‘I grew up in Amastris, on the Black Sea. In circumstances, no doubt less auspicious than many of you enjoyed in your childhood; certainly no better. I was castrated at the age of six and educated by monks here in Constantinople.’ Joannes was speaking in a curious, conversational tone, as if these men were his intimates. ‘When I was thirteen, my tutors obligated me to become a monk like themselves, and I spent the next eight years in a monastery much like this, though not so grand. Not nearly so grand. When I left the monastery, I began work as a secretary in the office of the Sacellarius. By dint of unrelenting effort I have achieved the position of your Orphanotrophus. I like to think that my office in the Magnara basement, where I serve Rome, is much like the monk’s cell where as a boy I served . . . God.’ Joannes paused and seemed to reflect. ‘I will share with you a most curious particular about myself. Since I left the monastery where I spent my boyhood, I have not set foot in a monastic establishment of any kind. Until this evening. Until you forced me to take this step.’
Joannes shook his head sadly. His glimmering eyes fixed on the arcaded tiers of monks’ cells that rose behind his audience. ‘It was in a cell like these you see here, though hardly as splendid, that I first learned that numbers were my friends.’ There was now something quite strange, quite irregular about Joannes’s voice, even his choice of words; despite the low, mournful rumble, he seemed to be a small boy offering an exegesis. ‘I surrounded myself with these new friends, numbers that I chalked on my tablet and the floor of my cell, numbers that I conversed with in the refectory as I chewed my bread. Numbers filled me with delight. They explained to me that the burdens of each day, the unending sequence of fasts and prayers and sermons and chants, had meaning to them, and that they were pleased. And as I pleased my new friends I pleased myself. I knew a sinful joy, brothers, as my friends and I gratified one another.’
A smile flickered horribly. ‘I took my friends with me to the Magnara when I went to serve Rome. And there they explained to me the meaning of Rome, as they had explained the meaning of my previous service. But Rome was not as my friends wanted it to be. Rome was like this place you see here, abandoned and neglected, as random and disorderly as a brothel. So my friends and I set to work to make Rome a thing of order and beauty. And the harder we worked, the more Rome became a place of delight to us. But there were those who envied the beauty of what we had constructed, and these delinquents began to deface the perfection of our edifice. This vandalism distracted from the symmetry and grace of our creation, so that others could not enjoy the beauty of what we had done. So that we ourselves were distracted by their depredations.’
Joannes suddenly seemed twice as huge as his arms flew up, his great black shroud like the wings of a monstrous bird. ‘You are those vandals!’ he shrieked. ‘You are those delinquents who have brought the serpent of your chaos into the garden of my Rome! And your serpent’s name is Michael! Michael! Michael the gambler, Michael the speculator, Michael the idolator of unclean chance! Michael who has known the harlot who fouls all Rome!’
Joannes’s arms were at his side again, and his voice fell to its original, curiously familiar rumble. ‘I have brought you here, brothers, so that you may understand what it is my friends and I are building here in Rome. So that you may know that beauty, and become part of its perfection.’
Joannes signed to the Thracian guards, turned, and stalked swiftly towards the gate, his black frock billowing; it was as if he were the one desperate to escape the demon of this place.
‘Conservat Deus imperium vestrum,’ chanted the five white-robed voukaloi, the language of the ancient ‘Romans lifting with a clarion resonance into the golden dome of the Hall of Nineteen Couches. The voukaloi were eunuchs, and after the first few extended notes their smooth, pale cheeks puffed out and glowed like lanterns flickering on.
‘Bona tua semper,’ chanted the last voukalos in the line, his solo voice ringing out to challenge the echoes of the chorus.
‘Victor sis semplar,’ rang out the next.
‘Multos annos vitae.’
‘Victor facia semper.’
‘Deus praestet.’
Michael, Emperor, Autocrator and Basileus of the Romans, reclined on his couch at the head of the Imperial table. To the Emperor’s left was the Orphanotrophus, his ungainly, extended form a sleeping black beast perched on the crimson silk-upholstered dining couch. To the Emperor’s right reclined the Nobilissimus Constantine, resplendent in the purple pallium and scaramangium of his office. Next to the Orphanotrophus Joannes reclined the Hetairarch Haraldr Nordbrikt, placed there against the dictates of protocol at the request of the Emperor. Also at the request of the Emperor, the Hetairarch wore a dagger concealed within his scarlet scaramangium. The rest of the Emperor’s long, narrow table, as well as the eponymous Nineteen Couches arrayed beneath the great dome and in the abutting apses, were filled with the dignitaries of the Imperial Court, all attired as prescribed by protocol. Gold plates lit by the candelabra glittered at every setting.
The Imperial Chamberlains moved among the guests, pouring the wine into goblets fashioned of gold leaf set between layers of glass. Bibite, Domini Imperatores, in multos annos, Deus Omnipotens praestet,’ chanted the voukaloi in unison. ‘May ye lead a happy life, my lords,’ chanted the second voukalos in Greek. ‘Deus praestet,’ the first voukalos chanted in counterpoint; he inhaled deeply, and then, as the chamberlains began to water the wine from silver ewers, began again. ‘In gaudio prandete, Domini’
‘May ye be joyful while ye feast, master,’ concluded the second voukalos.’ Michael rose and gave the ceremonial toasts, and then more chants accompanied the presentation of the delicacies. Michael’s hand shook as he tried to spoon black caviar out of a silver dish; the eggs dribbled onto the gold-embroidered tablecloth in front of him. A eunuch whisked the little black pellets away, leaving an oily smear. The lesser dignitaries at the far end of the hall quickly grew raucous with the wine, but the Senators seated at the Emperor’s and nearby tables limited their conversation to nervous whispers. At the head of the table, the Emperor, the Nobilissimus and the Orphanotrophus made no attempt to converse with one another. After the serving of the fish course the Nobilissimus asked the Hetairarch if this particular type of flounder was found in Thule; Haraldr replied that he was not familiar with it, though it was hard to compare tastes when the fish was smothered in the omnipresent garos sauce. Three acrobats performed between the fish and meat courses – a burly man who balanced a long pole on his head and two boys who executed handstands and swings atop the pole, far up among the dazzling light clusters.
The Orphanotrophus seemed concerned only with ensuring that his goblet was filled as quickly as it was emptied, which was quickly indeed. Haraldr was soon certain, despite the fears Michael had professed to him earlier in the day, that Joannes was too drunk to be an effective assassin, and that his attack would take the more subtle form he had described at his town palace. Perhaps the dinner would pass without incident. Perhaps the differences between the Emperor and the Orphanotrophus could even be mediated at some point, in private. And Haraldr himself had not given up on coming to some agreement with the Orphanotrophus.