It was a dawn such as had inspired the Immortal Bard. This Aurora was not yellow-robed, however, but a cool pink flame that flickered above the domes of Chrysopolis, still tinted blue with night, and suffused her glow across the Bosporus to wrap the columns of the Imperial Palace in a mauve mist. Maria and Haraldr stood on the roof-top terrace of their town palace and watched the horizon flare in silence. The chill of early spring iced the thick clear air, and Maria slipped beneath Haraldr’s cloak and wrapped her arms tightly round him. The movement of the wagons, horses and litters on the streets below was strangely muffled, as if nature held sound in partial abeyance to celebrate the miracle of sunrise. The processions moved with the slowness of a dirge, the silken backs of uniformed retainers and the armour of the private guards still dulled by the dove-coloured shadows in the streets of Constantinople.
Maria inhaled audibly, announcing that she was about to shatter the peace of the morning. ‘Do you think any have remained?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Haraldr. He pointed to a large retinue of silk-clad eunuchs entering the intersection of the Mese and the Perama street two blocks to the south and west of Haraldr’s town palace. ‘Look. That is the standard of Tziporoles. He is one of the most moderate men in the Senate. One of the last I would have expected to follow Joannes.’ But follow him he had, like all the other Senators and most of the dignitaries above Spathar rank who were marching – accompanied by their obligatory retinues – out of the City to join Joannes at his country palace north of Galatea. Some were headed out of the gates for a long overland passage round the Golden Horn; most were wending their way through the streets to the Platea Harbour where the masts of their galleys had begun to blossom with signal flags.
‘Is there hope for the Emperor? For us?’ asked Maria.
‘Yes. I have already sent Halldor to seek out the Grand Domestic Camytzes and discuss the situation with him. Camytzes is an honourable man. There is a good chance he will use force, if necessary, to defend his Emperor against Joannes.’
‘And if he does not?’
‘There is still hope that Joannes will consider his display of strength sufficient warning and allow the Emperor to resign his office peacefully.’
‘And if the abdication is not peaceful?’ There was dread in Maria’s voice, and Haraldr remembered the look in Joannes’s eyes. That was why Camytzes was so important.
‘If the abdication is not peaceful, I will fight to protect the Emperor’s life. I am sworn to it.’ Haraldr’s voice was mechanical; he was describing a strategy already arrived at. ‘There is a good chance we can rescue the Emperor and escape with him. As reduced as our strength is, however, I cannot expect the Grand Hetairia to sit and trade blows with the Imperial Taghmata. Before the day is over, I will have arranged for you and the Empress to be escorted to the Bucoleon Harbour and taken to your villa. That is where we will meet you. And then we will sail north.’
‘The Empress will not give up her people to Joannes. And I cannot leave her to face Joannes alone. It is what I have sworn, not on my sword but in my heart.’
Haraldr held Maria tightly. "We should wait until we hear from Halldor before we sing the Valkyrja song. This may all end well.’ They turned to watch the procession again. After a moment they were interrupted by Haraldr’s Chamberlain, John.
The eunuch bowed. ‘I thought it important, sir. You have received a parcel from the Orphanotrophus Joannes.’
Haraldr and Maria looked at each other in surprise. ‘If he is sending me gifts,’ said Haraldr, ‘he may be more amenable to negotiation today than he seemed to be last night.’ He held Maria’s hand and followed the eunuch down the spiral staircase to the ground floor.
‘Where is it, John?’
‘In the ante-chamber – if you please, sir. It is quite a large clock.’
Haraldr followed John across the big hall. The water clock stood on the floor of the colonnaded chamber, a substantial piece of architecture in its own right, with brass columns as tall as a man’s waist and an intricate, temple-like facade.
‘It seems he does regret his impetuosity,’ said Haraldr. ‘Or perhaps this is merely his way of saying that time is running out for me to accept his offer.’ Haraldr sniffed curiously. ‘Smell that. Does it run on perfume or water?’ The clock smelled like a garden.
‘See if it has a message,’ said Maria. She pointed to the doors that seemed to open into the miniature temple. Haraldr stooped and pulled on the ornate little knobs. The doors opened.
‘Get the Mistress out of here!’ Haraldr shouted to John. ‘What is it?’ said Maria, her voice high and anxious. ‘Just leave!’ screamed Haraldr. Her face flushed; Maria allowed John to escort her out of the chamber.
Haraldr reached inside the little temple and removed the perfume-drenched contents. The features were intact. As he had feared, the head had once belonged to the Grand Domestic Isaac Camytzes.
‘Excellency!’ The Emperor’s voice echoed through the heavy gilded coffers of the Senate Chamber. ‘Sit still and listen to what others tell you, to those who are better men than you, you skulker and coward and thing of no account whatever in battle or counsel. Surely not all of us Achaians can be as kings here! Lordship for many is no good thing. Let there be one ruler, one king, to whom the son of devious-devising Kronos gives the sceptre and right of judgement, to watch over his people!’
Michael looked around at the empty Senatorial benches.
He wore the robes of his office as well as the Imperial Diadem. ‘A rather denotative selection from the Bard, is it not, you skulkers and cowards! Or should I say, my precious children.’ He stepped down from the Imperial Dais and strolled alongside the benches as if he were still haranguing his imaginary audience. ‘Yes, good sirs, in a few hours you will assemble here to learn of the new destiny I have modelled for our Empire! You will hear how the Orphanotrophus Joannes, who has mocked and reviled the architect of that destiny, and has afforded that noble Emperor the unprecedented affront of stalking unbidden from his Imperial dinner table, is no longer permitted to share the rewards of that destiny. Scurry now from your palaces, sirs, because the whirlwind of history and the sweet lyres of immortality await you!’ Michael’s face was as red as the blood-coloured streaks in the columns of Iasian marble that surrounded him. ‘Come forth, Rome, and greet your Father and worship your Deity!’
Michael breathed heavily and surged his loins so that his growing erection might be stroked by the heavy weight of his Imperial robes. His head snapped round when he heard footsteps at the end of the chamber. ‘Nobilissimus!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have extracted a passage from the Bard that shall place this day in both the annals of the chronologists and the rhetoricians!’ Michael set himself in a stance with one leg forward, pallium over his left arm, right arm gesturing heroically forth, much like the great statue of Constantine in the Forum. The stance collapsed when he observed his uncle’s grim, ash-grey countenance. ‘What … is it, Uncle?’
‘They are gone,’ said Constantine flatly. ‘All of them. The entire Senate, as well as the Logothete of the Dromus, the Quaestor, and of course the Sacellarius, have followed my brother into his self-imposed exile. They have taken many of their bureaux with them. The government has been eviscerated.’
Michael dropped slowly to his knees and then collapsed almost gracefully onto his side. When he revived a few moments later, he looked up at his uncle with glazed eyes for a long while. Finally he spoke in a scarcely audible whisper. ‘Uncle . . . what … do … we … do?’
‘Our response is quite basic,’ said Constantine, his face set like stone. ‘We draft a letter to the Orphanotrophus, begging him to return and rule Rome on our behalf.’