Tim Severin - King's Man

'There are,' I said, 'but they are back near the Bronze Gate, awaiting orders, and frankly I'm not sure that they will obey them. Please tell me what is going on. Why aren't the household troops defending the palace more actively, and why hasn't the mob launched an all-out attack?'

'The emperor has renounced his title,' said Psellus urbanely. 'He wishes to retire to a life of peaceful contemplation. He is to become a monk.'

I must have looked dumbfounded, because Psellus went on, 'he has abdicated in favour of his "mother", the empress Zoe, and her sister, the empress Theodora.'

'But I thought that Theodora was in a nunnery.'

'Until yesterday evening,' said Psellus. 'The Patriarch Alexis suggested that she should renounce her vows and enter political life. She is, after all, born to the purple. To Theodora's credit she resisted the idea at first, but was eventually persuaded. The Patriarch crowned her empress a few minutes after midnight. I expect that she and her sister Zoe will be co-rulers of the empire of the Romans as soon as they can come to a suitable arrangement.'

'What about Michael? Where is he now?' My mind was in a whirl as I tried to grasp the sudden change in the politics of imperial rule.

'Close by, and that is why I am so pleased to see you and your colleague. Michael and his uncle, the Nobelissimus, are awaiting immediate departure to the monastery of the Studius.'

By this stage my mind was reeling. 'But isn't the Studius monastery the residence of the Patriarch Alexis? And wasn't he the man who led the uprising against the Basileus?'

'Thorgils, for a barbarian you are unusually well informed. However, the Studius monastery is the only one which the former Basileus can reach without being molested by the mob, which, as you have observed, is baying for his blood. From the Bucephalon harbour he can reach the monastery by boat before the crowd knows that he has departed. I presume that you can handle a small boat.'

'Of course.'

'There will be only three passengers: Michael, his uncle Constantine, and a chamberlain. The rest of his staff will go on foot to the monastery, discreetly and in small groups, so that they can arrange Michael's reception. In recent weeks I have been privileged to act as the Basileus's private secretary, so I see it as my duty to intercede on his behalf with the new empresses and organise a smooth handover of the imperial government. As soon as I have their majesties' decision, I will come to the monastery with the news. In the meantime I know that I can trust you and your colleague to transport their highnesses safely to the Studius.'

So that is how it came about that I, Thorgils Leifsson, and my company commander, Halfdan, became a boat crew for the former Basileus, Michael V, as he evaded capture by the mob of Constantinople. It felt strange to be rowing a man who, only the previous day, had been considered semi-divine, so that even his closest attendants were obliged to wear gloves when approaching his presence in case they touched his consecrated flesh. Now he and his uncle, disguised as simple monks, sat an arm's length away in the stern of the small rowing boat we commandeered for the short journey. Their chamberlain was in the bows, directing our course as we picked our way between the mass of fishing boats and the cargo ships at anchor off the city. It seemed that all their crews were ashore, joining the insurrection.

Throughout our brief journey Michael kept his head down, staring silently into the bilge of the boat, and I noticed that water was soaking into his purple boots, which he had not yet removed. His uncle, by contrast, took a more intelligent interest in our surroundings. Surreptitiously I watched him as I heaved on the loom of the oar. There was no mistaking his resemblance to his brother, the Orphanotrophus. They both had the same deep-sunk eyes and shrewd gaze, and they shared an aura of knowing exactly how to set about obtaining what they wanted. What a remarkably talented family, I thought to myself. It had supplied an emperor, a Nobelissimus, and, in the Orphanotrophus, a gifted civil administrator. The mob was wrong to dismiss them as nobodies. The family were adventurers, certainly, but no more so than the giant Maniakes whom the citizenry adored. Only Michael the nephew, sitting in a fog of self-pity, had let them down. He had thrown away his inheritance through inexperience in the wielding of power and his unbridled ambition.

The chamberlain called out that we were to steer for shore. Glancing over my shoulder I saw that we were level with the Studius monastery. Its massive walls of red and grey brick loomed over the landing place, a complex of chapels and cloisters crowned by an array of tiled domes, each topped by a cross. The monastery had its own landing steps, and Halfdan and I grabbed on to the mooring chains as our passengers disembarked. By force of habit I refrained from reaching out and touching the ex-Basileus, even when he slipped on the weed-covered steps and nearly fell.

A reception party of monks and courtiers was waiting, and they ushered the two men away.

'Tie up the boat,' the chamberlain ordered, 'and accompany their highnesses. You may be needed.'

Halfdan and I followed the little group into the monastery and then on to the great chapel, entering through a side door half hidden within an angle of the wall.

I gazed around me with interest. The main worship hall was certainly impressive. Above my head rose a great dome, lined with mosaics. Staring down at me from within the vault was a gigantic image of the White Christ, gaunt and stern, with great dark eyes. He looked stiff and sad. In one hand he held his holy book; the other hand was held up in what I supposed was a gesture of blessing or admonition. The light from hundreds of candles in iron holders suspended by chains flickered across his severe expression. The dome rested on great pillars from which hung wooden boards painted with images of the White Christ's most famous followers. The windows were small and set high up in the building, and the shafts of light reached only the upper part of the huge chamber. At ground level illumination depended on many more candles set in huge candlesticks, some as tall as a man, some arranged in banks of at least a hundred at a time. The general impression was of darkness and shadow interspersed with pools of radiant light. The air smelled strongly of incense. At the far end of the church stood the altar, and on each side were yet more masses of candles, as well as two carved and gilded wooden platforms where I supposed the priests of the White Christ stood during their devotions. These two platforms were now occupied by several dozen courtiers, monks, and various bureaucrats. I was reminded of the audience who, in a market square, clamber up on carts to get a better view when jugglers or hucksters perform. They were all looking at Michael and his uncle Constantine as they crossed the floor of the church towards the altar itself.

'I claim the sanctuary of the monastery!' Michael cried out shrilly. He reached the altar and turned towards a monk standing a little in advance of his fellows. The man was, I presumed, the chief priest.

'I claim sanctuary,' Michael repeated, 'and wish to offer myself humbly to the service of our Lord.'

There was a long, long silence, and then the shadows all around the sides of the chapel moved. The walls, I realised, were lined with men. They had been standing there waiting silently, whether in respect or in ambush I could not tell. They stood three or four deep, and now they produced an exasperated sound, a collective, angry muttering. Peering into the shadows I saw that several hundred of the citizens of Constantinople were already in the chapel. They must have been told, or guessed, where the ex-Basileus and his uncle had been heading when they left the palace, and they had got here before us.