Michael nodded, indicating that he had received the Senate’s blessing with pleasure, and that the Senators should now come forward to kiss his knees. As the procession of supplicants went on to the shuffling of slippers and the rustling of silk, Michael and the Pantocrator discussed their mothers. You came to Your Mother, Your Maria, in the form of the Holy Spirit, remarked the Emperor. And so it was that you begat yourself by Your own Mother. I will visit my mother, my Maria, with my holy essence and beget myself again and again, through the centuries that Rome will rule the earth, until we call down the Final Judgement, and then together You and I will sit side by side again, in our golden throne in New Jerusalem. And I shall know Your Mother, and You shall know mine, and together we shall beget eternity from their loins.
Michael noticed that the Senators were leaving en masse, their hands crossed over their breasts. He nodded them out of the vast doors at the end of the chamber. When he was finally alone with his eunuchs, his seraphim and cherubim, he rose from his throne, descended from the dais, and danced in little circles on the floor.
Mar Hunrodarson was awakened two hours after sunrise by his second in command Gris Knutson, who had replaced Thorvald Ostenson while Ostenson conducted crucial business in Rus. Mar arose and slipped the ceremonial tunic of Droungarios over his head. Bianca Maria, the twelve-year-old virgin with whom Mar had chastely spent many of the nights of his exile in Italia, stirred in the bed and looked up at him with wondering dark eyes. The trip from Italia had held many astonishments for her. And yesterday afternoon she had stood atop this villa just off the Via Ignatium and seen the distant but clearly distinguishable wall of the great city.
‘Droungarios,’ said Knutson, extending a rolled and sealed document. ‘I thought you should read this right away. It bears the seal of the Patriarch Alexius.’ Knutson bowed and turned to leave. ‘No, Turmarch,’ commanded Mar. ‘You need to hear this. Soon you will have many more responsibilities than simply dealing with queries from a priest of Rome.’ Mar opened the seal and read quickly. He looked up at Knutson. This is most interesting, Turmarch. The Patriarch Alexius has been deposed and the Empress Zoe has been banished. The Patriarch is besieged in the Hagia Sophia. He says his client Theodora is secured somewhere in the city. The wily old fox does not say where. He begs us to relieve him, and then he will lead us to the new Empress.’
‘Isn’t that entirely to our purpose?’ asked Knutson, his grey Danish eyes thoughtful. ‘With the Empress Zoe banished, Theodora would have no rivals.’
‘Except the Emperor.’
Knutson blinked away his confusion. ‘I thought the Emperor was . . . well, you know all the nights we have joked about what we would do with an Emperor in the interrogation chambers of the Numera.’
‘Yes, Turmarch, but that was before little Michael had displayed this unusual ability to rid us of our problems. Consider that under the patronage of Theodora we will always be subject to the coercion of her purple-born status. But with Michael as our patron, we will have only to overcome the legacy of a parvenue. We might even be hailed as liberators when we usurp him.’
Mar crushed Alexius’s missive in his huge fist. ‘Turmarch, convey a message to his Imperial Majesty. Tell him I have returned from Italia on a mission of necessary secrecy and utmost urgency. I will be arriving at Bucoleon Harbour this evening to discuss matters of vital importance to the future of Rome.’
Knutson snapped out of the room. Bianca Maria sat up; a silken white night robe draped her bony shoulders and barely pubescent breasts. ‘Will I see the city tonight?’ she asked in a high, clear voice like the ringing of the finest glass.
Mar gently touched the straight dark hair that cloaked her slender neck. ‘Yes, little candle,’ he said softly, ‘tonight you will see the Great Palace of the Roman Emperor.’
Constantine slammed the wooden shutter and pressed his hands to his ears. ‘Even their noise is an assault!’ he shouted to Demetrius Metanoites, the young Roman commander of his Pecheneg guard. Metanoites opened the shutter again to see for himself, and the intensity of the shrieking drone rose perceptibly. He shook his head in amazement. Two storeys below him, the street was awash with women and children, all of them wailing as if the Last Trumpet had blown; their brilliant, beardless faces, flushed with rage, were like a field of rose blossoms amid the dull colours of their tunics. The wooden shafts of various tools rose above them here and there, but the principal weapons of this army, other than noise, were stones. With every heartbeat another missile pelted the front of Constantine’s town palace; not a single pane of glass remained intact. And now the raging, wailing maenads had begun pounding away at the walls with large rocks.
‘We are going to have to summon the Taghmata!’ shouted Metanoites.
‘They won’t slaughter these innocents!’
‘Then we must break out! My Pechenegs have no such reservations about killing the women and children of Rome.’
‘We still could not get through. You have seen how many they are!’
Metanoites pulled his wiry black beard for a moment. ‘We will send the Pechenegs out of the front gate, and we will leave through the rear entrance. We will need to change into simple tunics!’
A quarter of an hour later Constantine unbolted the front gate and sent two dozen Pechenegs, swords unsheathed, into the street. The screams rose to a hideous din; Constantine saw a flash of enamel-brilliant crimson before he turned away. He and Metanoites raced through the main hall and kitchens and slammed against the rear door. They surprised several women who were setting refuse afire in the alley. The smoke provided good cover, and after a short dash to the street they were able to merge unnoticed with the crowd.
It took half an hour to work through the mob and reach the Mese. The broad avenue was frantic with merchants and tradesmen and even some barebacked porters up from the docks; most were running towards the palace, and many carried bows and spears. A portly man in a plain woollen tunic puffed along with a rusty sword in his ruddy fist. Women were also about on the Mese; one dashed past, clutching a linen veil to her face. ‘Where is our Mother, our beauty, our noble Empress?’ she moaned.
The arcades of the shops along the lower Mese were shuttered. A crowd blocked the entire Milion Square near the end of the Mese. Spear shafts rising above the milling wool-and-linen-cloaked figures were now common. ‘Where is our Mother?’ every rage-rouged face seemed to be screaming. Metanoites stumbled over a middle-aged woman dressed in widow’s black who had slumped to her knees; she beat her breast with her withered fists. ‘Oh, Theotokos! Oh, Theotokos! Deliver our Mother!’ she wailed.
‘The Mother of Rome!’ boomed a male voice. The Bulgar-Slayer’s niece, and him from nowhere!’
Metanoites led Constantine through the mob, shoving bodies aside with fierce determination. Constantine could only thank the Pantocrator that his rough servant’s tunic had spared him the deadly recognition of the mob. At the entrance to the Augustaion, Constantine looked to his left. The enormous bronze equestrian figure of Justinian charged above a lake of wailing faces that filled the entire square and spilled over to the porches of the Hagia Sophia. ‘Heavenly Father!’ he shouted to Metanoites. ‘The entire city has come out!’