Theodora seemed to breathe in the news of her sister’s deliverance; her torso straightened and her small, pained face became fierce and punitive. ‘Father, you must know now that I cannot do it. I have suffered the agonies of the damned just knowing that my sister might be … Father, last night . . . Father, I do not know if my sister still loves me. But nothing in my heart can make me betray her now. If Our Lord had wanted me to make that sacrifice, He would not have put so much love for her in the hearts of her people. Or in my heart.’
Alexius was too weak to resist. His black eyes lay still. ‘Of course, my child. I am returning you to your home immediately. I, too, believe Our Lord has asked us to consider another means of defending our spiritual empire.’ Alexius paused and touched his fine silver beard, as if to ascertain that he still possessed corporeal form. ‘Mar Hunrodarson betrayed us. That does not surprise me. I had reasoned that in such an event we could still deal with him. But he turned against his fellow Varangians. Now I am told that he has been defeated in a great battle that took place in the Hippodrome this morning. He broke his sword, and ours, in the defence of a usurper who never could have been legitimized. I can only assume that Hunrodarson believed that he could place his own barbaroi feet in the Imperial buskins. I knew that the Emperor was mad. I had no idea that Hunrodarson shared his affliction.’ Alexius again stroked Theodora’s hair. ‘My secular sword no longer exists. And your sister’s sword, the love of her people, is a vastly more formidable blade than I had ever imagined. You have made your sacrifice for myself and for Our Lord, my child. Now you may return to the mansion your Lord intended for you.’
Theodora nodded. ‘If I may, Father, I would like to stay here until all this is resolved. My sister . . .’
Again the weak, moribund smile. ‘Certainly, child--’ Alexius broke off but did not turn to the insistent pounding on the door. Finally Theodora crossed the room and cracked open the heavy wooden door.
The priest burst into the room, his woollen hood flung back, glimmering slices of his white silk vestments visible under his dull brown cloak. His face was brilliant with exertion. ‘Father, this could not wait.’ He handed Alexius a small parchment.
Alexius received the missive with indifference. His long, elegant fingers fumbled with the parchment. His eyes were so dull as he read that it seemed he was only staring at some design. And then, almost miraculously, he returned to life; but not even Lazarus had returned so quickly or vehemently. His face, a moment earlier as grey and coarse as weathered stone, became flesh again. His eyes flickered, awakening rested, eager. He clutched the parchment in a powerful fist. ‘Perhaps our Lord has merely divined to test our faith.’
‘Father . . .’ Theodora was clearly frightened by the Patriarch’s resurrection.
The eyes offered no mercy. ‘My child, the situation has changed. You must now prepare yourself for your climb to Golgotha.’
Theodora flinched but did not retreat. ‘Father, I will not. The crown of thorns I must wear is my love for my sister. And I will never remove that crown, no matter how painful it has become.’ Theodora’s lips set grimly and her eyes were like bits of lapis lazuli. ‘Father, I will not do it. I will not do it.’ She squared her broad shoulders as if preparing for a physical confrontation. ‘Do you think you can chain me and drag me screaming to the ambo and place the Imperial Diadem upon my writhing head?’
Alexius was stunned into silent acquiescence. Perhaps his ordeal had left him irreparably weakened; perhaps he had always known that his protege would someday challenge his strength. He looked away from Theodora and walked slowly to the simple oaken cupboard. A pair of gold-framed icons had been set on the top shelf. Both depicted the Virgin; one was an intricate cloisonne, a surface of vivid colours and fine gold striations, the other a faded encaustic, many centuries old. Alexius looked between the two images for a long while, his palms pressed together and fingers touching the tip of his powerful humped nose. Finally he turned.
‘My child, would you be agreeable to sharing your sister’s Holy burden? If you will not, I fear that both your sister and the Roman Empire will soon be lost.’
‘What has happened, Father?’
‘I am not yet certain. That is why I must know what you are prepared for me to offer in your name.’
‘Yes. I will share the throne with her. If it is necessary to save her and to save Rome.’
Alexius made the sign of the cross three times and without another word strode urgently from the room.
The future of Rome had been drawn in the sands of the Hippodrome. Haraldr stood over the hastily sketched campaign map; at his side were the co-commanders of the citizen army of Rome, John the leather cutter and the Blue Star. John had a bloody gash over his forehead, but his eyes blazed with triumph; his guildsmen had taken the Chalke Gate, with the help of some Khazar defectors. John pointed to the small square that indicated the Numera, where Michael’s Pecheneg guard was quartered. ‘I have left my bakers and grocers to harass the Pechenegs. When should I give them the signal for the afternoon attack?’
Haraldr looked around the stadium. Ulfr and Halldor and the rest of his Varangians now stood where Mar’s men had that morning, on the commanding vantage of the Imperial Box, ready for the final massive assault on the Imperial Palace. The Blue Star had removed her wounded from the stadium steps and the ranks of the guildsmen and the army of the Studion had reassembled on the track; they were already going over the chants they would sing when they had the usurper Michael before them in chains. He realized that there was no reason to wait. And in an awful way he wanted to wait, because he knew in his soul that when he entered the palace, he would find the answer to the question that now pierced his being. And if fate had answered him with Maria’s death, her life for his? Then fate would have killed them both.
‘Haraldr!’ Ulfr’s voice boomed down from the Imperial Box. He waved. Behind Ulfr were the luminous white robes of the palace chamberlains. The eunuchs rapidly filled the Imperial Box and stood at attention as they might on a race day. The army on the track below looked up and erupted with speculation. Had the Emperor Michael come to capitulate?
A few moments later the solitary black-shrouded figure appeared against the wall of the white-robed eunuchs in the Imperial Box. Her head was veiled in a black nun’s hood, her eyes black holes, her face aged decades in days. Only the voice proved that this ancient woman was Zoe the purple-born, Empress and Augusta of the Romans.
‘My children!’ proclaimed Zoe. Her words brought an absolute silence to the huge throng beneath her. ‘I am well. I have not been harmed. My son, your Emperor and Father, and I have quarrelled between us, as a mother and her son are wont to do. He has taken actions in his anger that he has now repented of. I am satisfied of his sincere contrition. He has promised that he will respect the dignity of your purple-born Mother as long as he wears the Imperial Diadem. He has sworn to do penance to the people of the city with distributions of food, entertainments, remission of certain taxes, and a lifting of the Prefect’s profit ceiling for the guilds. I have taken your father Michael to my bosom and forgiven him. Now I beseech my children to show him their forgiveness, for love of me.’ Zoe stepped back and made the sign of the cross over her people.
The first reaction was applause from some of the guildsmen, particularly the small merchants who would most benefit from the lifting of the profit ceiling. Someone in the Studion ranks shouted, ‘That is not our Mother. She is an impostor!’
‘That is no impostor,’ said the Blue Star, her eyes stricken. ‘She has been coerced. There are knives at her back.’