Tim Severin - King's Man

'That's right,' I answered, recognising the young man who had interviewed me on the day of the funeral parade. 'You're Constantine Psellus. You seem to have come a long way since you were a young student watching a funeral parade. I congratulate you.'

'You're beginning to sound like a courtier yourself. This time you must tell me your name.' 'Thorgils Leifsson.'

'Obviously you're still with the Palace Guard.'

'Back with the guard, more correctly, after service in Sicily.'

'So you know what this new Caesar is like? After all, he is, or was, your commanding officer.'

I hesitated, and Psellus said softly, 'You may speak freely. This is an opinion for posterity. I'm still compiling notes for my history of the rulers of the empire.'

Once again his frank approach won my confidence. 'Well,' I admitted, 'from the little I've seen of him, the Caesar is vindictive and shallow. His one true talent is that he is superlative at hiding his true feelings.'

'Sounds as though he was an excellent choice for the throne,' said Psellus with irony. 'I'll make a bargain with you, Thorgils. As a guardsman you sometimes see things which we outsiders never get to witness. If you'll be so kind as to keep me informed about what is going on behind the scenes, I won't forget you when the time comes - as it surely will - that you need a friend within the bureaucracy.' And he hurried on his way.

Over the next few months, there was little I could tell Psellus that he would not have observed for himself. Michael's health was in rapid decline. His limbs swelled, bloating so that his fingers became as thick as sausages. To hide his physical deterioration from public gaze, the Basileus spent less time in the city, and withdrew to his country residence. He left behind the usual intrigues inside the palace, which grew more viperish as it became evident that he did not have long to live. John the Eunuch still held the real power, but some courtiers began to pander to the young Caesar, preparing for the day when he mounted the throne. Other sycophants coalesced around his favourite uncle, Constantine, another of the Orphanotrophus's brothers. A few diehards again paid attention to the empress Zoe, though she was still confined to the gynaeceum, the women's quarters, and the Basileus had cut off her allowance so she was living in near poverty. No one trusted anyone else, and there was a growing sense that the whole structure of government was on the verge of collapse.

I came to appreciate how far the decay had spread when an official arrived in the guardroom late one December evening. He was out of breath and flustered.

'I'm looking for the guardsman Thorgils,' he announced.

"What can I do for you?' I asked.

The man looked nervously at the other off-duty guardsmen,who were watching him with open curiosity.

'You are to select one reliable colleague,' he said. 'Bring heavy cloaks, and accompany me.'

I glanced at Halfdan. 'Take Lars with you,' he ordered.

Lars was a stolid guardsman who had been with the Hetaira almost as long as Halfdan himself. Lars and I gathered up our weapons, and the official took us, half running, to the office of John the Eunuch. We found him dressed in his monk's clothes and ready to leave the palace.

'You are to accompany me as an escort in case of trouble,' said John. 'Be discreet, conceal your uniforms, and you may leave your axes behind. Swords hidden under your cloaks will be sufficient.'

We slipped out of the palace through one of the minor gates, where the doorkeepers were clearly expecting us, and hurried through the streets of the city. We kept to alleys and side streets, but I recognised the direction we were taking. It was towards the area known as the Venetian quarter because of the number of foreign merchants, mostly Italians, residing there. It was also the district of several of Constantinople's most important monasteries, and when we stopped and knocked on the wooden doors to one of them, I knew that we stood before the gate of the monastery known locally as the Kosmidion. It was the same monastery which the Basileus had funded so generously because it was dedicated to the doctor saints, Cosmas and Damian.

A grim-looking monk let us in without a word and ushered us along several stone-flagged corridors. In the background I heard chanting, and, as we turned a corner, I detected the hurried withdrawal of some cowled figures who had been waiting in the shadows, curious to see who the visitors were at such a late hour. Finally we came to the door of an ordinary monk's cell. The door stood open. Inside, on a simple cot, lay the Basileus.

I recognised him by his gross and swollen hands, for he was wearing not the clothes of an emperor, but the simple black tunic of a monk. Also, his head had been shaved in a tonsure: I could still see the nicks and cuts where the work had been done hurriedly and very recently. The Basileus looked truly ghastly, and I had no doubt that he had only a few hours left to live.

'Watch the door and passage,' snapped the Orphanotrophus. 'Let no one in.'

He appeared genuinely distressed at the sight of his sickly brother. He stepped into the room, and I had a glimpse of him dropping to his knees beside the bed and embracing the invalid before I turned my back and stared down the passageway. Behind me I heard John croon comforting words to the man whom he had manoeuvred on to the throne of the empire. I found it difficult to believe that the young and handsome courtier who had married Zoe was now the bloated and sweating wreck who lay on the cot behind me.

Nothing could be kept secret in the palace, least of all the disappearance of the emperor. At dawn we had our first visitors: the new Caesar Michael and his uncle Constantine arrived. By then the Basileus was in great pain, and the Orphanotrophus allowed them to stay only for a short time before ordering them to leave. Two physicans, one from the monastery infirmary, the other from the palace, came and attempted to relieve the patient's suffering with pain-killing drugs. Then I heard the Basileus shout aloud that he wanted to die like his Lord, in agony, and the Orphanotrophus ordered me to no longer let the physicians pass. One monk at a time was to be allowed into the cell, where he could pray tor the invalid's soul. The rest of the brethren were to say their prayers for him in their chapel.

Lars and I guarded the dreary corridor for twenty hours without a break, cooped up in the heart of the monastery complex, hearing only the shuffle of feet, the moaning of the Basileus, and the muttered prayers for the sick and dying. The strangest interlude was when the empress herself appeared in the passageway, demanding to see her husband. The doorkeepers of the monastery had let Zoe in — she was, after all, the emperor's wife - but Lars and I obeyed orders and blocked her path until John the Eunuch heard her protests and came out to see what was going on.

'Tell my husband that I want to see him,' begged Zoe.

The Orphanotrophus went back inside for a few moments, then reappeared.

'He does not wish to see you,' he said to Zoe in a flat tone. 'He asks that you go away.'

Zoe clenched her hands and looked miserable.

'Go away,' John repeated, 'otherwise I'll have the guards throw you out.'

Fortunately, for I would not have relished bundling the old woman down the corridor, Zoe turned and left. As I watched her walk away, the smell of the aged empress's musk perfume lingered in the still air of the passageway, and I remembered how she had looked upon the corpse of her first husband as he lay cold on the marble bench by the swimming pool, and wondered if she could have known that events would come to this gruesome conclusion.

At about noon the Basileus must have recovered his strength, for I heard him ask whether it was time for the midday service. He announced that, as a monk, it was his duty to attend. Then came an outburst of petulance. Trying to get up from the cot, he found that no one had provided him with the suitable monk's sandals; beside his cot were the purple boots that only the reigning emperor might wear, and he refused to put them on. Two of the monks came to fetch him, and physically carried him to the chapel, barefoot. When they brought him back an hour later, hanging between them, Michael was scarcely breathing. They took him into the cell, laid him on the bed, then left. After that there was a long silence, and then I heard nothing more. Basileus Michael had died.