Byzantium

nor her present state of undress.

Mar reappeared with Flower and led her to the body. ‘It is the man I saw,’ she said immediately.

Haraldr shook his head and began to reconstruct the bizarre chain of events, theorizing aloud. ‘So Joannes learns that Halldor is going to visit this lady’s house – the entire court has known for several days – and sends his man Gabras – my chamberlain, Nicetas Gabras – to arrange an assassination. But the assassin intends to kill the lady. Why?’ He was posing the question to himself as well as to Mar.

Mar set his lips grimly. ‘Because that is the way the Roman mind works. And it is in particular the way our Orphanotrophus Joannes’s works. This highly placed lady is murdered, and the accused, the obvious assailant, is the Komes Halldor Snorrason of the Middle Hetairia. Joannes coerces Haraldr with his comrade’s scandal. Or perhaps he has a broader objective. I believe that in spite of his temporary build-up of your unit, his interest in the long run is eliminating the Varangian Guard entirely, so that no Emperor could enjoy the security we provide. As you well know, there are several factions at court, most notably the Dhynatoi, who share this objective. They would be only too happy to use this scandal to reduce numbers in both the Middle and Grand Hetairia. If Joannes goes directly after you or one of your men, he signals his intentions and invites your just retaliation. This way he forces you to defend yourself against the indignation of others. That the lady is dead is of no account. For Joannes, any treachery is conceivable, and any innocent life merely expedient.’

Haraldr examined the face of the assassin again, then looked among the faces of the living, one by one. It was preposterous that Mar would have arranged such an elaborate drama -including an attack on himself – to make such an oblique point. And Gabras was a certain link to Joannes. This was not the kind of proof he had expected, which made it all the more convincing. Yes, Joannes was his enemy, an enemy far more devious and ruthless than he could have imagined just a few hours ago. And while that still did not make Mar his friend, he realized another essential truth. To fight this demon-monk Joannes, he would need Mar just as badly as Mar needed him.

The lady reached out and touched Haraldr on his arm, a look of concern on her face. ‘We are fine,’ she said. ‘We have not been hurt.’ She displayed a beautiful wet smile and looked over at Mar and Flower. ‘Since you are all here, why don’t you stay?’

The Komes of the Khazar guard looked at the list and frowned. ‘I am certain there must be some mistake, Manglavite. I don’t have your name here.’ The Komes looked up and shrugged sympathetically. ‘I could send a man to the Orphanotrophus’s office and find out why. Most likely they are still working. As I say, I am certain there wouldn’t be a problem for you.’

‘I appreciate your offer, Komes,’ said Haraldr, ‘but don’t concern yourself with the matter. My business can wait.’ Haraldr nodded politely, turned, and walked back down the steps leading to the massive bronze doors of the Imperial Gynaeceum. He felt both relieved and ashamed: relieved that the Khazar guards at the entrance to the Gynaeceum had been unable to admit him – only the select few on Joannes’s list were now allowed access to the Imperial women’s quarters -and ashamed with himself for even trying to see Maria.

He wandered without direction among the terraced gardens beneath the Hippodrome. Lacquered with moonlight and beaded with lamps, the intricate architecture of the palace complex revealed a geometry concealed by the day’s dazzling polychromes. Tonight he had given fate yet one more toss and had decided to confront Maria, to find out if she had meant Joannes or the Emperor, and in whose name she had asked her deadly question, and if his life had been of any consequence in the matter. But now fate had signalled agreement with what reason had told him all along: forget her. It was of no consequence whether she had employed the ruse of love to kill a good man or an evil man. Not where love was concerned. He thought of what Mar had said the previous night about the ‘Roman mind’. He had not until then fully understood the complexity – and cruelty – of that mind, and now he knew that if he was to leave here with his life and that of his pledge-men, he would need to anticipate and to an extent acquire that convoluted habit of thought. But one could not love with a Roman mind. The heart could not wear veils, could not embrace one thing as a means to acquire another. He had at least confessed to her that he concealed a secret in his breast. She had worn a mask from the beginning. And he hated her for that as much as he had once thought he loved her.

He stopped by one of the little pools, ringed by trees and bordered with stone benches. He sat and watched the fish slide silently through their pearled domain, their orange scales dull gold in the moonlight. Something in the faint phosphorus of the water made him think of Norway, of standing high above Trondheimfjord, the water like a slab of polished lapis lazuli beneath him; farther to the west, the wind-textured, blue-green expanse of the open sea, scattered with silver shavings by a setting sun. Norway. He had the wealth now, he had the dedicated nucleus of an army. Go home. And yet with that same thought he realized he could not. At the very least he had considerable doubt that the soul of his pledge-man, Asbjorn Ingvarson, had in fact been avenged. But now there were other souls crying out to him. Studion. The images of the wretches leapt at him like the fearless rats that would prey on their moribund flesh. He could not deal with those images. He could not leave them behind, either.

A bug rippled the water, and several fish thrashed to the surface in response. Destroy Joannes: Haraldr realized he could not help heal Rome or begin to assuage his own troubled soul without accomplishing that. And to destroy Joannes he would need to think with the Roman mind. To begin with, he would need Mar. Not a reluctant, grudging, boyish collaboration with Mar but a difficult, yet necessary, partnership with an ally he could not trust. Yes, he would embrace Mar; he would embrace the devil to slay the beast at Rome’s dark heart. And when Joannes had been destroyed, perhaps he and Mar could part comrades, and perhaps they would have to ask Odin to choose between them. And should that turn out to be the case, the best way to learn how to defeat a man in single combat was to second him.

He could not sleep; his mind raced with the purpose before him. He took the route he and Mar had taken the night before and emerged onto the curious landscape beneath the Hippodrome. It was much like the previous night, the circus animals and the sad, tawdry performers, the booths of the palmists and the diviners. But tonight he was unaccompanied by the fearsome Hetairarch, and the people came out to meet him. ‘Saracen-Slayer!’ ‘Manglavite!’ Little boys rushed up to touch his cloak and scurry away. Two stooped old men scuttled along beside him, not daring to look up, satisfied with some silent conversation. A prostitute ran her fingers lightly over his sleeve, tilted her head, and cocked an eyebrow; she was dark-haired and very pale and young enough still to be pretty, and for some reason he was moved by her. But he walked on, for a moment thinking he would actually go all the way to Studion and greet the people there.

The torso and head of a small boy rolled up to him in a little wooden cart. Haraldr looked into the brown eyes of this partially disembodied waif; they were frightening in their voracious, almost feral need, and yet their honesty affected Haraldr more than fawn-eyed supplication. He reached into his purse and gave the boy a silver nomismata; suddenly the boy’s eyes had a heart-breaking innocence. As if by magic, a dozen boys appeared. Haraldr quickly distributed the rest of his coins, finally holding up his empty purse to show he had no more. The boys vanished, quarrelling among themselves.

Haraldr remembered the way, the alley behind the row of wooden buildings. Why was he going here? he wondered briefly. But he knew. Maria had left his heart wounded and withdrawn, but she had left his body eager and questing. The sexuality of the Empress City was not hers alone; she had only initiated his seduction, not consummated it. And every woman he held in his arms from this moment on would be the answer to Maria’s treachery, the denial of fate’s caprice, reducing her at last to the anonymity of remembered flesh, and that alone. He exited the alley and saw the large, freshly plastered facade straight ahead. He went to the dark wooden door and knocked. The viewing grate slid aside. He had to wait for a while, and considered leaving. Then the locks rattled and Anatellon the charioteer virtually exploded in his face.

‘Haraldr Nordbrikt! Esteemed Manglavite and Slayer of Saracens!’ Anatellon took Haraldr’s arms in his rock- hard fists. ‘You honour us, sir! Please, please come in!’ As Anatellon ushered Haraldr inside, he giggled in his curious, genial fashion. ‘You don’t even need to tell me, esteemed sir. You’ve come for my Alan girl.’

‘I don’t care who was at fault here. This should have been brought to me. This is something the Manglavite and I should have settled among ourselves.’ Mar slapped his hands flat against his writing table. He looked at Centurion Thorvald Ostenson, and then addressed the uniformed Varangian standing next to Ostenson. ‘It’s fortunate for you that no one was seriously hurt. But I need to impose some kind of penalty because I simply cannot afford to have the men of the Grand Hetairia quarrelling with the men of the Middle Hetairia. I’m going to confine you for two weeks and fine you five silver nomismata. And you can tell your comrades that the penalties for future violations will be considerably more onerous. We are not here to settle personal grudges.’ Mar gestured