of land that thrust the Great City into the sea; in ancient times, Haraldr had learned, this entire peninsula had been called Byzantium. The sun parted the slate-coloured base of the roiling cotton clouds, projecting a broad shaft over the eastern prow of the city, and Haraldr once again gaped at the thrilling panoply of glistening domes.

The ship docked at a wharf next to a large, blocky gatehouse projecting from the towering seawall. Soldiers armoured like the Topoteretes and clearly under his command joined Haraldr’s escort and led him up wide marble steps to a series of grass-and-ivy-covered terraces lined with stone statues, some of them as startlingly lifelike as the ones Haraldr had seen in the city, but others standing stiffly at attention, arms at their sides. As he walked among the stone figures Haraldr noticed that their eyes had a strange life force, as if they were filled with visions of distant realms and other times, times before there were men and only gods inhabited the earth. For how many aeons had men preceded him up these steps, beneath this stony scrutiny?

The terraces climbed to the Imperial City within the Empress City. Haraldr had seen the palaces from a distance, and yet then they had seemed a miniature world too fantastic to be real, like looking into a knothole and finding a splendid city inhabited by elves. Now this world surrounded him in its dazzling actuality, the rows of carnation- and sulphur-coloured marble pillars towering above him like gleaming stone forests, the spray from the fountains turning into crystal fragments that melted against his face. He wondered at an enormous golden building made of domes fanning out like the petals of a flower, cyan-blue ponds teeming with darting orange fish, marble cypresses carved into foliate traceries so delicate that it seemed they would crumble in the breeze; in the distance shimmered a vast silver dome, huge enough to swallow a dhromon. Chalk-white avenues fanned out in the sun, swarming with eunuchs in silk, soldiers in armour, and occasional groups of ladies who seemed to float along in the coral-tinted shade of endless porticoes.

The escort steered Haraldr sharply right in front of a massive, shell-coloured building; Khazar bowmen stood at attention within a towering portico. Haraldr and the Topoteretes were admitted through the massive silver doors. They crossed a marble hall busy with scurrying, sumptuously dressed eunuchs, then wound through a jade-columned portico, a courtyard with gurgling fountains, and halls decorated with endless ochre and gold mosaics depicting scenes of battle; half a dozen times they had their passes inspected by guards posted at each entrance to a new room or passageway. Finally they halted in front of a cottage-sized, vault-like structure made of porphyry marble as deeply purple as a ripe plum.

Two Varangians in their golden armour stepped from a door at the side of the vault and looked at the passes. The Topoteretes nodded and stepped aside while the Varangians came round Haraldr’s back. Haraldr hated the fear that crawled up his spine; had he not resolved to remove all speculation from his mind and leave his questions to Odin and Kristr? And yet how else could he feel at this moment?

‘Sir, please accompany us,’ said one of the Varangians in Swedish-accented Norse. The menace thawed slightly, and Haraldr stepped into a lurid purple chamber. Half a dozen armoured Varangians stood rigidly at attention; a single Varangian faced them, his huge back to Haraldr. The golden broad-axe crossed over his chest glimmered as he turned.

Haraldr resisted the swoon. Yes, he had been prepared for this encounter. But now, face to face with Mar Hunrodarson, he wanted to fall to his knees and toss the fear from his surging stomach.

Mar stepped forward, the axe moving in his hands, and Haraldr heard the rustle of the raven’s wings. But Mar merely passed the axe to the Varangian flanking Haraldr on his left. He extended his hands in greeting. ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt,’ he said, without even the ominous emphasis on the last name that Haraldr would have expected. Then Mar grabbed Haraldr’s arm and drew him close. Haraldr could not mask the terror in his eyes.

‘Before you go in, listen,’ Mar whispered. ‘I have heard of a plot against you. If you have been threatened, I must know of it.’ Mar paused and drew Haraldr into his insane, glacial eyes; the rest of the Hetairarch’s face was utterly void of meaning or inflection, as if he were a walking corpse that had lost its spirit but not the heat that still flushed its cheeks. Haraldr remembered that he had been fooled once by that face.

‘You wear doubt like a battle standard,’ Mar continued. ‘But you have nothing to fear unless you challenge me. I would use your secret as a shield for myself, not a sword against you. Look, my plan will benefit us both. We are both Norsemen . . .’

Mar stepped away as two eunuchs entered the chamber through a rear door. The taller and elder of the two was a pale-browed but firm-fleshed man who wore cream-hued silk so heavy, yet so finely woven, that it seemed like a metal foil. The other man, similarly splendid, held an ivory baton with a golden dragon atop it. This eunuch was short, with a receding jaw marked with a large dimpled scar just below the corner of his mouth.

The white-haired eunuch reached out and fingered the heavy blue fabric of Haraldr’s new tunic of the finest Hellas silk. He nodded and the eunuch with the scarred jaw spoke in Norse.

‘Haraldr Nordbrikt, I am the Grand Interpreter of the Varangians. The honoured dignitary assisting me in preparing you for your audience is the Imperial High Chamberlain. Listen carefully to your instructions. You will enter and prostrate yourself three times. At the command Keleusate, you will be invited to stand. Your Father may wish to examine you. Should you be questioned, the High Chamberlain will nod if you are permitted to answer. You may look upon the face of the Autocrator, but be certain that your expression is one of reverence, humility and gratefulness. When the interview is concluded, your Father will bless you with the sign of the cross. You will immediately withdraw, arms crossed over your breast, from the presence of the Pantocrator’s Hand on Earth.’

Haraldr’s blood, drained by fear, almost audibly roared back into his veins. He had expected he might be displayed to the Emperor again, and perhaps receive yet another warning from this curiously godlike puppet of a Norseman and a monk. Yet to speak with him! Haraldr could look this man in the eyes, weigh the timbre of his voice, and in every way discern if he was a man to command all men or a mere illusion. Perhaps Haraldr had seen nothing in the inscrutable face of Mar Hunrodarson, but now the veils of Roman power would be stripped aside. He would see into the heart of the Roman dragon.

The two eunuchs preceded Haraldr through an antechamber with a gold-coffered roof; Mar, his axe upon his chest, followed at Haraldr’s back. Four Varangians stepped aside while two white-robed eunuchs parted the silver doors.

After the ritual prostrations were completed, Haraldr stood and steadied himself. Above him soared a vast, celestial blue dome speckled with golden stars, but the area in which he stood was a small one, cordoned off with heavy scarlet brocade curtains. The Emperor, seated in a jewelled gold throne, was flanked by several standing, white-robed eunuchs. He was aflame in scarlet silk medallioned with gold eagles, but he wore no crown upon his head. Haraldr noticed out of the corner of his eye a man in monk’s garb; for some reason this figure was the only person of the eight or so in the room who was seated in the presence of the Emperor.

Haraldr reminded himself that he was of royal lineage and that this Emperor was not. He breathed deeply and forced his eyes to search the face of the man who sat no more than three ells from him. His hands trembled, but he locked his gaze upon the sable-hued irises. Within seconds he knew that everything he had assumed about this Emperor was wrong.

He was no god, certainly, but a handsome man of perhaps two score years with a bold, sharp nose; noble,