Tim Severin - King's Man

'What's proskynesis?' Harald asked, leaning forward on his stool.

I realised that I had got carried away with the splendour of the ceremony, and hesitated because I did not know how Harald would react to my explanation.

'Proskynesis is the act of homage,' I said.

'Go on.'

I swallowed nervously. 'It means lying prostrate on the floor, face down, and staying there until the word comes from a courtier for you to rise.'

There was a long pause as Harald thought this over. I feared that he was about to refuse to debase himself this way, but instead he asked, 'How far am I from the throne when I have to do this lying-down performance?'

I had been holding my breath, and let it out gently. 'As you walk down the hall towards the Basileus, look downward and you will see that there is a purple disc set in the marble floor. That marks the spot where you should lie down.'

Harald asked promptly, 'How do you know all this?'

'Because a detail of the guard stands behind the emperor's throne during the ceremony, and I have watched it happen many times. The guardsmen get to know the little tricks which make the ceremony seem more impressive. In fact sometimes it is difficult to keep a straight face.'

'Like when?'

'If the court chamberlain thinks the visitor is impressionable enough, the Basileus's throne is made to elevate during the proskynesis. While the supplicant is face down on the floor, a team of operators winds a lifting jack hidden behind the throne so that when the supplicant lifts his head he sees the emperor seated higher than before. The look of astonishment on the supplicant's face can be very entertaining. But,' I added hurriedly, 'I don't think they will try that ruse on the day you have an imperial audience.'

Recalling my first conversations with Harald, it occurs to me now that I was possibly making a mistake. I thought I was merely preparing him for his meeting with the Basileus, but I fear that Harald was in fact learning a very different lesson: the importance of establishing dominion over others, how to dazzle them. If so, in my enthusiasm for Harald's success I was preparing the seeds for my own later disappointment.

The Orphanotrophus had also instructed me to familiarise the Norwegian prince with the imperial navy, so I took Harald to the naval arsenal on the Golden Horn. There the eparch of the dockyard, fearing espionage, received us coolly and insisted that an official from the dromos as well as his own deputy accompany us on our tour. I showed Harald rank upon rank of slipways, where the warships were built and repaired, warehouses filled with naval stores, mast sheds and sail lofts, and I explained how most of the seamen were recruited from the coastal peoples across the straits in Asia Minor. Harald, who had an expert eye for shipwright's skills, asked such probing questions of the master carpenters that I was sometimes at a loss for the right words as I translated into Greek. Then he demanded to inspect a warship in commission. When the eparch's deputy hesitated, Harald insisted. If his men were to serve on the imperial ships, then at least they should know what to expect. He pointed at a dromon of the largest size, a three-masted fleet battleship which lay at anchor in the Golden Horn, awaiting orders. He would like to inspect that vessel, he said. As I was to notice many times later, when Harald Sigurdsson put a request, it sounded more like a command.

A naval pinnace rowed us out. Close up, the dromon was even larger than I had expected. I had never been aboard one before, and she was immense, at least half as long again as the largest longship that I had seen in the past and two or three times as broad. But what really made her seem imposing was her height above the water. Our Norse warships are low and sleek, but the imperial battleships are built upwards from the waterline. The intention is to overawe the enemy and give a superior platform from which archers can shoot downwards. So the dromon loomed over us as we approached, her height increased by a castle-like structure built amidship. We clambered up her side and on her deck immediately came face to face with her kentarchos, her sailing master. Angrily he demanded to know who this strange-looking foreigner with the long moustaches was who came climbing aboard his ship as though he owned her. When the man from the dromos explained that Harald had a letter from the sekreton of the Orphanotrophus, the kentarchos glowered, then accompanied us at every pace around her deck, watching us suspiciously.

Harald missed nothing. Fascinated by this unknown design of war vessel, he asked how the dromon handled in a seaway, how her sails were set and reefed, how nimbly she could alter course, how fast she went when all two hundred oarsmen were at the benches and for how long they could keep up a cruising pace. The kentarchos answered reluctantly. To him a bearded Norseman was a natural foe. Time and again I had to remind our guide that it was the Orphanotrophus's order that Harald should be familiar with the imperial war fleet, and one day Harald's men might be aboard as his marines. The kentarchos looked as if he would prefer to scuttle his vessel.

Finally we reached the forecastle in the dromon's bows.

'And what is that?' asked Harald.

A bronze tube protruded through a metal plate, pointing forward like a single nostril. Close behind the tube stood two metal baths, joined by copper pipes to an apparatus that looked like a pump.

'That's the vessel's siphon,' said the man from the dromos. The kentarchos glared at him, then rudely walked in front of Harald, deliberately blocking his view.

'Not even the emperor's direct command allows me to tell you more,' he growled. 'Now get off my ship.' To my surprise, Harald obeyed.

Much later, when we were safely back outside the arsenal and no officials were in earshot, Harald muttered, 'So that's how they launch the Fire. But how do they create it?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'I'm not even sure what it is.'

'When I was in Kiev I heard people describe how it destroyed a war fleet in their grandfathers' time,' Harald said. 'People marvelled how the Fire ignites in the air, turning to cinders anything it touches. It even burns underwater. It's amazing.'

That evening, when I asked Pelagia about the Fire, my normally reliable source of information was little help. She told me that only a handful of technicians knew how to create it, and that the ingredients were among the most closely guarded state secrets. Rumour had it that the Fire was made of quicklime mixed with an oil that comes from the earth. I told her about the strange bronze tube aboard the dromon and she laughed. She said that there were foreign sailors who believed the imperial navy had a breeding programme of fire-breathing dragons, which they stowed below decks before setting out on a campaign and then let loose in the bows of their ships just before a fleet action.

Shortly after the feast day of the Transfiguration, one of Constantinople's major festivals, and two months after his arrival Harald finally had his audience with Michael. It took place in yet another of the splendid halls within the Great Palace, the Magnaura, which was often used for greeting foreign ambassadors, and as luck would have it I was a member of the imperial escort. As I took up my position behind the throne and rested my axe on my shoulder, I felt like a nervous schoolmaster who waits to see how his star pupil will perform. The interior of the hall was like a vast church, with columns and galleries and high windows glazed with coloured glass. The far end opened on to a wide courtyard planted with trees, and there the supplicants were assembled. Among them I could see Harald, standing a full head taller than his colleagues. In the foreground stood a host of court dignitaries waiting for the signal from the master of ceremonies. Even after witnessing dozens of such ceremonies, I still marvelled at the splendour of the occasion. The courtiers and dignitaries were dressed according to their seniority and the office they held. There were senators and patricians in blue and green, Greek officers of the Hetaira in white tunics with gold bands, magistrates and high officials dressed in shimmering patterned silk and holding their insignia — golden staffs, ivory wands, court swords in scabbards ornate with enamel plaques, jewelled whips, tablets and illuminated scrolls. Many of the costumes were so stiffly sewn with gold and silver embroidery, as well as precious stones and pearls, that their wearers could barely move. But that was also part of the ritual. All the assembly was expected to stay motionless, or at least nearly so. Any movement must be slow and dignified.