After dinner enormous gold bowls – large enough for a man to bathe in – filled with figs, apples, grapes, melons and oranges, were brought into the hall on trolleys covered with purple cloth. One of the trolleys was halted at the centre of the Imperial table; directly above it three gilded cables with thick gold rings on the ends descended from the ceiling like golden snakes gliding out of the night. Eunuchs attached the rings to hooks on the sides of the bowl; a mechanism in the ceiling lifted the bowl, swung it over the heads of the Senators, and lowered it into place in the centre of the table. The rings were removed and the ropes slithered back into the dome.
The Nobilissimus Constantine appraised an apple thoughtfully, almost as if he could see his reflection in it. ‘I note,’ he said, his first words since he had spoken to Haraldr about the fish, ‘that the Pretender to the Caliphate is enjoying the hospitality of Rome yet again.’ Constantine nodded at the Saracen prince seated at a nearby table, one of several such exiled leaders maintained at the Imperial Court, in sumptuous style, as potential instruments of diplomacy. ‘How long has this noble son of Hagar been a guest here in Rome?’ Constantine looked directly at Joannes. ‘You would know, wouldn’t you, Brother, since you have been the principal distributor of the largesse he enjoys.’
Joannes’s ponderous head lifted and seemed to yaw very slightly as he stared back at Constantine. He said nothing in reply.
‘Consider the policy, Majesty,’ said Constantine, now addressing Michael. ‘The Orphanotrophus aspires to reclaim Tripoli from the Caliphate by the presence of a gilded camel driver at the court of Rome. He supports this rather oblique pursuit of our interests with the argument that the Imperial Taghmata is unavailable to offer more vigorous diplomacy, because the so recently humbled Bulgars are eternally restive.’ By the time he had completed these words, Constantine had an astonished audience of hushed Senators staring down the table at him; Senator Scylitzes, who had paused in his own discourses to sample a fig, set the half-eaten piece of fruit down as carefully as if it were a delicate piece of blown glass. ‘Majesty,’ Constantine continued, ‘I was rather more impressed by the policy you proposed concerning the governance of Bulgaria, one that would concurrently address the problem of the reduced strength and effectiveness of the Imperial Taghmata in other areas of strategic import.’
‘Indeed.’ Joannes’s voice had the same effect that the sound of the dome splitting might have had. The hush spread backwards through the room and within a few breaths the entire vast hall was silent. Even the eunuchs paused at their tasks, their glistening white forms rigid, as if they had suddenly turned to ice. ‘I am curious as to your musings on this subject, Nephew.’ Joannes’s head extended forward from his supine body like the bobbing head of a serpent.
And the Emperor looks like a rat transfixed by the serpent, thought Haraldr. Michael would never have the courage publicly to challenge Joannes. That was the problem.
‘Yes . . .yes . . .’Michael faltered, and glanced at Constantine, whose forehead had begun to bead with perspiration. ‘Yes.’ Michael cleared his throat and the entire assembly of dignitaries seemed to shift on their couches at once. ‘It … it is my thinking that the tax we now collect – or perhaps more often fail to collect – in Bulgaria is assessed in a manner that is injurious to our defence of that frontier and also deprives us of needed revenues.’ Michael seemed to have commanded his tongue, but his dark eyes were surrounded by gleaming whites, as if he were reading an order calling for his own execution. ‘It is customary among the Bulgar people to pay their taxes in kind with portions of their crops and herds, rather than to render payment directly in silver and gold, of which there is an acute shortage among the small farmers upon whom we rely for the preponderance of our revenues. The Bulgar-Slayer recognized this and allowed payments in kind in lieu of coin, the result being a steady flow of revenue and relatively little discontent over tax exactions among the subjugated people. The recent policy has been to abolish payments in kind and force collections in coin, which has actually decreased our revenues and inflamed sentiment against Rome, providing an opportunist like the Khan Alounsianus the necessary grievance to convince his people to rise against us. The net result, as I say, heaps predicament upon predicament. We lose the revenues needed to expand the Taghmatic regiments or employ suitable mercenary forces, while creating a situation that requires constant attention to our northern borders, at the added expense of our interests to the south.’
Joannes ruminated for a moment, his head tilting gently, and then his voice slurred out. ‘Indeed--’
‘Indeed,’ interrupted Constantine. ‘On the one hand we have our Emperor’s astute policy, and on the other the belch of a drunken monk who should perhaps consider returning to the cloister, where he might find the frontiers of his cenobite’s cell less demanding of his intellect than the far-flung polities that govern the fate of the Roman Empire.’
A Magister knocked over his goblet with a dull thud. Joannes’s head continued its sotted, marionette’s bob. Finally he spoke, his words more distorted by drink than Haraldr had heard even on that first night at Nicephorus Argyrus’s. ‘And what does our nephew think of this . . .suggestion.’
Michael’s eyes literally seemed to retreat from Joannes’s droopy-lidded stare. ‘I--I--’ he stammered, and stopped, his words fluttering from the dead air like birds struck with an arrow.
Constantine’s flushed brow glistened. Then he erupted. ‘His Majesty does not concern himself with appointments on the level of Orphanotrophus. He is concerned with matters that attend to the eternal glory of the Roman Empire and maintenance of Roman hegemony in a Christian world. He is quite above the petty intrigues generated by his servants.’
Joannes’s entire body coursed with sudden, remarkably supple energy, and his huge python head snapped to confront Constantine. ‘Make your accusation, Brother!’ he thundered, all trace of inebriation vanished from his voice.
Constantine’s smooth face was as red as if he had raced fifteen circuits in the Hippodrome. His glaring eyes made him look more like Joannes than he ever had before. He gripped his apple with a whitened fist. ‘Your secreting of our young cousin to the Empress City!’ The dome echoed with the shouts. ‘His elevation to Magisterial dignity without his presentation at court! This reeks of connivance, Brother!’ Constantine’s shoulders lifted as if he were straining to rise, but some fierce, contrary discipline kept him seated. ‘This reeks of treason.’
Joannes’s face flushed very slowly, like a corpse gradually revivifying. ‘Of course I have committed no treason, Brother.’ There was a remote edge of hysteria to his calm voice; not hysterical fear, but hysterical violence. ‘The Emperor himself signed the Chrysobull creating the dignity of Magister for his young cousin. I invite any of the esteemed dignitaries present to examine the document, which is now in the offices of the Parakoimomenos.’ And then he was on his feet. Goblets and platters clattered on the floor as Joannes’s huge black span milled wildly; the Emperor dived for the floor and clutched madly at the table-cloth, trying to shield his body with the stiff brocade. Haraldr had risen in virtual concert with Joannes, his quickly produced knife still held close to his forearm in a last hope he would not need it. Constantine had reflexively cringed from his brother’s sudden movement, but now he sat upright on his dining couch, his face so brilliant and glistening that one expected to see a cloud of steam around him. His jowls trembled slightly.
‘Let us discuss treason, Brother.’ Joannes’s even-toned menace held the entire hall transfixed; Haraldr stood almost at attention beside him, Constantine still sat, and the Emperor still cowered behind the tablecloth. ‘Let us discuss how you have already killed one emperor. Let us discuss how my Michael was destroyed by the burden he had to carry every day, the burden of his idiot brother-in-law and his pathetic, cringing nephew, and, most onerous of all, his corpulent, utterly incompetent brother, Constantine. Had he not carried all of you on his back each day, he would still be beside me. My Michael always despised you. He despised you for the way you sat on your fat arse in the cart that I pulled all the way from Amastris. But he never could hate you as I did. With every step I cursed every fibre of your bloated being. I prayed that you would no longer be useful to me, so that I could dump you in the gutter like so much offal. I prayed that for so long that I finally stopped praying.’ Joannes leaned forward; his boots creaked in the moment of silence. Constantine’s eyes were liquid with fright and pain; his lower lip protruded and twitched. Joannes’s next words were almost a whisper. ‘And now that God no longer listens, I find that my prayers have been answered.’ Joannes leapt across the table, his motion mirrored in Constantine’s recoiling eyes, but Haraldr gripped Joannes’s huge shovel pelvis and pulled him back. Joannes’s arms flapped frantically, but Haraldr easily pinned them. Haraldr embraced the struggling, deformed creature until he felt the violence rush out like air from a deflated bladder.