King's Man (21 page)

Thus Harald and the others missed the bizarre event which surprised even someone as well
informed as Pelagia: the procla
mation that the Basileus and Empress Zoe were to have a son. Physically, of course, this was impossible. Zoe was now at least sixty years old, though as vain as ever, and Michael the Basileus was much too ill to procreate. Their son was to be by adoption. But what really stunned everyone was his identity. His only previous official role had been as commander of the Palace Guard, a purely nominal post for which he did nothing more than wear a gaudy uniform at palace ceremonials. Named Michael, just like the emperor, his father was that same Stephen who had plotted to have Maniakes recalled in disgrace, and his mother was the Basileus's sister. He was to be known by the title of Caesar, to signify that he was the heir to the imperial throne, and naturally John the Eunuch had made the choice. The Orphanotrophus knew that the sickly Basileus could die at any moment, and he was determined that the succession should stay within the family.

The actual ceremony of adoption was even more grotesque than when the youthful Basileus had married Zoe, who was old enough to be his mother. This time the ritual took place in the church of the Blachernae Palace and culminated with the new Caesar symbolically sitting down on the ageing Zoe's lap, so he could be acclaimed by the congregation of dignitaries and high officials as her 'son'.

A few days later I was crossing a courtyard on my way to the guardroom when I passed a middle-
ranking official of the chancel
lery. His face seemed familiar, but
I
would have walked right past him if he had not stopped suddenly and said, 'Excuse me, aren't you the Greek-speaking Varangian who told me how Romanus drowned?'

'That's right,' I answered, recognising the young man who had interviewed me on the day of the funeral parade. 'You're Constantine Psellus. You seem to have come a long way since you were a young student watching a funeral parade. I congratulate you.'

'You're beginning to sound like a courtier yourself. This time you must tell me your name.' 'Thorgils Leifsson.'

'Obviously you're still with the Palace Guard.'

'Back with the guard, more correctly, after service in Sicily.'

'So you know what this new Caesar is like? After all, he is, or was, your commanding officer.'

I hesitated, and Psellus said softly, 'You may speak freely. This is an opinion for posterity. I'm still compiling notes for my history of the rulers of the empire.'

Once again his frank approach won my confidence. 'Well,'
I
admitted, 'from the little I've seen of him, the Caesar is vindictive and shallow. His one true talent is that he is superlative at hiding his true feelings.'

'Sounds as though he was an excellent choice for the throne,' said Psellus with irony. 'I'll make a bargain with you, Thorgils. As a guardsman you sometimes see things which we outsiders never get to witness. If you'll be so kind as to keep me informed
about what is going on behind the scenes, I won't forget you when the time comes - as it surely will - that you need a friend within the bureaucracy.' And he hurried on his way.

Over the next few months, there was little I could tell Psellus that he would not have observed for himself. Michael's health was in rapid decline. His limbs swelled, bloating so that his fingers became as thick as sausages. To hide his physical deterioration from public gaze, the Basileus spent less time in the city, and withdrew to his country residence. He left behind the usual intrigues inside the palace, which grew more viperish as it became evident that he did not have long to live. John the Eunuch still held the real power, but some courtiers began to pander to the young Caesar, preparing for the day when he mounted the throne. Other sycophants coalesced arou
nd his favourite uncle, Constan
tine, another of the Orphanotrophus's brothers. A few diehards again paid attention to the empress Zoe, though she was still confined to the gynaeceum, the women's quarters, and the Basileus had cut off her allowance so she was living in near poverty. No one trusted anyone else, and there was a growing sense that the whole structure of government was on the verge of collapse.

I came to appreciate how far the decay had spread when an official arrived in the guardroom late one December evening. He was out of breath and flustered.

'I'm looking for the guardsman Thorgils,' he announced.

"What can I do for you?' I asked.

The man looked nervously at
the other off-duty guards
men,who were watching him with open curiosity.

'You are to select one reliable colleague,' he said. 'Bring heavy cloaks, and accompany me.'

I glanced at Halfdan. 'Take Lars with you,' he ordered.

Lars was a stolid guardsman who had been with the Hetaira almost as long as Halfdan himself. Lars and I gathered up our weapons, and the official took us, half running, to the office of John the Eunuch. We found him dressed in his monk's clothes and ready to leave the palace.

'You are to accompany me as an escort in case of trouble,' said John. 'Be discreet, conceal your uniforms, and you may leave your axes behind. Swords hidden under your cloaks will be sufficient.'

We slipped out of the palace through one of the minor gates, where the doorkeepers were clearly expecting us, and hurried through the streets of the city. We kept to alleys and side streets, but I recognised the direction we were taking. It was towards the area known as the Venetian quarter because of the number of foreign merchants, mostly Italians, residing there. It was also the district of several of Constantinople's most important monasteries, and when we stopped and knocked on the wooden doors to one of them, I knew that we stood before the gate of the monastery known locally as the Kosmidion. It was the same monastery which the Basileus had funded so generously because it was dedicated to the doctor saints, Cosmas and Damian.

A grim-looking monk let us in without a word and ushered us along several stone-flagged corridors. In the background I heard chanting, and, as we turned a corner, I detected the hurried withdrawal of some cowled figures who had been waiting in the shadows, curious to see who the visitors were at such a late hour. Finally we came to the door of an ordinary monk's cell. The door stood open. Inside, on a simple cot, lay the Basileus.

I recognised him by his gross and swollen hands, for he was wearing not the clothes of an emperor, but the simple black tunic of a monk. Also, his head had been shaved in a tonsure: I could still see the nicks and cuts where the work had been done hurriedly and very recently. The Basileus looked truly ghastly, and I had no doubt that he had only a few hours left to live.

'Watch the door and passage,' snapped the Orphanotrophus. 'Let no one in.'

He appeared genuinely distressed at the sight of his sickly brother. He stepped into the room, and I had a glimpse of him dropping to his knees beside the bed and embracing the invalid before I turned my back and stared down the passageway. Behind
me I heard John croon comforting words to the man whom he had manoeuvred on to the throne of the empire. I found it difficult to believe that the young and handsome courtier who had married Zoe was now the bloated and sweating wreck who lay on the cot behind me.

Nothing could be kept secret in the palace, least of all the disappearance of the emperor. At dawn we had our first visitors: the new Caesar Michael and his uncle Constantine arrived. By then the Basileus was in great pain, and the Orphanotrophus allowed them to stay only for a short time before ordering them to leave. Two physicans, one from the monastery infirmary, the other from the palace, came and attempted to relieve the patient's suffering with pain-killing drugs. Then I heard the Basileus shout aloud that he wanted to die like his Lord, in agony, and the Orphanotrophus ordered me to no longer let the physicians pass. One monk at a time was to be allowed into the cell, where he could pray tor the invalid's soul. The rest of the brethren were to say their prayers for him in their chapel.

Lars and I guarded the dreary corridor for twenty hours without a break, cooped up in the heart of the monastery complex, hearing only the shuffle of feet, the moaning of the Basileus, and the muttered prayers for the sick and dying. The strangest interlude was when the empress herself appeared in the passageway, demanding to see her husband. The doorkeepers of the monastery had let Zoe in — she was, after all, the emperor's wife - but Lars and I obeyed orders and blocked her path until John the Eunuch heard her protests and came out to see what was going on.

'Tell my husband that I want to see him,' begged Zoe.

The Orphanotrophus went back inside for a few moments, then reappeared.

'He does not wish to see you,' he said to Zoe in a flat tone. 'He asks that you go away.'

Zoe clenched her hands and looked miserable.

'Go away,' John repeated, 'otherwise I'll have the guards throw you out.'

Fortunately, for I would not have relished bundling the old woman down the corridor, Zoe turned and left. As I watched her walk away, the smell of the aged empress's musk perfume lingered in the still air of the passageway, and I remembered how she had looked upon the corpse of her first husband as he lay cold on the marble bench by the swimming pool, and wondered if she could have known that events would come to this gruesome conclusion.

At about noon the Basileus must have recovered his strength, for I heard him ask whether it was time for the midday service. He announced that, as a monk, it was his duty to attend. Then came an outburst of petulance. Trying to get up from the cot, he found that no one had provided him with the suitable monk's sandals; beside his cot were the purple boots that only the reigning emperor might wear, and he refused to put them on. Two of the monks came to fetch him, and physically carried him to the chapel, barefoot. When they brought him back an hour later, hanging between them, Michael was scarcely breathing. They took him into the cell, laid him on the bed, then left. After that there was a long silence, and then I heard nothing more. Basileus Michael had died.

John the Eunuch stayed in that cell for two more days, sitting beside his brother's corpse, mourning. It was the one truly human act I remember of a man whom, until then, I had thought of as the most cold-hearted, calculating person I had ever met. Monks came and went, washed and put new clothes on the dead emperor, and mounted a vigil in relays. The Orphanotrophus barely stirred. Officials arrived from the palace seeking instructions, and he told them that he would return to his office only when he was ready; until then they should consult the Caesar.

Finally, on the third day after his brother's death, John came out of the cell. He looked haggard.

'Guardsman,' he said as he looked straight into my eyes, 'for
the second time, you've been present at the passing of a Basileus. On the last occasion you showed great discretion. That is why I chose you. These are matters of state, and the personal details are rarely dignified. They must be kept from public knowledge. A seamless transfer of power is needed; appearance is all.'

He brushed past me, and as I followed him along the passageway I promised myself that the next time I saw Psellus, I would make him swear never to reveal the source of his information.

In fact, Psellus was among the cluster of officials waiting anxiously in the outer courtyard of the palace as we came back from the monastery. Standing at the back of the group, he caught my eye. I kept my face expressionless. Now, I was just another member of the guard.

Halfdan had been hovering at the palace gate with a squad of men waiting to escort the returning Orphanotrophus to a meeting in the grand audience chamber.

'Thank the Gods you brought him back,' Halfdan hissed at me. 'The place is all in a heap. Nobody knows what's going on, or who's in charge. Everyone was waiting for the Eunuch to make decisions. What kept you?'

Before I could reply, Michael the Caesar approached. With him was his uncle, Constantine. The two men began to fawn over the Orphantrophus as we headed towards the audience chamber. They commented how tired he looked, and asked repeatedly how they might assist. It occurred to me that the two men were frightened out of their wits. They wanted to know what the Eunuch had decided for their futures, and were relying on him to guide them through the next few days until the succession of power was established. As we entered the packed Trikilinium it was evident that everyone, including the palace officials, was on edge and overwrought. Even the empress Zoe had appeared from the women's quarters. She stood there, looking at the Orp
han
otrophus. She too was waiting for his decision. The atmosphere was thick with fear, ambition and duplicity.

'Now is the time to stand together, to assist one another. We should carry out the wishes of the deceased,' announced the Orphanotrophus, raising his voice so he could be heard by everyone in the waiting audience. He had recovered his composure, and his words had their usual quality of slight menace. 'We proceed with the arrangements envisaged at the time when our dear nephew, Michael - ' here he gave a thin, insincere smile — 'became Caesar. It is appropriate that he is acclaimed as Basileus at the earliest opportunity. He will, I know, value and accept the advice and support of his family.'