Tim Severin - King's Man

I did as Psellus recommended and spent the next month as a dutiful member of the Hetaira. Apart from the usual round of ceremonies, there was really very little work to do now that the Pechenegs were responsible for the emperor's personal safety. Former Life Guards gave a wide berth to the Pechenegs, whom we judged to be little more than professional cut-throats unworthy of the tradition of the Hetaira. Their loyalty was only to Michael himself, while our Varangian tradition had been to serve whoever was the legally recognised emperor. In consequence I had ample time to spend with Pelagia, and I must admit that I was finding her style of life increasingly agreeable. Like many people who have worked their way from humble beginnings, she knew how to run an efficient household. As a former baker's wife, she had clear ideas about what should be served at her table, whether it was the quality of the ingredients or the way the food should be cooked. Never in all my life had I eaten so well. Her kitchen staff prepared poultry marinated in wine and stuffed with almonds, served caviar followed by fresh cuts of sturgeon, wild game cooked in olive and garlic, and rich casseroles of pigeon. Most meals concluded with something sweet flavoured with cinnamon, Pelagia's particular favourite. After such banquets I found it necessary to stroll in the garden to aid my digestion, as my stomach was protesting so noisily. One afternoon Pelagia made a joke of it.

'You should make a living in the market. Set up your pitch among the snake charmers and the showmen with their performing dogs, and tell fortunes as a stomach talker. They claim that their rumbling guts speak of the future in the same way the brontolo-gists say that they can interpret the meaning of the thunder claps. Mind you, with the din your stomach makes, I'm not sure to which group you should belong.'

'Where I come from,' I answered huffily, 'we believe that thunder is nothing more than the sound of one of our Gods driving his chariot through the sky. It doesn't signify anything.' I belched as discreetly as possible. 'But we do believe it is possible to read the future in dreams or by reading signs in the sky, the movements of birds and smoke, or by casting certain sticks carved with mystic signs.'

'Civilised or barbarian, everyone believes in the significance of dreams,' observed Pelagia, trying to placate me. 'Entire books have been written about how to do it, though I've never read any of them.'

'There was a time when I used to dream a lot,' I told her. 'And I had the occasional vision which foretold the future, though this was difficult to interpret. Yet since I arrived in Constantinople, I've not had a single prophetic vision, and it's only after a particularly rich meal like that roast peacock with pistachio sauce we had yesterday that I have even dreamed.'

'And what was in that peacock dream?' Pelagia enquired, grinning.

'More a nightmare, really,' I said. 'The Varangians were back on duty as the Life Guard, instead of the Pechenegs, and we were escorting Michael to the throne room. They were all there — the empress Zoe, his uncle Constantine, even the Orphanotrophus. They all stood around and stared at us. They were looking at the state of the Basileus's robes. I remember thinking to myself that the vestitores who dressed him were playing a joke. They had given him to wear a chlamys, the imperial cloak, which was in rags. It also needed a good wash—'

I stopped in mid-sentence because Pelagia had laid her hand on my arm. 'Don't go on,' she said quietly but firmly, 'I don't want to hear any more.'

'Nothing much happened after that in my dream.'

'I know next to nothing about oneirokritika, the science of interpreting dreams,' Pelagia murmured, 'but I do know that the appearance of the Basileus wearing a dirty or threadbare chlamys means the end of his reign is at hand.' She paused. 'Perhaps even the collapse of his dynasty.'

EIGHT

FIVE WEEKS AFTER the elimination of the Orphanotrophus, Michael lashed out once more. A platoon of his eunuch guards burst into the gynaeceum, sheared off Zoe's hair, and forced the empress to put on a nun's black habit. Then they bustled the old lady out of the palace and hurried her down to the Bucephalon harbour where a ship was waiting to carry her to the Prinkipio Islands, half a day's sail away and a traditional place of exile for unwanted members of the royal family. There the Pechenegs handed Zoe over to a nunnery.

The kidnap would have been successful if Michael had not over-reached himself. Alexis the Patriarch had long dabbled in politics and was known to be a supporter of Zoe, whose marriage to the previous emperor he had solemnised. Michael, intending to remove any potential source of dissent, sent four Pechenegs to lure Alexis from the monastery of the Studius. They took a gift of gold and an invitation for Alexis to attend a meeting with the Basileus. The intention was that the gold would lull the Patriarch's suspicions that he might be the next victim of Michael's megalomania, but it had the opposite effect. Alexis fled the monastery, and instead of going to the rendezvous, where Michael had an assassination squad of eunuchs waiting, he went to the church of Hagia Sophia, summoned the senior officials of

the administration, and denounced the Basileus as unworthy of the throne.

The first that I and the other Varangians idling in our guardroom knew of these events was when we heard the bells. It began with the great bell of Hagia Sophia sounding out an urgent alarm. Then, as the news spread across the capital, dozens of monasteries and churches joined in. The noise was extraordinary, a massive, constant tolling that reverberated through the city, rolled out across the suburbs, and grew louder and more insistent. The walls of the guardroom seemed to vibrate with the noise. Such a signal was given only when Constantinople was under dire threat, and the citizens poured out into the streets to demand what was happening. The Basileus, they were told by their priests, had tried to kill the Patriarch, and had banished Zoe, representative of the true line of emperors. The Basileus was wickedness personified, and unless he was curbed, he would bring ruin on the city.

The citizenry were puzzled and anxious, not knowing whether to believe the priests or stay loyal to Michael. Some went to the churches to enquire further and to pray; others flocked towards the Great Palace to demand an explanation from the emperor. He sent his most senior representative, the sebastokrator, to address them in the Forum of Constantine and, because the Pechenegs were held back to protect the emperor himself, the sebastokrator took with him a Varangian escort. Halfdan, myself and twenty others marched along the Mese to the Forum with the sebastokrator in our midst and the clamour of the bells pounding in our ears.

The great square of Constantine was packed when we arrived. I saw shopkeepers, ironworkers, beggars, cutlers, carpenters, tilers, masons, stevedores and fishermen. There were also a surprisingly large number of women and children.

The sebastokrator stood on a mounting block and began to address the crowd, shouting to make himself heard over the noise of the bells. His listeners were attentive, though sullen. Zoe the empress had been banished, he shouted, because she was a poisoner. It was better that she was placed where she could do no further harm. Listening, I thought to myself that it was possible that Zoe had poisoned poor bloated Romanus, whom I had seen drown, and that she had done away with her second husband, Michael, whom I had also witnessed dying agonised in the monastery. But claiming that Zoe was involved in a plot to poison the present Basileus seemed highly unlikely.