Tom Harper: The mosaic of shadows

‘Turn back,’ a voice whispered.

Then a cloud of darts and javelins fell from the sky, and the battle began.

Even before the first arrows struck our cavalry had responded: they broke from their column, and cantered to form a double line facing the oncoming Franks. The missiles would have done our men little damage, for their armour was more than its equal, but I saw several horses already felled, their riders struggling to be free of their harnesses before the barbarians were over them. With a shout which reached even our ears, the Franks lowered their spears and charged. Our cataphracts spurred to meet them, and for a second I saw only two waves of brown and black and silver rushing against each other, closing over the ground between them. Then they struck, and the shapes of single men were lost in a sea of battle.

‘We must reinforce them, your Majesty.’ Krysaphios spoke urgently, but without the confusion which had gripped the rest of the room. ‘A hundred against ten thousand — they will be slaughtered to no gain.’

‘If I send out more men, there will merely be more slaughter. And why were there even a hundred to begin with? I gave orders for ten.’

‘Lord, the mob. .’

‘Forget the mob. My office exists to restrain them, not pander to their craven dreams. We have the hippodrome for that. Where is my brother?’

‘At the Regia gate with the Varangians, Lord,’ a young courtier volunteered. ‘He awaits only your command to march to the aid of the cavalry.’

‘He will have a long wait then. Go and order him, in my name, that he is on no account to leave the city.’

The courtier made to leave, but a word of command from Krysaphios paused him. The eunuch’s eyes moved across the room and fixed on me. ‘Demetrios, you know the Varangian captain. These instructions would be better heeded if they came from you.’

I was hardly used to refusing direct orders before the Emperor, but my sense of duty rebelled. ‘The Emperor needs me. .’

‘He needs you where you are sent. Go.’

Though I had many misgivings, I could not disobey: I ran for the door, slipping on the marble floors in my haste. As I steadied myself on a column I looked back at the Emperor, hoping perhaps for a word to countermand my errand, to keep me where I felt most needed. He did not see me, but stood before his throne gazing out of the arched windows in silence, while the nobles around him argued loudly and openly. Only the priests seemed unaffected, continuing their liturgy even while the fate of the empire was decided on the plain before them. I could see them coming around the edge of the screen even now, bearing an icon for the Emperor to kiss. I had to admire them their devotion, their pious indifference to the mundane, even if it seemed almost sacrilege to ignore such extraordinary events. Perhaps I envied them.

The Emperor caught sight of them and sank back into his throne, ready to enact the ritual. Doubtless he should have resumed the utter impassivity which was his appointed role, but the cares of the moment had stripped away all talent for pretence and he watched with open interest. Nor could he even keep from frowning a little, as if some thought or sight had jarred in him. His face was towards me, and — fearing that he frowned at my delay — I was about to depart, when I realised that his eyes were fixed not on me, but on the approaching priests. I followed his gaze. Two of them I recognised, having been there since the morning, but the third was new: he must have come in to allow the other a rest. His knuckles were tight about the tall cross he held, and he stared on it with almost feverish devotion, tipping his head back as if he basked in the sun of heaven. The pose accentuated the angles of his sharp face, particularly the crooked line of his nose, and I saw that he must be recently come from a monastery, for the skin of his scalp was still pink where the tonsure had been shaved.

Too slowly, I recognised what I saw. Perhaps the Emperor had seen something unholy about him, or perhaps he had just been surprised by an unfamiliar face, but he could not have known who it was: that, after all, had been my task. I hurled myself across the room, staving aside any who blocked my path and screaming warnings as I went.

And the monk struck.

There was nowhere for the Emperor to hide, for the monk had him trapped on his throne. Most men would have been stilled by terror, or thought only to squirm feebly aside, but the Emperor had the instincts of a soldier and in that instant threw himself forward. It was still too late. As the two priests looked on, speechless at this murderous apparition, the monk brought his cross down like a mace on the Emperor’s head. The pearled diadem shattered; blood spouted from the thick hair and poured off the Emperor’s neck and shoulders as he fell face-first to the floor. I expected the monk to lift his weapon for a second blow, but instead he put one hand on the golden cross and pulled it from its shaft. As it came free and clattered to the floor, I saw that it was no ordinary staff he held, but a naked spear, whose point had been hidden in the crucifix. Still no-one in the room moved, petrified by the sudden onslaught. The Emperor groaned, and tried to raise himself on his arm, but the monk kicked him in the face and lifted the spear over his head. He screamed something in an unknown tongue, untrammelled triumph wild in his eyes, as he drove the spearhead down onto the Emperor’s neck.

All this time I had been moving towards him, too quickly to think, and my frantic oblivion carried me just far enough. I charged into the monk, too late to stop his blow but soon enough to knock his aim awry. The spear sank into the Emperor’s back and he howled with anguish, while the monk tumbled to the ground under my impact. Thin fingers clawed at my face, scratching my eyes, and as I tried to fend them off the monk rolled me onto my back and sprang away. His spear stood upright in the Emperor’s back, swaying like a sapling in a storm; he pulled it free and swung it in a half-circle around him, keeping any who would approach at bay.

But there were none save me, it seemed, who would approach. Though dozens of guards and nobles crowded that room, not one of them moved. Perhaps it was from cowardice, or shock; more likely they feared to intervene on one side or another while the empire hung in the balance, but they held back, pressed together in a circle of watching faces which surrounded us like the walls of the arena. It was as if the monk and I were the two anointed champions, Hector and Ajax, and the world ceased its wars while we fought our mortal duel.

But I had no Apollo to guide my hand, nor even a sword. The monk was approaching, lifting his spear with evil purpose. Perhaps he recognised me as his pursuer that day in the icy cistern, or perhaps he had reconciled himself to death in the cause of death, but there was a calm about him as the bloodied tip of his spear followed my futile evasions. I backed away, keeping my eyes fixed always on his. ‘The thrust of a spear begins in a man’s face,’ a sergeant had once told me, and as long as I held his gaze he would struggle to beat me.

But my concentration was undone. I took another step back, and felt something jostle my arm; instinct drew my eyes around to the man I had collided with, one of the priests, and in that moment the monk lunged.

It was the priest who saved me. Not by any act or intercession, though perhaps he offered a prayer, but through the sheer depths of his fear. He saw the monk move before I did, and in his haste to duck away he brought me to the floor in a tangle of limbs. The spear rushed over my head, too fast to change its course, and as I threw out my hand to break my fall I felt an iron chain underneath me. It was the censer, dropped by the priest in his fright; I lifted it, and as the monk’s momentum carried him over me I swung it through the air with all the force I could summon. It cracked against his face in an eruption of hot oil and screams, though whether they were the priest’s, the monk’s or even my own I did not know.