King's Man (24 page)

I hurried through the corridors and hallways of the palace. All around me there were signs of panic. Officials, still dressed in their formal costumes, were scurrying about, some of them carrying their personal possessions as they anxiously sought to find some way of leaving the building. Once or twice I passed a detachment of Excubitors, the Greek household regiment, and I was relieved that at least some of the local garrison were still loyal to the throne. Eventually I caught up with one of their Greek officers. Saluting him, I asked if he could send archers to the parapet above the Bronze Gate as the mob was getting dangerously close to breaking in.

'Of course,' he snapped. 'I'll send bowmen. Anything else you need?'

'Two or three scorpions would be helpful. If they could be positioned high up on the wall, they would have a good field of fire and prevent the crowd from massing in front of the gate.'

'Can't help you there,' answered the officer. 'There are no ballistae operators in the Palace Guard. Nobody ever thought they would be needed. Try the Armamenton. Maybe someone there can assist. I know they've got some scorpions stored there.'

I had forgotten about the armoury. The rambling Great Palace was like a city in miniature. It had its royal apartments, formal state rooms, chancellery, treasury, tax office, kitchens, silk-weaving workshops, and of course a major arms store. I raced back to the Bronze Gate, where Halfdan was now standing cautiously behind a battlement, looking down at the mob, which had doubled in size and grown much more belligerent

'Stand well back, Thorgils,' he warned. 'They've got archers down there, and some slingers.' An arrow clattered against the stone buttress.

'Can you let me have a dozen men?' I asked. 'I want to get to the armoury and see if I can bring up a scorpion or two.'

Halfdan looked at me quizzically. 'Since when did you become an artillery man?'

'I had a few lessons in Sicily,' I said.

'Well then, take as many men as you need. The mob has not yet got itself sufficiently worked up to launch a concerted attack.'

With a squad of a dozen Varangians at my heels, I headed towards the armoury. I hammered on the heavy double doors until a storekeeper pulled one of them open cautiously. He looked decidedly peevish. Doubtless he had hoped that he was in a safe retreat, well away from any trouble.

'I need weapons,' I blurted, out of breath.

'Where's your written order? You must have a signed authority from the archon strategos before I can issue any weapons.'

'Where can I find him?'

'Can't tell you. Haven't seen him all day,' said the storekeeper with an air of smug finality.

'This is an emergency,' I insisted.

'No paperwork, no weapons. That's my orders,' was the short answer I got.

I put my hand on his chest and pushed him aside.

'Here, you can't do that,' he objected, but I was already inside and looking around.

The armoury was generously equipped. I could see everything from parade equipment with gilded hilts and coloured silk tassels to workaday swords and pikes. Against one wall was a stack of the small round shields used by light infantry.

'Grab as many of those as you can carry,' I told my men, 'and take them back up to the ramparts, and get some of those bows from that rack over there and as many arrows as you can handle. Tell Halfdan that there are plenty more bows and arrows if he needs them.'

Meanwhile I had spotted the heavier weapons in the far corner of the store. I recognised the wooden stocks, the iron winding handles, and the thick stubby arms of the bows of at least a dozen scorpions neatly arranged. Looped around a wooden frame were the special bowstrings made of animal sinew. Trying to recall exactly what I had seen in Syracuse when Nikephorus had shown me round his siege tower, and again during the battle at Traina, I began to select enough items to assemble three scorpions. To the strongest man in my squad, an ox-like Swede, I gave all three tripods to carry. To the others I handed out the remainder of the parts as well as two large bags full of iron bolts. I personally took charge of the trigger mechanisms, as they looked fragile and easily damaged.

'Hail to the new technicians,' joked Lars as my men laid out the items on the walkway behind the parapet and I began to experiment how they would fit together.

As it turned out, the scorpions were easy to assemble. Anyone who knew how to lock together the complicated j
oints in ship
wright's carpentry could do it, and several of my Varangians had that skill. Only the trigger mechanisms were puzzling, and it took one or two false attempts before I finally got them correctly installed and the scorpions were ready for use.

'Here, Thorgils, you get to release the first bolt,' offered Halfdan as he hoisted the completed weapon up on its tripod.

'No thanks,' I said. 'You wind up and pull the trigger. I want to watch and make sure that I have the tension right.'

Halfdan cranked the handle, drawing back the arms of the
bow, placed a metal bolt in its groove, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. To my satisfaction the bolt flew straight, though Halfdan had overcompensated for the angle and the metal bolt whizzed over the heads of the crowd and smacked into the facade of the buildings opposite.

'Powerful stuff, eh?' commented Halfdan contentedly. 'Still, if I was going to kill someone, I would prefer to do it from close-up, where I can see exactly whom I despatch.'

My satisfaction at assembling the ballistae was replaced by dismay. Looking down into the crowd, I saw Harald. Standing a full head taller than those around him, his long hair and moustaches were unmistakable. Then I identified Halldor and several others of Harald's war band right behind their leader, pushing their way through the crowd to reach the front rank. All of them were wearing helmets and carrying their axes. Obviously the mob had broken into the jails and released all the prisoners. The insurrection had also found a common scapegoat. The mob was chanting, 'Give us the Caulker! Give us the Caulker!'

'Don't fire into the crowd,' I begged Halfdan.

'Are you crazy?' he demanded. 'Why go to the trouble of providing these weapons and not use them?' He reloaded, swivelled the scorpion on its mounting and took aim. The chances that he would hit Harald were remote, but I removed his hand from the trigger.

'Over there to the left,' I said. 'That's Harald of Norway, and behind him, Varangians.'

'So they've broken their oath and joined the rebels,' grunted Halfdan.

'You can't shoot down your own people.'

'No,' said Halfdan. 'That would be cowardly. Hand to hand is the only way. They're traitors.'

He abandoned the scorpion and unslung his axe. 'Time for a sortie, men. Show them that we mean business,' he announced.

I watched the reaction of my comrades. They looked as if they were in two minds whether to follow Halfdan or ignore him.

There was an awkward pause, which was interrupted by the sound of feet on the stone steps leading to the parapet. A Greek officer appeared, a man I recognised vaguely from the siege of Syracuse. He seemed competent, and there was no doubt about what he intended. He gestured for us to leave the parapet.

'We're taking over now,' he said in Greek, and I translated for Halfdan's benefit.

'Ask him what he wants us to do,' Halfdan asked.

The Greek muttered something about the Varangians being held as a strategic reserve, and that we were to wait in the open courtyard behind the Bronze Gate in case a frontal attack was launched. Halfdan seemed disappointed, but obediently he led our platoon down into the courtyard.

'That does it,' said one of our men as we watched a file of Greek heavy infantry mount the stairway to take up the positions we had just left. 'That was a lie about needing a strategic reserve. They don't trust us. They think we will join up with our countrymen outside the palace and throw in our lot with the rebels.' Angrily he stumped over to a bench, dropped his axe on the paving slabs and sat down.
'I
don't know about the rest of you, but I'm going to wait here until the Greeks sort out among themselves who is really running this place.'

I knew that the platoon agreed with him, and that in a few moments Halfdan would entirely lose his authority. I had always judged Halfdan to be a decent type, if unimaginative; to save his dignity, I said, 'Maybe I could locate someone in charge who can decide where we can be most useful. It will save time if Halfdan comes with me so that he can explain the tactical situation.'

Without waiting for a response,
I
set off for Psellus's office in the chancellery. He was the only person in the palace whom I trusted to give me an honest answer: something odd was going on. The mob outside the walls was hanging back, as if waiting for something, and I did not know what it was. The Greek infantry who had replaced us on the parapet had appeared strangely
complacent. They were not as bellicose as I had expected, and I did not know why. Perhaps Psellus could explain.

Halfdan and I met him in the corridor long before we reached his office, and to my astonishment he greeted us as his saviours. 'The blessed Demetrios himself must have sent you,' he exclaimed. 'The Pechenegs have abandoned their posts and fled, every last one of them, just when the Basileus needed them most. Are there any more of you Varangians?'

'There are,' I said, 'but they are back near the Bronze Gate, awaiting orders, and frankly I'm not sure that they will obey them. Please tell me what is going on. Why aren't the household troops defending the palace more actively, and why hasn't the mob launched an all-out attack?'

'T
he emperor has renounced his titl
e,' said Psellus urbanely. 'He wishes to retire to a life of peaceful contemplation. He is to become a monk.'

I must have looked dumbfounded, because Psellus went on, 'he has abdicated in favour of his "mother", the empress Zoe, and her sister, the empress Theodora.'

'But I thought that Theodora was in a nunnery.'

'Until yesterday evening,' said Psellus. 'The Patriarch Alexis suggested that she should renounce her vows and enter political life. She is, after all, born to the purple. To Theodora's credit she resisted the idea at first, but was eventually persuaded. The Patriarch crowned her empress a few minutes after midnight. I expect that she and her sister Zoe will be co-rulers of the empire of the Romans as soon as they can come to a suitable arrangement.'

'What about Michael? Where is he now?' My mind was in a whirl as I tried to grasp the sudden change in the politics of imperial rule.

'Close by, and that is why I am so pleased to see you and your colleague. Michael and his uncle, the Nobelissimus, are awaiting immediate departure to the monastery of the Studius.'

By this stage my mind was reeling. 'But isn't the Studius monastery the residence of the Patriarch Alexis? And wasn't he the man who led the uprising against the Basileus?'

'Thorgils, for a barbarian you are unusually well informed. However, the Studius monastery is the only one which the former Basileus can reach without being molested by the mob, which, as you have observed, is baying for his blood. From the Bucephalon harbour he can reach the monastery by boat before the crowd knows that he has departed. I presume that you can handle a small boat.'

'Of course.'

'There will be only three passengers: Michael, his uncle Constantine, and a chamberlain. The rest of his staff will go on foot to the monastery, discreetly and in small groups, so that they can arrange Michael's reception. In recent weeks I have been privileged to act as the Basileus's private secretary, so I see it as my duty to intercede on his behalf with the new empresses and organise a smooth handover of the imperial government. As soon as I have their majesties' decision, I will come to the monastery with the news. In the meantime I know that I can trust you and your colleague to transport their highnesses safely to the Studius.'

So that is how it came about that I, Thorgils Leifsson, and my company commander, Halfdan, became a boat crew for the former Basileus, Michael V, as he e
vaded capture by the mob of Con
stantinople. It felt strange to be rowing a man who, only the previous day, had been considered semi-divine, so that even his closest attendants were obliged to wear gloves when approaching his presence in case they touched his consecrated flesh. Now he and his uncle, disguised as simple monks, sat an arm's length away in the stern of the small rowing boat we commandeered for the short journey. Their chamberlain was in the bows, directing our course as we picked our way between the mass of fishing boats and the cargo ships at anchor off the city. It seemed that all their crews were ashore, joining the insurrection.

Throughout our brief journey Michael kept his head down, staring silently into the bilge of the boat, and I noticed that water
was soaking into his purple boots, which he had not yet removed. His uncle, by contrast, took a more intelligent interest in our surroundings. Surreptitiously I watched him as I heaved on the loom of the oar. There was no mistaking his resemblance to his brother, the Orphanotrophus. They both had the same deep-sunk eyes and shrewd gaze, and they shared an aura of knowing exactly how to set about obtaining what they wanted. What a remarkably talented family, I thought to myself. It had supplied an emperor, a Nobelissimus, and, in the Orphanotrophus, a gifted civil administrator. The mob was wrong to dismiss them as nobodies. The family were adventurers, certainly, but no more so than the giant Maniakes whom the citizenry adored. Only Michael the nephew, sitting in a fog of self-pity, had let them down. He had thrown away his inheritance through inexperience in the wielding of power and his unbridled ambition.

The chamberlain called out that we were to steer for shore. Glancing over my shoulder I saw that we were level with the Studius monastery. Its massive walls of red and grey brick loomed over the landing place, a complex of chapels and cloisters crowned by an array of tiled domes, each topped by a cross. The monastery had its own landing steps, and Halfdan and I grabbed on to the mooring chains as our passengers disembarked. By force of habit I refrained from reaching out and touching the ex-Basileus, even when he slipped on the weed-covered steps and nearly fell.