Robert Lyndon: Imperial Fire

‘That suggests I think too little.’

Wulfstan gave a tipsy chuckle. ‘Not at all. I remember the day you fought Thorfinn Wolfbreath in the forests north of Rus. Christ, what a contest that was.’ He glugged his wine. ‘At dawn before the contest, you were sitting alone at the edge of the arena and Thorfinn, who’d been pouring birch ale down his throat all night and boasting how he’d break his fast on your liver, spotted you and said, “Couldn’t you sleep?” And you replied cool as autumn dew, “Only a fool lies awake brooding over his problems. When morning comes, he’s tired out and the problems are the same as before.”’ Wulfstan thumped the table. ‘I knew then that you’d beat him.’

‘I don’t remember,’ Vallon said. He lurched to his feet. ‘I swore an oath against my better judgement. I don’t want to force Aiken down a path not of his own choosing. I’ll wait a few weeks and let him decide for himself.’

Vallon and Caitlin made up, as they always did. They shared a bed, made love with mutual pleasure, sat together during the long evenings, easy in each other’s company, occasionally breaking off from their private pursuits to exchange smiles.

Late one raw afternoon soon after the turn of the year, Vallon was working on his campaign report close to the hearth when the courtyard bell rang. Caitlin looked up from her embroidery. ‘Are we expecting visitors?’

‘No,’ Vallon said. He went to a window overlooking the courtyard and parted the shutters. Wulfstan had opened the gate and through the gap Vallon could see a group of men armed with swords.

The Viking marched towards the house, followed by an officer. ‘Soldiers of the Imperial Guard,’ Vallon told Caitlin.

Wulfstan opened the door, admitting a gust of cold air. ‘A squad of vestiaritae. Their captain wants to see you. Won’t say why.’

‘Show him in.’

Caitlin came close. ‘What can they want?’

Vallon shook his head and faced the door. Boots slapped on the floor with military precision and a young officer entered, wearing a fur mantle against the cold. He snapped a salute at Vallon and made a bow to Caitlin. ‘John Chlorus, commander of a fifty in the vestiaritae, with orders for Count Vallon the Frank.’

Vallon sketched a salute. ‘I know your face.’

‘I know yours, sir. We fought at Dyrrachium. You’re one of the few mercenaries I do recognise. Most of the others I know only from their backs.’

‘And the reason for your visit?’

‘My orders are to escort you to the Great Palace. You’d better wrap up warm. We’re travelling by boat.’

That was a two-mile journey. It would be dark before they reached the palace. ‘What’s the purpose of the summons?’

‘That I can’t tell you, Count.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

Chlorus hesitated. ‘My orders are to accompany you to the palace. That’s all.’

Caitlin stepped between them. ‘Night is falling. Do you really think I’d let you carry my husband into the dark without knowing who he’s meeting?’

Chlorus had been trying to keep his eyes off her since entering.

‘Well?’ Caitlin demanded.

‘My orders were issued by the Logothete tou Dromou.’

Vallon’s eyes narrowed. The title translated as something like the ‘Auditor of the Roads’, but the Logothete’s responsibilities went much further than maintaining the empire’s highways. He supervised the Byzantine government’s postal service and diplomatic corps, monitored the activities of foreigners in Constantinople and ran an empire-wide network of spies and informers. He was in effect the emperor’s foreign minister, a personal adviser who wielded great and covert influence.

‘In that case I won’t keep the minister a moment longer than necessary. You’ll have to excuse me while I make myself presentable. My house guard will bring wine to warm you.’ Vallon cast a loaded look at the Viking hovering behind the officer, his hand on his sword, his face glowering with mistrust. ‘Wulfstan, the soldiers must be perishing. Invite them inside.’

Caitlin hurried after Vallon as he made for their sleeping chamber. She seized his elbow. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Vallon, struggling out of his gown.

Caitlin watched him dress. ‘It must have something to do with you saving the emperor’s life.’

‘Don’t speak of it. According to the official accounts, Alexius fought his way to freedom after slaying twenty Normans and riding his horse up a hundred-foot precipice.’

With mounting impatience, Caitlin watched Vallon pull on a tunic. ‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t wear that. Let me.’

He let her complete his costume and then he buckled on his sword. She stood back and appraised him. ‘Well, you won’t disgrace us. I’m sure the emperor intends to reward you.’

Vallon took her in his arms and kissed her. Their lips lingered. She stroked his neck. ‘Return soon, dear husband. I want to show how much I love you.’

‘As soon as I can,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll hold you to your promise.’

He broke the clinch, turned and went to face his destiny with a neutral smile. ‘Shall we go?’

A caique rowed by eight men carried them down the Bosporus, their passage speeded by a cutting northerly. Vallon’s escort spoke little and only among themselves. Dreary dusk darkened to starless night. Shielded by a windbreak, Vallon watched the torches on the great sea walls sliding past to starboard. He wondered how he would return home, and then it occurred to him that this might be a one-way journey. Officers who’d distinguished themselves in battle weren’t wrenched from the fireside on a cold winter night.

They passed the Pharos, its flame projected by mirrors far out to sea, and docked at the port of Bucoleon, the emperor’s private harbour south of the Great Palace complex. Vallon’s heart beat faster. The escort formed up around him and marched through a postern guarded by bronze lions. They crossed a series of open spaces lit by lanterns whose fitful flames illuminated gardens and fish ponds, pavilions and pleasure grounds. Vallon had never been inside the complex before and had no idea where the escort was taking him. They angled left towards a massy building with random lights showing at some of the windows.

‘Which palace is this?’

‘Daphne,’ said Chlorus. He ran up a monumental flight of steps leading to the entrance. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to hand over your sword and submit to a search.’

Vallon stood unmoving while the men patted him for secret weapons. Chlorus pounded on the doors and they opened into a blaze of candelabra. A chamberlain carrying a silver staff of office received them and led the way through aisles and halls supported by onyx and porphyry columns, through lofty chambers decorated with polychrome mosaics and tapestries, across pavements inset with gold peacocks and eagles, past fountains spouting water from the mouths of bronze dolphins. At each entrance guardsmen and eunuchs stood rooted at attention.

They entered a plain room with a door at the far end guarded by two soldiers. One of them threw the door open and Vallon found himself in a passage or tunnel lit by torches in sconces. His footsteps echoed off bare walls wringing with condensation. The passage must have been fifty yards long and the torches fluttered in an icy draught issuing from the far end.

The chamberlain halted at an entrance open to the night. ‘Wait here.’

He went out and gave a deep bow, murmured something inaudible and received an even fainter response. He turned and beckoned Chlorus forward. The officer put every fibre of his being into his salute. ‘Allagion Chlorus reporting with Count Vallon.’

‘Admit the count,’ a voice said, ‘then you and your men withdraw.’