‘Nobilissimus!’ Michael held out his hand to his Uncle Constantine and with the other gestured towards the outdoor polo field; one of his portable thrones had been erected along the east border of the broad green lawn, just in front of the salmon-tinted porticoes of the Imperial Apartments. ‘Look! Look! Look!’ screamed Michael, rising to his feet, the pitch of his voice steadily ascending in accompaniment. ‘Glycas is driving!’ A pack of horsemen in short riding tunics – either blue or red – thundered past in pursuit of a small red wooden ball; they came so close to the Imperial Throne that bits of earth showered the attending Senators. A bearded man in a red tunic, mounted on a nimble, fairly small Arabian, charged out ahead of the pack. He raised his mallet like a battle standard as he drew even with the slowing ball, whirled the slender wooden shaft, and with a cracking report sent a red blur flying between two marble pylons at the north end of the field. ‘Glycas has scored!’ screamed Michael. He leapt onto the grass and applauded as Glycas galloped past in the other direction.
‘Majesty,’ said Constantine with a certain urgency. As if his ceremonial title of Nobilissimus had actually imbued him with the qualities it suggested, Constantine seemed to have lost much of his pudginess, and his eyes were tougher and more incisive.
‘Yes, Nobilissimus!’ said Michael grandly, as if he were the Deity complimenting himself on one of His own creations, which in a sense he was. ‘Did I tell you, Uncle, that I am conducting a pentathlon on our Lord’s Day this week? I would compete myself, but as you know, these affairs of state are inimicable to the preparation required for athletic performance. I intend to make a few tosses of the javelin, however.’ Michael reared his arm back and flung an imaginary spear.
Constantine drew Michael away from the body of Senators and eunuchs, who, with discretion inspired by the obvious relationship between Emperor and Nobilissimus, allowed the pair their privacy. Constantine pulled a rolled document out of his cloak, opened it, and displayed the purple-tinted paper to Michael. This is your signature, is it not, Majesty?’ He pointed to the scarlet script, beneath which a coin-like gold seal dangled from a silk cord.
‘Yes, my signature, my seal, Uncle,’ said Michael blithely. ‘That is the Imperial Chrysobull to create a Magister that I signed two days ago. Magisters? Magpies, I say. Let them flock to my court. I have discovered the real power in Rome and am not concerned when these dignitaries protest that I have reduced the worth of their august titles by creating too many of like value. Yes, let the Magister-magpies flock. It is the offices of state, not the ceremonial titles that are important. And I can assure you, Uncle, that I take those appointments seriously.’
‘I am not criticizing your performance, Majesty,’ said Constantine, aware that his nephew was far more keen than anyone suspected. Perhaps too keen, as it was turning out. ‘I am directing your attention not to an error on your part but to a perfidy on the part of an officer of state.’
Michael took the document and studied it carefully for a while. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know this particular Constantine whatever,’ said Michael. ‘You are the only Constantine who concerns me.’
Constantine looked grimly at Michael. ‘This particular Constantine, now Magister of Rome, is a distant cousin of yours. He is my uncle’s grandson. A month ago he was a wool carder in Amastris. Your other uncle has him ensconced in the same villa in which you were housed as the Caesar.’
Michael’s face had grown progressively whiter; now it had the colour of a linen sheet. His knees wobbled and Constantine had to steady him. ‘Nephew, Nephew,’ whispered Constantine, ‘this is not a defeat. It simply means that you have proven yourself too able, too popular with the people. It is Joannes who is frightened of you.’
Michael controlled himself sufficiently to speak. ‘Uncle, w-we are not strong enough to act yet. I realize that my backing among the tradesmen and lesser merchants is … profound. But Joannes has the allegiance of the Senate, the Dhynatoi and the great merchants, and lately he has mollified the rabble of the Studion to the extent that they would not rise against him. I am between Scylla and Charybdis, so to speak.’
Constantine clasped Michael’s shoulders. ‘No. You forget that the Empress is also your ally, and she could check any attempt by Joannes to rally the Studion against you. So we can presume that the rabble will remain neutral in this conflict. The great merchants have considerable resources and influence, but the small merchants and tradesmen have vastly greater numbers. So we are still even. The Dhynatoi in the Senate, of course, will go with Joannes. But the rest of the Senate may not. If we can maintain a small cadre of moderate Senators behind us in the beginning, I think we can achieve success.’
Michael’s eyes were glazed and his voice automatic, but the colour had returned to his face. ‘Shall I begin persuading our Senators?’
‘No, we haven’t time for that. Tell the Empress what we are about. And then we must begin.’
Michael looked at Constantine with the expression of a man peering over a very sheer precipice. ‘Uncle,’ he whispered, ‘can we do this?’
‘We must,’ said Constantine.
‘Hetairarch Haraldr!’ Joannes swept through the empty entrance hall of his immense town palace. ‘You see that I am not quite settled in.’ He pointed to the high coffered ceiling. ‘I haven’t even had the lights installed yet.’ He took Haraldr’s arm and led him towards the marble staircase. ‘I spend so little time with these comforts, but I feel I must not neglect the property.’
Neglect the property? thought Haraldr. Is that why the craftsmen I saw out in the front were reinforcing your gate, and why I heard your private guard drilling in the yard? Apparently the Orphanotrophus intends to concede the palace to the Emperor and wage his siege from here.
The second-storey loggia was flooded with light streaming into the central court; the white Proconnesian marble pillars had a brilliant golden glow where the direct sunlight struck them. Joannes pointed to the courtyard below. Several hundred Thracian guardsmen thrust their swords at wicker dummies set in long, perfect rows. ‘You know what is about, Hetairarch, so I will not trouble you with ingratiating preludes. I am going to confront the Emperor with his crimes against the people and instruct the Senate to propose a successor to him.’
Haraldr was in fact stunned by the directness of the appeal; he silently complimented Joannes on the skill and swiftness of the thrust. ‘In Rome the Emperor is the law,’ countered Haraldr. ‘How can you move legally against him?’
Joannes eyed Haraldr with respect. ‘You know that in Rome the law has many interpretations. I believe that the Senate and the common folk will find my interpretation satisfies their earnest desire for legal propriety. Of course, I will have to instruct the middle class in these new legal statutes.’
‘And you would like the Grand Hetairia to assist you in this instruction?’
Joannes’s face contorted with his hideous grin. You are a Roman, Hetairarch. Name your price.’
‘You may find it more onerous than you can bear, Orphanotrophus.’ Haraldr’s voice was sufficiently grim to shadow Joannes’s face. ‘First, I want you to understand that this instruction would consist of enforcing civil order, not punishing these small merchants and tradesmen for their support of Michael. Secondly, I would have a public pledge of your guarantee of the safety, happiness and well-being of the purple-born Empress Zoe. Finally, I want you to understand that I will protect the life, if not the office, of the Emperor Michael with my own life. I want a preservation of some honour for him, as well as a role for him, in the future administration of Rome. He has much to offer his people.’