Joannes turned to Haraldr. His eyes were incredible, repulsive; they seemed to squirm within their dark pits, as if dozens of tiny, silvery maggots worked in the skeletal sockets. ‘So you are one of them,’ he hissed. He stepped away from Haraldr and surveyed the virtually motionless, utterly silent Senators for a long moment. Finally he turned as if to leave. He did not look at Constantine, but he glanced down at the Emperor, who now sat staring distantly, seemingly without orientation, as if he were a man who had suddenly found himself floating high in the air, with no clue as to how he had got there. Then, in violation of all prescribed protocol, Joannes walked away, unexcused, his arms at his sides, from the Emperor’s table. His boots rattled like drums on the marble floor.
Constantine looked after Joannes’s disappearing black back. He blinked his eyes as if quickly and stoically settling with some great torment. When the sound of Joannes’s boots had faded, Constantine raised his apple to his mouth and took a bite that was audible throughout the silent hall.
The main storeroom at the Kauleas Monastery was a long, vaulted chamber; much of the plaster had peeled away to reveal the fine, almost delicate brickwork that had created this massive, almost brutal architecture The scored stone floor had been freshly swept. The storeroom contained hundreds of large earthenware jars, as tall as a man’s waist, stacked in perfect rows against the long wall. The jars were all new, the immaculate, lightly textured terracotta surfaces so vivid that they seemed to be living tissue, like great ripe melons. Each was sealed with a lead sheet, to preserve their contents for eons.
The Orphanotrophus Joannes had convened the Senate of Imperial Rome in this storeroom. The location was not according to prescribed practice or protocol, nor was the manner in which many of the Senators had been summoned, pulled from their beds in the middle of the night by soldiers of the Imperial Taghmata. Now they stood, wrapped in their cloaks against the chill of the dank interior, and listened to the reason for this extraordinary convocation.
The light of the tapers threw Joannes’s shadow across the rows of terracotta jars. ‘Brothers,’ he said, his tone as brusque as his greeting, ‘an extraordinary treason was revealed this evening. Evidence gathered by our Logothete of the Dromus’ – Joannes gestured at the rodent-faced Logothete, who stood with the Dhynatoi Senators of the Attalietes clique – ‘has proven beyond doubt that our beloved Emperor Michael, the late and lamented Michael, may the Pantocrator keep his soul, was in fact poisoned by his own brother, the Nobilissimus Constantine. Having murdered our beloved Emperor Michael, the felon Constantine has now corrupted the other Michael and promises to lure our new Emperor into errancies that threaten the foundations of Rome’s thousand-year Imperium.’
The Dhynatoi growled in an obedient chorus. ‘How can we stop them, Orphanotrophus? What will you do?’
Joannes nodded gravely at the clearly previously solicited questions. ‘It has occurred to me that the agent of our peril is this considerable ambiguity as to who rules Rome. In their confusion, many of the people have come to view as their saviour this false Emperor, who is only leading them into perdition. I intend to make a gesture in which you are all invited to participate.’ The Dhynatoi Senators rumbled with grateful anticipation. ‘I intend to retire to my country home outside Galatea. In this way I will manifest my refusal to collaborate with the traitors. I am inviting all of the ranking dignitaries of our illustrious Imperial Administration to join me in that gesture of profound outrage. The people will quickly perceive the enormous consequence of allowing the treasonous Nobilissimus and his puppet Emperor to preside over our Imperium. The Emperor will be forced to supplicate our prompt return in order to preserve his own life amid the chaos of our untended city. And return we shall, on the condition that the Emperor acknowledges his criminally negligent congress with Rome’s enemies and resigns his office.’
The shouts of approval from the Dhynatoi chorus rang in the vaults. When the echoes had faded, a single voice emerged. ‘Where is this evidence of the Nobilissimus’s treason?’ The speaker was Theodore Tziporoles, the leader of the moderate faction in the Senate. He was a small, balding man, with intense, perpetually questioning Asiatic features.
‘The Quaestor will deliver the indictment to my home in the morning. You are welcome to study it there.’
Tziporoles sniffed fearlessly and looked at the soldier standing next to him. ‘Has this evidence been presented to the command of the Imperial Taghmata? I think that the Grand Domestic Camytzes will want to read this indictment before he commits his forces to the usurpation of his Emperor.’
‘Camytzes no longer commands the Imperial Taghmata. He resigned his position as Grand Domestic a short time ago.’
Tziporoles was visibly shaken, but he composed his fierce features. ‘You realize that you are inviting a bloodbath in the streets of the city? The small merchants and tradesmen will oppose even the Imperial Taghmata in defence of the Emperor who has brought them so much prosperity.’
‘I have spoken to the leaders of this faction,’ said Joannes. ‘They will not oppose the resignation of their benighted Emperor. I will let you speak to them.’ Joannes’s eyes again had that curious, squirming animation. His voice was slightly distorted, as if he had a small bone lodged in his throat.
‘This is madness,’ said Tziporoles. He was clearly more apprehensive about staying than making a motion to leave. ‘I regretfully decline your invitation, Orphanotrophus.’ As he turned to go, Joannes snapped at the soldiers and several of them blocked his exit. He turned frantically to face Joannes.
‘Talk to them!’ thundered Joannes. ‘Talk to them! They have been persuaded to join us! Soon they will all join us! We stand on the threshold of Rome’s perfection, and only a handful of miscreants remain to deface that splendid creation. Talk to them!’ As the Senators watched raptly, Joannes grabbed a spear from the hands of one of the soldiers. In a mighty motion he rammed the butt end into one of the terracotta jars. A thick, yellowish oil spouted from the rupture. Joannes continued to shatter the vessel, and in a moment something white slithered out. A human arm. As Joannes battered the jar to shards, additional limbs slid out like giant albino eels. The head tumbled onto the floor and came to rest near Tziporoles’s feet. Tziporoles’s face was paler than the noseless visage that looked up at him.
‘If you cannot hear this man’s petition to reason, Tziporoles, I can offer you a chorus.’ Joannes gestured at the rows of jars. Then he prodded the oil-soaked, disembodied head with his spear and looked directly at the stunned Senator. ‘His eloquence would shame the ancients, would it not?’