the name. ‘Maria.’
The cold knife ripped Haraldr from breast to belly. He could not turn his head. He could not be the only one who had not turned.
He did not recognize her at first. Her hair, loosely braided, glistening in the light of the candelabra, was arranged simply around her head in the fashion of the ancient statues and wreathed with a band of fresh flowers woven with almost tapestry-like intricacy. She wore no paint on her face, but her eyes were so deeply azure that they seemed, even from a distance, to have been coloured in with some intensely concentrated pigment.
But it was her attire that had reduced them all to silence. Instead of a scaramangium, she wore a long, loose gown, again much like those depicted on the statues. Held by a small gold clasp at each shoulder, the shimmering white gown scarcely draped her breasts and seemed to leave half of her upper body exposed; the delicate yet proud sculpture of her bare throat and arms was as astonishing as any immortalized in marble. As she walked, the fabric teased her audience, clinging momentarily to the contour of her breast or thigh like another skin, then falling into complex folds to reveal glimpses of bare bosom. It was as if a goddess walked towards them, naked except for the iridescent cloud in which she had cloaked herself.
Every man who was free to choose her stood, more in homage than invitation. Homeric paeans flew into the awed silence. ‘Helen, daughter of Zeus . . .’ ‘She challenged Aphrodite the golden . . .’ Serene, almost oblivious, Maria walked towards the apse at the end of the room.
Haraldr was numb. He had loved so many since her, had held so many tender breasts and opened so many white legs. Why had they all done nothing to make this moment easier? She could still choke the breath from his lungs. She was behind him, her presence so strong that it seemed to bind his limbs.
‘Rome’s goddess has returned! Welcome, precious light, we mortals beg even the merest moment of your grace!’ Nicephorus Argyrus gestured to the chair that already waited for her. ‘You have no choice. I will close this establishment, dismantle it, sink the bricks and stone in the western sea if you take your seat beside any but your humble host!’
Maria laughed, the falling of liquid silver, and descended like snow. She was two seats down and across the table from Haraldr. He could see her face without looking at it, even taste her flesh. She nodded now, first at Anna, then at Danielis, at Mar, and finally her eyes passed like hot brands through his heart. They never paused, never reflected, only moved on like a great blue storm, unconscious of the destruction it left behind.
Anna put her hand gently on Haraldr’s arm and whispered in his ear: ‘You still love her.’
The great black horse struggled against the reins. Joannes shouted at the Komes of the Imperial Excubitores to grab the bit. The stallion jerked his head, jittered his flanks, and settled. Joannes quickly dismounted. The Topoteretes who had sent for him waited outside the abandoned warehouse, a blazing taper in each hand. ‘Orphanotrophus,’ he said as he bowed.
‘How do we get down there?’ asked Joannes brusquely. If this were anything less than reported, the Topoteretes’s head would greet tomorrow’s petitioners at the Chalke Gate.
‘This way, Orphanotrophus.’ The Topoteretes held his torch up into the empty vault of the warehouse. Heavy, distorted shadows flickered over the brick ribbings. The floor had a thick layer of dirt. A small animal darted along next to the wall.
‘The stairs were covered with freshly cut boards and a layer of earth for camouflage,’ said the Topoteretes. He plunged his taper into the dark hole in the floor. The ancient, crumbling steps had been cleaned and repaired with hastily set brick and mortar. Joannes followed the Topoteretes down, fifteen steps in all.
The floor below was hard earth, almost like fired clay. The Topoteretes thrust his torch up again. Joannes’s jaw tightened, and his shoulders began to ache. It was an old cistern, probably one of the City’s original water- storage facilities, long forgotten, drained, the residue of silt compacted and dried on the floor. The mortar had fallen away from many of the thin, slab-like bricks used to build the vaults, leaving the masonry surface as jagged as old teeth. Beneath the vaults were stacked thousands of spears.
Joannes grabbed one of the spears and examined the shaft, threw it aside, and examined another. How could this be? How could this cancer exist in the body he knew as well as his own, and yet leave him unaware of the symptoms? No. He had known. And he had denied his own knowledge of this sickness, this plague.
‘Who is responsible?’ he asked the Topoteretes, his question more wondering than demanding.
‘We are interrogating some individuals now, Orphanotrophus. I am certain we will have some names for you by tomorrow.’
Names. Four, five, a dozen mutilated wretches yielding their final sobbing confessions. Pointless. This was the work of many. Well organised and, considering their means, well funded. There was substance here. Rage – channelled, directed, plotted into the uncertain future. And he was not ready for them.
‘Thank you, Topoteretes.’ Joannes felt the weariness in his legs as he climbed back into the night. He had known, he had vacillated, he had postponed, he had hoped against hope. Soon it would be too late. What had to be done had to be done.
‘Komes!’ rumbled Joannes when he reached the street. ‘I want you to deliver a message for me. Tonight!’
‘Altogether remarkable.’ Michael Kalaphates raised his cup to the stage just exited by the actress who had emulated Aphrodite. ‘Her subtlety was most affecting, was it not, Uncle?’
‘Perhaps I am in a better position than you to appreciate her subtlety, or lack thereof,’ said Constantine.
‘Ah . . . yes,’ Michael had, in his excitement, forgotten that his eunuch uncle had a rather different perspective on the female anatomy. He tipped his cup to Haraldr. ‘Well, for subtlety it would be hard to exceed the performance of our Manglavite, who this evening entertained three women with whom he is … well acquainted, all at the same table. A display of courage as well as subtlety.’
‘His courage has not been tested yet. He still has to go up there, if only to make his apologies.’ Mar pointed to the women’s gallery on the mezzanine surrounding the theatre; there was an open seating area at the rear, and rows of curtained booths along each side.
‘Excruciating dilemma--’ Michael broke off. ‘Is it possible that the divine emulation we have just witnessed has aroused the ire of responsible authorities? Look at the grim set on the face of that officer of the Excubitores. I believe he is coming our way.’
‘Komes,’ said Mar, identifying the man’s title. ‘I hope he’s not bringing news of another military debacle.’
‘I hope he tells me my officers have rioted and my men have invaded the Mangana Arsenal,’ mumbled Haraldr with genuine hope of some sort.
‘Hetairarch, Manglavite.’ The komes bowed to his superiors and turned to Michael. ‘You are Michael Kalaphates?’ Michael nodded, and the komes handed him a sealed paper, bowed, and shouldered back through the milling audience.
Michael identified the seal before he broke it. ‘My uncle. The Orphanotrophus Joannes,’ he said, suddenly seeming quite sober. He read the missive and rolled it up again before speaking. ‘He wants to see me as soon as the palace gates open in the morning.’
Haraldr noticed the look that passed between uncle and nephew and realized that Mar had been right about them. Michael Kalaphates and his Uncle Constantine were indeed interesting.
‘I believe you are receiving a signal,’ said Michael to Haraldr. He nodded at the mezzanine boxes, his carefree demeanour instantly restored, as if he regretted the lapse.
Haraldr looked up to a row of curtained booths separated by columns topped with madly foliate capitals; the drapes were tapestries woven to resemble animal skins, a detail that had aroused considerable favourable comment from the more fashionable patrons. The curtains of the fourth booth were slightly parted, and Anna peeked out. She beckoned him with a flip of her fingers.
Anna waited in the alcove that joined the booths. A little string of vial-like oil lamps along the wall cast a rich, almost silvery glow over her face. Anna took Haraldr’s arms in her hands and folded her drowsy, thick, dark lashes. ‘Maria is my dearest friend,’ A tear left a silver track down Anna’s cheek.
She threw her arms around Haraldr and pressed her face to his chest. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘But I love her more.’
He stroked her soft neck. ‘I love you. I want to take you tonight . . .’He did not finish, realizing although that much was true, now it would only be to spite Maria.
