The two other Khazars quickly sheathed their swords, strung their bows, and joined in the sport; all four of them crowded towards the edge of the landing and began wagering on who would hit the ‘big white fish’ first. They studied the surface intently, arrows drawn. Nothing. Then the water splashed right in front of them, and one of the guards pitched forward into the inky void, immediately disappeared, and a moment later bobbed up, his neck tilted unnaturally. The astonished bowmen shouted and fired aimlessly into the dark water. More thrashing at the end of the landing. They turned.
Haraldr was already on the dock. He decapitated the nearest Khazar and with a single swat sent another sprawling into the water. The third Khazar dropped his bow and went to his knees on his own accord. ‘You know who I am?’ Haraldr said in Greek. The trembling Khazar nodded. ‘I let you live.’ He pointed to the boat. ‘Go back to your unit and tell them that Haraldr Nordbrikt and his Varangians will come against them soon, and there will be no mercy for those who oppose us. But there will be amnesty for all who refuse to take arms against us and the Empress of Rome.’ The Khazar dipped his head to the wooden slats. Then, still crouched and looking back at Haraldr like a frightened cur, he crawled to the boat, tumbled in, and paddled back towards the palace.
‘I am … inspired, Uncle,’ said Michael, flourishing his gem-encrusted pallium. His dark eyes flashed beneath the blazing candelabra of the Chrysotriklinos. ‘I am not a fool. The employment of Hunrodarson is merely expedient. I have no more intention of making him Basileus than I do of placing a dead fish on our glorious throne. Do you think the Pantocrator would continue to sanction me if I were that foolish? No, Mar Hunrodarson will serve his purpose and then join his former accomplice, Haraldr Nordbrikt, in the Neorion.’ Michael’s lips quivered and his teeth flashed momentarily. ‘I rather fancy that little girl he has abducted. She is so … pristine. I quite see her as my mistress. My virgin Magdalen. “White Mary” is what her name means.’
Constantine’s forehead prickled and his stomach roiled. How had his nephew fooled him for so long? Or, perhaps, why had he for so long dismissed his nephew’s obvious symptoms as mere impetuosity or youthful caprice? But he should have known, he should have been alarmed, he should have slowed things down. But Michael could be so brilliant, so able. Was it a family curse, or was it in the nature of the Imperial Office to drive men mad? Perhaps the man supplied the madness, but the office supplied the form of that madness. The endless enactment of the Pantocrator’s life in the ritual at court, with each journey through the city a restaging of Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem, with each state banquet a repetition of the symbolism of the Last Supper; the implication, by the very breadth of the Imperial Throne, that the Pantocrator himself sat next to the Emperor. Little wonder that Michael had come to believe he knew the Pantocrator intimately; it was perhaps a tribute to Michael’s qualities that he did not yet believe he was the Pantocrator. Perhaps it was Christian Rome itself that suffered from the delusion, and Michael was only afflicted with the contagion of that hubris. Or perhaps it was true that Satan himself did dispense the keys to the kingdoms of the world.
‘Majesty,’ said Constantine delicately, ‘I fear that the Pantocrator is … testing us with yet another travail in this enterprise of ours. I am informed that both the Tauro-Scythian Haraldr Nordbrikt and the woman Maria have escaped from their respective confinements.’
Michael’s eyes widened for a moment. He tilted his head slightly, listening. ‘My mistake was in choosing a Magdalen who was both sullied and unrepentant. That is why my White Mary has now been sent to me.’ His gaze was distant, as if he looked off towards the vast, shimmering golden domes of new Jerusalem. ‘My mother must be a virgin. I know that now.’
‘Nephew!’ snapped Constantine in desperation. ‘If Haraldr Nordbrikt has escaped to lead the citizen rabble, the consequences could be grave. You, yourself, have said never to bet against a man who has won so many times that it seems he cannot possibly win again. Haraldr Nordbrikt has cheated destiny so often, I am most reluctant to wager against him now.’
‘Mar Hunrodarson is also a man favoured by fortune. I rather think that the good fortunes of both brutes will quite cancel each other.’
Constantine nodded, grateful that the Pantocrator’s companion still enjoyed moments of lucidity. ‘Still, Nephew, even if the Tauro-Scythians neutralize each other, we are confronted with the unabated wrath of the rabble.’ Constantine steeled himself and offered the only counsel that a man of reason and ability could in a situation like this. ‘Majesty, I think we should call the Empress back from the convent at Principio. We merely need have her read a proclamation to the citizen rabble, and then maintain her under house arrest, as your predecessor did. I am certain she will be amenable. They say she was entirely undone with the prospect of leaving her city when she was taken aboard ship.’
Michael paused and waved his hand airily. ‘Oh, that, Uncle. Yes, quite. I have already dispatched four of my fastest galleys of the ousiai class towards Principio, with extra complements of rowers and relays waiting for the return voyage. The Empress will be here shortly before cock-crow. And after the Tauro-Scythians have successfully eliminated each other in the morning’s combat, I will produce her to quiet the rabble.’
Constantine bowed. ‘Majesty,’ he whispered with relief, ‘I believe you are indeed inspired.’
‘So I will place my linen weavers and bakers and grocers here,’ said John, a thick-armed, short-haired leather cutter who had emerged as the leader of the guildsmen. He knelt and pointed at the rough map Halldor had sketched in the sand of the Hippodrome track. Halldor forced himself to concentrate, as he had all evening.
He was certain now that Haraldr was dead, and his implacable shell was beginning to crack. But he had to hold himself together until tomorrow. Until the day of vengeance. He prodded the indicated place in the sand with the point of his sword. ‘Yes. Tell them that the diversionary attack at the Chalke Gate is of crucial importance. And if they can force the gate, all the better. Our success here depends on the vigour of their assault there.’ Halldor turned to the Blue Star’s son, who leaned over the scrawls in the sand and studied them so intently that it seemed his jutting beard would erase the plan. ‘Nicetas,’ said Halldor, ‘your . . . associates will be the first to strike. Just before dawn, at the Bucoleon gates. That is the last quarter from which they expect an attack. You will probably achieve initial success and then meet strong resistance. Remember that holding your ground is just as important to us as an advance.’ Halldor looked at the Blue Star, who stood with her arms folded and a keen, steely look in her eyes, as if she heard the echoes of her earlier triumphs on this track. ‘Your attack is the most important, Madame. Especially since we know that Mar Hunrodarson’s Varangians are coming against us tomorrow. I am certain that they will defend the Imperial Box. It is imperative that the Imperial Taghmata is not permitted to come down into the stadium and encircle my Varangians while we assault the Imperial Box.’
‘Tomorrow the high and mighty will reap the whirlwind of the Studion,’ said the Blue Star. ‘There are accounts to be settled.’
Halldor dismissed his curious assortment of officers and looked up to the Imperial Box. ‘Mar will have the advantage of high ground and numbers,’ he told Ulfr. ‘When Odin sends me a Valkyrja, I hope she is tight and wicked.’