Tom Harper - The mosaic of shadows

‘At the gates,’ Sigurd called, indicating with his fist. I looked, and for a second thought I would be pitched from my saddle, so slack did I slump. The gates had opened, and a great column of soldiers was marching forth: not stretcher bearers or gravediggers come for the fallen, but a full legion of Immortals arrayed for battle. Some of their out-riders broke ranks to spur towards us, but Sigurd waved his Varangian axe in the air and they slowed, hailing us with urgent shouts.

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded. ‘The Emperor gave orders that you should hold at the walls. The barbarians are broken, and you will only antagonise them by appearing in such force.’

‘We mean to do more than antagonise them,’ barked one, an officer. ‘The Emperor is dying, and we are commanded to rout the barbarians in their retreat. Against our cavalry, they will be like wheat in the harvest.’

‘Does the Sebastokrator command that?’ A great emptiness swelled within me: I had failed. The Emperor would die, and with him all hopes of peace with Franks, Turks, even among the Romans themselves.

But the officer shook his head. ‘The Sebastokrator remains at the Regia gate, I think, waiting with the Varangians. He has given no orders that I have heard.’

‘Then who has. .?’

‘The chamberlain, or regent as he soon will be. The eunuch Krysaphios.’

It was as well Sigurd could speak, for I was struck dumb. He pulled off his helmet and stared hard at the Immortal officer. ‘Do you recognise me, Diogenes Sgouros?’

Though there was not an inch of his body not cased in steel armour, the Immortal still seemed to cringe. ‘You are Sigurd, captain of the Varangians.’

‘Do you doubt my loyalty to the Emperor?’

‘Never.’ Sgouros’s voice was fainter now. ‘But the Emperor is dying and. .’

‘Dying is not dead.’ Sigurd rested his axe on the pommel of his saddle. ‘Do you remember the legend of the Emperor who feigned death to test the loyalty of his men?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember what he did to those who failed him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then unless you wish a similar fate, Diogenes, draw up your company here and do not move one pace nearer the barbarians until I or the Emperor himself bring word that it pleases him you do so. Do you understand?’

Sgouros’s helmet seemed fastened too tight under his chin: he struggled to breathe. ‘But. .’

‘If you fail, even witlessly, there will be a terrible vengeance,’ Sigurd warned. ‘And not the vengeance of the Komneni, too quick to forgive their enemies, but the vengeance of Sigurd, who has never yet forgotten a wrong. Will you risk that to prick at the heels of a few broken barbarians?’

The throne in the great hall of the new palace was empty, the only clear space in the room. Every general and courtier must have had word of the Emperor’s wounds and rushed to stake their place in the succession — or to pray for his healing, as they doubtless later protested — for Sigurd and I could barely pry them far enough apart to push ourselves through. I searched desperately for Krysaphios, trying to pick out one sumptuous head among the golden throng, but it was Sigurd, with his height, who saw him first. He was standing near the throne in a circle of nobles, speaking pointedly and forcefully, though his words were lost in the din. His eyes darted over the surrounding faces, seeking out disagreement or disloyalty, and he did not see our approach until Sigurd pulled away a whimpering acolyte and loomed over him.

‘What did you do with the Immortals?’ Sigurd demanded. ‘Why, after the barbarians had surrendered did you order our cavalry to destroy them, when it was the Emperor’s dearest wish that they should be spared?’

I saw Krysaphios glance to his side and tilt his head a little, as if beckoning someone. Guards, I guessed. ‘The Emperor is dying, and whoever succeeds him will rely greatly on his chamberlain as he accustoms himself to rule. If you disagree with my policy out of sentiment for a weak-willed fool, whose nerve failed in our darkest hour, you would do well to reconsider. I will have need of strong warriors when I serve the new Emperor, but only those who obey.’

The circle surrounding him had eased a little, for many were clearly uncomfortable with our talk and uncertain where to display their loyalties. I tried to discomfort them further. ‘Did you ally yourselves with the barbarians from the beginning, Krysaphios? Did you really mean to give our empire over to their tyranny, until you saw just now that they were defeated?’

Krysaphios’ cheeks swelled out like a serpent’s. ‘That is treason, Demetrios Askiates, and you will not escape its penalty this time. Nor will you have even the consolation of righteousness when your daughters are screaming in my dungeon, for none have worked against the barbarians more diligently than I. Would I give over the triumph of our civilisation to a snivelling race of animals, scarce fit to tup in the gutters of this city? I will be remembered as he who saved the empire, while the Emperor Alexios will be anathemised as a godless traitor, a lover of barbarians.’

I heard a commotion in the crowd behind me: the eunuch’s guards, I presumed, coming to drag me away. Sigurd was lifting his axe, though he could hardly have wielded it in that room, but I was still. The jibe about my daughters had shattered my will, for they were still in the palace, and if I resisted the eunuch he would surely visit unthinkable horrors on them.

‘Tell me,’ I said brokenly. ‘Did the Emperor die of his wounds?’

‘He will.’ Krysaphios raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘We searched, but his physician could not be found to heal him.’

The last words of his sentence seemed unnaturally loud, but it was only as he stopped that I realised it was because the rest of the room had fallen silent.

‘And who sent my physician away this morning?’ Though slowed with exhaustion, and more strained than before, the voice was undeniable. I forgot Krysaphios, and turned in wonder to the bronze doors. They were flung open, and between their mighty posts, leaning on a stick and with a bandage for a crown, there stood the Emperor Alexios.

All in the room fell to their knees, then scrambled from his path as he advanced on the throne. He walked stiffly, and his eyes were clenched with pain, but his words rang clear as ever. ‘Who ordered the hipparch to send a hundred men when my brother ordered ten? Who ordered the Immortals to massacre the barbarians when they had surrendered the field? Who now stands beside my throne and schemes to fill it with his puppets?’ He reached us, and I saw a phalanx of Varangians drawn up beyond the doors behind.

‘You are recovered, Lord.’ Krysaphios alone had not bowed to the Emperor, and he did not do so now. ‘Thanks be to God. But your mind is clouded. The daze left by the assassin’s blow cannot be bound up with linen.’

‘Nor can his spear-thrust, if there is no physician to call on. If the chamberlain has ordered him to count herbs in the Bucoleon while the Emperor lies bleeding. Thank God indeed that I found another in my palace.’

At last I understood how the Emperor had outlasted the innumerable reverses of his reign, why his armies’ loyalty had never wavered in defeats which would have ruined his predecessors. Even now, limping and gasping, there was a power in his face which was more than mere authority: perfect certainty, the unanswerable knowledge that he would prevail.

Even so, Krysaphios resisted it, flicking his eyes over the room in a search for allies. None showed themselves. ‘Lord,’ he pleaded, ‘let us not quarrel in victory. If I have erred, it was in the service of the empire. Surely such sins can be forgiven.’