Byzantium

Justinian had built the sole object of the Squirrel’s attention, the great silver domes of the Hagia Sophia, the huge church to the north-east of the Augustaion. Today the glittering domes were as dull as the grey, mossy-textured sky. The Squirrel wrapped his dyed wool cloak around his torso, reflecting to himself that he probably would have been able to gain admittance to the palace grounds today without showing the guards his tunic of the cheapest, export-grade Syrian silk, the uniform of a low-grade secretary in the bureaux of the Sacellarius. Still, it was best to be prepared for any eventuality; if one was not prepared for the unexpected in this business, one would soon be most painfully deprived of the tools of one’s trade.

The Squirrel proceeded at his leisure across the square, veering around a cluster of lawyers discussing a case in front of the massive marble columns of the Senate Building; some drivel about ‘the ecclesiastical canon asserting precedence in a case where customary, not secular statutes. . . .’The Squirrel suppressed his urge to spit at the feet of the barristers. They were windbags who blew nothing but ill to the people, that was certain. The Squirrel’s demeanour brightened as he saw the Khazar guards moving into the northern exit of the Augustaion. So, the reports of the almighty Emperor’s return were correct. Good information, the Squirrel told himself, shaking his head with satisfaction. There was no limit to the value of good information.

By the time the Squirrel reached the exit of the Augustaion, the Khazar guards had formed a cordon blocking the arcade that led from the square into the gardens and atrium at the west end of the Hagia Sophia. The public would be prevented from passing, but even minor Imperial officials might be admitted to watch the Emperor in his bi-weekly procession to the church. The Squirrel kept his cloak wrapped tightly about his tunic and produced a green sprig of myrtle, just as any boot-licking minor courtier would to celebrate the fleeting passage of his swollen-headed Father. The Squirrel clasped the myrtle reverently to his breast and was passed by the Khazars without a second glance.

The Squirrel’s anticipation plunged like an overfed gull when he entered the cypress-walled courtyard in front of the Hagia Sophia. The fair-haired barbaroi thugs were already standing at attention alongside the route. But where was the mob of dignitaries and sycophants and functionaries who usually assembled with their sprigs and blossoms and wreaths, to cheer and chant their puffed-up Autocrator on his way to church? The Squirrel counted; maybe forty or fifty courtiers along the entire path, and each one of them with at least two of the fair-hair beasts to keep an eye on him. The Squirrel’s instinct told him to take the rest of the day off, but a more powerful impulse drove him forward.

Choose your spot well, the Squirrel reminded himself, because with little or no crowd to hide your movements, you are only going to have one opportunity. There. About four paces to the right of a portly man in the green silk coat with the fur-trimmed collar. The Squirrel walked right up to the edge of the marble path and took his place. He bowed humbly to the portly man on his left, quickly noting to his amusement that the overfed Great Whatever couldn’t even get the clasps of his coat fastened around his silk-sheathed belly; the man’s ornate silver belt jutted out like the metal band around a bulging cask of fish sauce. Then the Squirrel bowed even more humbly to the towering fair-haired monster before him, not even daring to lift his eyes above the gilt leather kilt and polished gold breastplate of the Varangian Guard. Imagine that on your neck, he shuddered, eyeing the huge axe-blade wrapped against the gilded breast by inhumanly thick forearms. It was a sight to make a man consider taking the tonsure and conducting his business only in the name of the Pantocrator. But if the Squirrel could practise his trade in plain sight of this brute, what a tale he’d have for his associates back at the Devil’s Walking Stick.

What? The Squirrel watched the approaching horsemen in astonishment. Mounted Varangians, for certain, and behind them the Emperor on his white stallion with the gold-and-scarlet caparisons. But instead of a stately canter, they were all charging along as if fleeing the Last Trumpet. And where was the usual procession, the drums, the flutes, the massed courtiers in front, bearing their candles and chanting their gibberish? Something was very strange here; this clearly was not the time to try some fancy stunt. But to flee now would certainly arouse suspicion, and this unprecedentedly abrupt procession might in fact turn to the Squirrel’s advantage.

The first ranks of Varangians clattered past, and then the demon of them all, the Hetairarch, with the devil’s blue eyes glaring ahead; right behind the Hetairarch rode His Majesty. The Squirrel waved his sprig wildly and shouted, ‘Render homage! The sun’s rays are upon us!’ Still holding his myrtle high and dashing as if to follow the charging procession, the Squirrel headed straight for the portly official. It will take perfect timing, he hastily reminded himself.

Unnhhh! The portly official grunted as if the entire west wind had been disgorged from his belly. The Squirrel wrapped one arm over the official’s shoulder to keep from falling, and with the other went about his day’s work. ‘I have disgraced myself, oh, your plenipotentiary worship, sir!’ the Squirrel pleaded, his labour already completed. ‘It was my unbridled love for our Holy Father, if I may beg the forgiveness of one who certainly stands second only to the sun that rises before us so that we may live each day! Oh, worship, pardon me, if only for my soul’s sake and because your Christian charity doubtless exceeds your other uncountable virtues!’

‘Go away, little . . . thing’ – the official snarled viciously -’before I have these gentlemen here escort you to the Numera, where your witless life might pass without further hazard to those worthy to surround rightfully the Imperial Dignity! Away, refuse!’

The Squirrel bowed and began a slow, casual retreat, so as not to arouse suspicion; the official’s purse was already safely snugged within the voluminous folds of his poorly fitting tunic. A fine grab! the Studion’s most adroit cut-purse thought, exulting. And the fat goose had a purse as heavy as Judas’s! But what now? The Imperial procession had halted, and the Varangians were leaping from their horses. Theotokos! Hadn’t the Emperor himself fallen from his horse? Yes, indeed he was on the ground, and – the Squirrel could not believe what he was seeing – the sounds coming from His Majesty’s throat! What! One of the barbaroi goons was rushing directly at him, and as the Squirrel looked about frantically he could see them thundering about like runaway bulls, rounding up all the other witnesses. A whore’s spit they were; they could sew up these dignitaries in pork bellies and toss them in the Bosporus, but not the Squirrel!

The wind rattled in the Squirrel’s ears as he took off across the garden. If he could reach the forest around St Irene, the smaller church to the north of the Hagia Sophia, he could leap the wall and get lost among the warehouses behind the naval yards. Fear pumped his legs frantically as he dashed through a blur of winter-grey foliage; he did not look back until he saw the churchyard wall north of St Irene. Damn his soul! The barbaros was still after him, gaining with every freakish stride. The Squirrel bounded, body stretching, fingers clawing. His powerful, deft hands pulled and propelled his compact body over the wall.

The ground dropped away behind the wall and the Squirrel fell farther than he had imagined he would. No! Something snapped, and the pain made him shiver. He got to his feet and scrambled away from the rubble-strewn base of the wall towards the huge brick bulk of the nearest warehouse; it was only twenty paces away but each step was excruciating. If only he could find a door, a passageway. He looked back. The barbaros came down from the wall like a great cat. Oh, Theotokos, plead for me, for I never even knew the comfort of an orphanage, and I did. what I had to do, only stealing enough to eat and perhaps to have some minor luxuries, and though I have fornicated, I have never, I beseech thee, never taken another life, oh, Theotokos!

The Squirrel saw the small door, barely visible at the end of the building’s east side. He forced himself to run, and ducked into the welcome darkness. The smell of mould added nausea to the knifing pain in his ankle. Sacks were stacked everywhere, musty burlap covered with dust. He crawled, quickly burrowing into a tumbled- down pile. Something kicked him in the face, and dust came into his eyes. Boots. Bags of campaign boots for some great army that had never been assembled. Then the Squirrel heard someone enter the warehouse and he winced, holding his breath. The footsteps meandered, pausing to kick at the sacks. He heard an entire stack topple, then another. Closer. Another stack tumbled down and the dust was suffocating. Theotokos! The dust! The Squirrel’s ribs smashed against his guts and he saw brilliant sparks.

The Squirrel flew to his feet as if the hand of the Devil himself had jerked him up. The dust began to settle. The face of the barbaros came out of the gloom. Fortune’s scowl, the Squirrel told himself, finding irony in defeat. The devil’s blue eyes. The Hetairarch himself had run him down. This could be a painful death, the Squirrel ruefully considered.

‘What did you see?’ barked the fair-haired beast in perfect Greek.

‘See? Hetairarch, I am but a miserable thief who--’

The Hetairarch’s knife blocked the vision of the Squirrel’s left eye. ‘If your eyes are that useless, then I am