Tom Harper - The mosaic of shadows

Eventually, I surrendered and threw off the covers. A glance out of the window revealed nothing of the hour, for there would be little change between dawn and dusk that day, but it must have been near the middle of the morning.

I pushed through the curtains, ambled across to the stone basin and splashed some water on my face. It was as cold as the floor, though it did little to wake me.

‘You’ve slept even later than Helena.’ Zoe was sitting at the table stitching a tear in her camisia. ‘She doesn’t approve. She says a father should wake before dawn to provide for his daughters.’

‘She can save her indignation — I couldn’t sleep.’ I found the end of a loaf of bread, spread it with honey, and chewed on it without enthusiasm.

Zoe looked up from her needlework. ‘Did you leave us in the night? Helena thought she heard the door.’

I winced as a shard of crust scraped the roof of my mouth. ‘I did. Sometimes the dark hours are the best time for dark secrets.’

‘And dark fates,’ Zoe admonished me.

I heard a door shut below, and light footsteps on the stairs. It seemed to take longer than usual, but at length the inner door swung open.

‘You’ve risen.’ Helena surveyed me reprovingly. She carried a basket of bread and vegetables under her arm, and her palla was streaked with mud. ‘I thought you might have become the eighth sleeper of Ephesus.’

‘And my heart rejoices to see you too.’ A hammering pain was beginning behind my eyes and I did not welcome Helena’s contempt, but I tried to remain calm. ‘What have you brought for my lunch? Mutton?’

‘There was no mutton.’ Helena dropped the basket on the table with a bang. ‘Only this.’

I peered at what she had brought. ‘The fast doesn’t start for another week and more,’ I told her. ‘Couldn’t you have found some fish, or some gamebirds?’

‘The righteous need no priest to tell them when to fast and when to feast,’ said Helena stonily.

‘Was he not there, then?’ asked Zoe.

I looked between my daughters. ‘Was who not there?’

‘The butcher,’ answered Helena quickly. ‘No, he was not. He had sold his meat and gone home. The rest of this city must be as gluttonous as you, father — and they at least leave their beds at a decent hour.’

‘Well, I want some stewed lamb. If my own daughter cannot provide for me, I will have to go to the tavern.’ I pulled a heavy dalmatica over my head and tugged on my boots, then added: ‘Perhaps in the afternoon we can go to see the spice-seller’s aunt, and her nephew.’

I had meant it as conciliation, but at the sound of my words Helena stamped her foot, glared at me and swept into her bedroom.

I threw up my hands and looked at Zoe. ‘Why should she do that?’

But Zoe was suddenly much preoccupied with her sewing. She stared at her needle and gave no answer, as inscrutable, in her own way, as her sister.

I abandoned my attempt at being the dutiful father. ‘I will be in the tavern along the road,’ I told Zoe. ‘Eating lamb stew.’

But it seemed I was fated not to eat my meat that day: I emerged from my house to meet a quartet of Patzinaks. Three were mounted; the fourth, just moving away from his horse, was approaching my door. Another held the reins of a fifth horse.

‘You are summoned to the palace,’ announced the man who had dismounted. ‘Immediately.’

I rubbed my temples. ‘Has the monk been found? If not, I am going to eat my lunch. Tell Krysaphios he can wait.’

The Patzinak stepped closer, bristling. ‘Your orders do not come from the eunuch. They are from a power you cannot defer. Come.’

I went.

There were many reasons I regretted the exile of the Varangians to the walls, and not least was their company. Coarse and erratic though they were, they had welcomed me into their conversations; the Patzinaks showed no such warmth. They rode two ahead of me and two behind, at a pace which allowed little more than an occasional grunted direction. I even found myself grateful to the horses for hastening the journey, though their jarring progress added a fresh dimension to my headache.

The Patzinaks’ route was as direct as their manners: we rode straight up the Mesi, past the milion and the tetrapylon, and into the Augusteion, under the gazes of our ancient rulers. As soon as we halted the guards were off their mounts and on their feet, pushing away the candle-sellers and relic-merchants who flocked to the forecourt of Ayia Sophia. They barged a path to the great Chalke gate, thrust the horses’ bridles into the hands of a waiting groom, and pushed past the petitioners and tourists who streamed into the first courtyard of the palace. In all this, I was their helpless obedient. I lost count of the turns we took, the corridors and courtyards we navigated, for with two Patzinaks at my back I had never a second to orient myself. The endless marble halls and golden mosaics made it hard to distinguish one part of the palace from another, and everything we passed seemed at once both strange and familiar. Only the ever-diminishing number of people around us suggested we were moving into more private quarters.

We stopped at a door flanked by two enormous urns, each taller than a man. The leading Patzinak turned to face me, and extended an arm towards the green courtyard beyond.

‘In there.’

I paused a second, to draw a breath and to imply my independence. Then I stepped out of the long passage, and into a different world.

It was not a courtyard, as I had thought: it was a garden. But a garden the like of which I had never seen, nor ever imagined. Outside, in the city, it was a rainy day in the depths of winter, but here I seemed suddenly transported to the height of summer. The trees around me were not bare but laden with fruit and blossom, and a golden light suffused the air so brightly it seemed to shine through the very leaves themselves. The ground was soft, silent beneath my feet, as though I walked on cushions, though the grass seemed real enough. It was wet, but it must have been a dew for when I looked up through the tangled leaves and branches above I could see only profound depths of blue. And somewhere in the trees, birds were singing.

I began to feel giddy, dazed; I had taken a few steps forward into this orchard, and when I turned back there was no longer any sign of the way I had entered. Then I heard a sound behind me, a gentle rustling as of leaves or silk, though there was no wind, and I spun about again to see what marvellous creature might appear.

My fancy had almost convinced me to expect a centaur, or a griffin or a unicorn, but in fact it was a man. A man, though, whose magnificence could have graced any legend. The crown on his head gleamed like the sun, as though it alone was the fount of the mysterious light. His robe was dyed purple all the way to its hem, and woven through with gold, while the lorum which crossed his broad chest could have served as the armour of a god, so thick were the gems which crusted it.

Even before I had seen the red toes of his boots I was falling to the ground. The earth seemed to sink under me, absorbing me, and I had to reach out my arms to balance myself as I chanted the acclamation. Though the settings where I had seen him before — the great church, the golden hall and the hippodrome — were all magnificent in their own fashion, it was in that garden that I first believed that a man might indeed be a living daystar, might endure a thousand years.

‘Get up, Demetrios Askiates.’

With some effort, I pushed myself away from the spongelike ground and stood, keeping my eyes downcast. There was something reassuring in his voice, something unrefined which seemed out of place in the fantasy of our surroundings.

‘Do you like my garden?’