Tim Severin - King's Man

My colleagues in the guardroom confirmed Pelagia's sombre description.

'You'll need a strong stomach for guard duty outside the royal apartment nowadays,' I was warned by my company commander, the same Halfdan who had taken charge of the detail when the Basileus Romanus drowned. 'You should see the diseased creatures who are brought up to the imperial bedchamber — tramps picked up from the street by the nightwatch, or invalids from the hospitals. It's said Michael washes their clothes, cleans their wounds, even kisses their open sores, in emulation of his own God. He insists that they sleep in the royal bed while he lies down on the cold marble floor with a stone as a pillow so he suffers mortification. I looked in the bedchamber one morning when the Basileus and his attendants had left, and there was a stinking pile of old rags by the bed. Looked like a beggars' nest.'

My summons to the office of John the Orphanotrophus was not long in arriving, and as usual the eunuch came straight to the point.

'What's your impression of Araltes now?' he demanded. 'After two years in his company, I trust that you have won his confidence as I required.'

'I believe so, your excellency,' I replied. I was as wary of the Orphanotrophus as on the first day he had sent me to spy on Harald, but I was bold enough to add, 'He has served the Basileus well. He has been created spatharokandidatos.'

'I know, I know. But the administration of the empire rests on two pillars: honours and cash,' retorted the Orphanotrophus irritably. 'Your Araltes benefits from the honours, but what about the cash? I've been told he is gold-hungry.'

'I know nothing about that, your excellency,' I answered evasively.

'Strange that he hasn't complained about the division of booty after the fall of Syracuse, like those Frankoi mercenaries who made such an issue of it. Over a horse, I believe.'

I began to wonder if there was any limit to the eunuch's network of spies. Careful to avoid an outright lie, I told him, 'Araltes gives the impression of being content with his booty from Sicily.'

The Orphanotrophus's next words made me feel as if I had fallen through the ice of a frozen lake.

'I'm hearing that certain bullion transactions are going unreported to the city archon. One of the money changers seems to be making unusually high profits. What's his name . . .' and the eunuch made a pretence of looking down at the note on his desk, though I was sure he had no need to refresh his memory. 'A certain argyroprates named Simeon. Mention has been made that he is dealing with Varangians.'

'It could be any of the Varangian units, your excellency,' I said, trying to keep panic out of my voice, 'not necessarily those who serve Araltes.'

'Guardsman,' said the eunuch slowly and deliberately, 'if anything is going on, I want to know it.'

HARALD HAD BEEN living in his own quarters away from the Life Guard's barracks, and after the interview with John I had to restrain myself from going straight there to warn him. I suspected that I was being watched by the Orphanotrophus's agents, so I went instead to seek Pelagia's advice, and she was not reassuring. 'Simeon has been looking particularly smug these past few months. He dresses in the latest fashions, wears expensive jewellery, and generally likes to show off how well he's doing.'

'Can't he be persuaded to be less conspicuous? If he keeps this up, sooner or later John's people will call him in for questioning.'

'I doubt it. Simeon thinks too highly of himself.'

'Couldn't Harald switch to using someone else on the Mese, a more discreet money changer, to handle the booty?'

'Simeon's the only man who would take the risk of Harald's monetary affairs.'

'What about those shifty-looking characters I sometimes see walking up and down the Mese in the financial zone, offering better rates for foreign exchange.'

Pelagia snorted with derision. 'I wouldn't advise Harald to deal with them. They're unlicensed traders. They're likely to run off with any valuables entrusted to them, or give back dud coins. And they don't have the resources to deal in the amounts that Harald brings in. Their working capital is in those grubby bags they carry about. At least Simeon has the iron table. That's what it symbolises: a metal surface on which you can bang suspect coins to hear whether they ring true. You had better tell your tall friend with the lopsided eyebrows to be very, very discreet whenever he brings any valuables to Simeon for exchanging into cash.'

My daily life, now that I was back with the Hetaira, reverted to its former pattern. There were the familiar drills and kit inspections, the regular rotation of guard duty — one week inside the Great Palace, the next week in barracks — and of course the endless parades. I found it truly tedious to spend hour after hour solemnly marching out from the palace to some great church, waiting outside for the service to finish, going back along the same route, and then having to clean up my equipment and prepare for the next ceremonial outing, which could be the next day.

Harald avoided most of this mind-numbing routine because he, Halldor and a few of his immediate followers were assigned to assist the exaktors. These were, as their name implies, the tax gatherers. How Harald got in with them is something I never learned, but later I came to realise that it was part of his own grand plan. There was certainly nothing unusual about a detachment of guards accompanying the exaktors. In fact it was a necessity. When the tax collectors set out from the capital to visit some area in the countryside that had been assessed, naturally the local inhabitants would be reluctant to pay up, so the exaktors took along an armed escort to bully the taxpayers into compliance. Few things were more terrifying to a local farmer than the menacing sight of foreign barbarians who were prepared to smash up his property if he did not pay his dues to the emperor — the arrival of a squad of Varangians was usually sufficient to loosen the purse strings. Harald, with his ferocious appearance, must have been particularly daunting, nor was he reluctant to resort to force, and that may be why he and his men were picked for the work.

Thus Harald and the others missed the bizarre event which surprised even someone as well informed as Pelagia: the proclamation that the Basileus and Empress Zoe were to have a son. Physically, of course, this was impossible. Zoe was now at least sixty years old, though as vain as ever, and Michael the Basileus was much too ill to procreate. Their son was to be by adoption. But what really stunned everyone was his identity. His only previous official role had been as commander of the Palace Guard, a purely nominal post for which he did nothing more than wear a gaudy uniform at palace ceremonials. Named Michael, just like the emperor, his father was that same Stephen who had plotted to have Maniakes recalled in disgrace, and his mother was the Basileus's sister. He was to be known by the title of Caesar, to signify that he was the heir to the imperial throne, and naturally John the Eunuch had made the choice. The Orphanotrophus knew that the sickly Basileus could die at any moment, and he was determined that the succession should stay within the family.

The actual ceremony of adoption was even more grotesque than when the youthful Basileus had married Zoe, who was old enough to be his mother. This time the ritual took place in the church of the Blachernae Palace and culminated with the new Caesar symbolically sitting down on the ageing Zoe's lap, so he could be acclaimed by the congregation of dignitaries and high officials as her 'son'.

A few days later I was crossing a courtyard on my way to the guardroom when I passed a middle-ranking official of the chancellery. His face seemed familiar, but I would have walked right past him if he had not stopped suddenly and said, 'Excuse me, aren't you the Greek-speaking Varangian who told me how Romanus drowned?'