‘A more dangerous coercion, I fear,’ said Haraldr. ‘A coercion of the heart.’
‘I think she wants to avoid further bloodshed,’ said John. ‘If she is willing to guarantee these reforms, we have no further quarrel with the Emperor. He was good to us before all this, and now that he has brought our mother back . . .’ John shrugged.
‘You would abandon her to them while you go back to your salted fish and Vlach cheese!’ snapped the Blue Star. She whipped her powerful arm and pointed at the terrible litter on the seats behind her; at least a thousand lay dead. ‘We did not die here so that the tyrant could imprison our Mother in his palace and appease the guildsmen with more races in the Hippodrome where so many have now died!’
‘You have not seen the dead at the Chalke Gate, woman!’ John’s swarthy face darkened. ‘If this bloodshed is no longer necessary, it must end. If your cutthroats desire more blood, let them prey on their own cutpurses and whores!’
The two factions slowly gathered around their leaders and began their own chorus to this argument. ‘We were not whores when we slew men!’ shouted a woman standing behind the Blue Star. ‘Rabble!’ cursed the guildsmen. ‘Sluts and thieves!’
Haraldr watched the two sides converge from the ends of the track; it was as if they were two roiling cloud masses about to collide as a thunderous storm. ‘Ulfr! Halldor!’ he shouted to the stadium roof. ‘Bring the men down!’ He turned to mediate but could not make himself heard. The factions shrieked at one another and scuffling broke out. Haraldr broke up one fight only to have another, and then another, flare up around him. He prayed his men could get down here before the first death. A combined assault on the palace was impossible now, but a civil war in the city was not unlikely. Fists cracked into faces. Haraldr saw bright blood again, and it sickened him more than all the day’s carnage. He fought desperately to keep men apart. A guildsman fell, howling, clutching his stomach.
And then the shrieks of conflict subsided slowly, and men and women paused, still clutching their adversaries’ cloaks. The fallen guildsman moaned. Haraldr looked over the heads of the crowd, towards the bronze starting gates at the north end of the stadium. The army of the Studion was parting, to allow the army of yet another Roman Empire pass among it. Mounted on his donkey in emulation of Christ, flanked by scores of his priests in white-and-gold vestments, himself a jewelled icon in the billowing robes of his office, the Patriarch Alexius rode among his flock.
The donkey blinked, his gentle gaze a pointed contrast to the equally dark and feral but far more deadly eyes of his master. Alexius was assisted from the saddle by his deacons. He studied Haraldr, John and the Blue Star silently for a moment. He spoke first to Haraldr. ‘Is it true that Mar Hunrodarson is dead?’ Haraldr nodded. Alexius turned away and faced his flock. ‘Your Mother has borne the cares of her people for many years now!’ His voice thundered and echoed through the stadium. ‘Now she is weary of her travails; she is too exhausted to revoke the sanction she has granted to her treacherous son.’ The ranks of the Studion murmured assent. ‘And yet she is not the only purple-born daughter who can offer’ – Alexius paused meaningfully and his voice roared -’or revoke that sanction! The purple-born Augusta Theodora, daughter of the Autocrator Constantine and niece of the Autocrator Basil, called the Bulgar-Slayer, also carries the blood of Macedon in her veins. She is willing to sacrifice the life she cherishes, that of contemplation, to share with her sister the burden of caring for her children! Would you deny yourselves a love this generous?’
The folk of Studion erupted into spontaneous acclaim. ‘Theodora! Theodora! Purple-born Mother!’ John and his guildsman lieutenants considered the matter at greater length. Their informal caucus reflected on the succession of men Zoe had brought to the throne of Imperial Rome; they decided that a prosperity hostage to Zoe’s whims was a false security. Theodora would stabilize the throne. John brought his arms up and began to lead the guildsmen in a chant. ‘Theodora! Theodora!’
Haraldr shouted to the Patriarch. ‘Father, what of Michael?’
Alexius looked at Haraldr with his glaring panther eyes, then pulled Haraldr’s shoulders down so that he could speak in his ear. ‘By the sanction of the purple-born Zoe, my hand placed the Imperial Diadem on his head. Under command of the purple-born Theodora, that Diadem will now be plucked from his skull!’
Haraldr nodded and listened to the chants. For the tyrant Michael it was finished. And yet for him it had only begun. Where was Maria?
‘That porcine sot.’ Michael crumpled the message and glared at his uncle. ‘This is gratitude!’ His voice was high-pitched and whiny. ‘I have provided these luxury-loving monks with typica so generous that they are all but a licence to plunder, and not one of them will come to my assistance during a period of transient difficulty. I tell you, Uncle, when my throne is again secure, there shall be a wholesale redrafting of these typica. And I can assure you that many of these fatted monks will be as lean as desert goats when I am through with them.’ Michael fanned away a silk-robed chamberlain with an impatient hand. ‘Reject the offer. We will remain here and weather this outburst.’
Constantine mopped his brow with a delicate linen handkerchief. ‘Majesty, I do not think it wise for us to remain in the palace. Mar Hunrodarson is dead, Haraldr Nordbrikt is even now negotiating the surrender of the Scholae and Excubitores of the Imperial Taghmata, and the Augusta Theodora is already in the Hagia Sophia.’
Michael stared sourly at his purple boots. ‘That dried-up old thing. Uncle, you cannot think she will depose me. Zoe will have her out of the palace before the day is over. There is no love between those sisters.’
‘The Patriarch Alexius seems bent on preserving his client’s privileges this time.’
Michael leered over at his uncle. ‘The Patriarch Alexius is a Satanic apostate, you know that, don’t you? The Pantocrator will never receive him. He is adamantly opposed to it.’ The Emperor straightened. ‘I still have the loyalty of the Numeri and Hyknatoi units of the Imperial Taghmata. I will have them throw the unclean Alexius out of our Holy Mansion. He quite disgraces it. And the bitch with him!’
‘Majesty . . .’ Constantine paused and accepted the dispatch from a chamberlain. He read it quickly, his face drawing taut with shock. ‘Nephew,’ he finally whispered, ‘the Varangian Haraldr Nordbrikt has received the surrender of all units of the Imperial Taghmata.’
Michael shot up from his throne and kicked away the gilded stool at his feet. ‘Nordbrikt! Nordbrikt! It was his whore who tempted me to begin with! Nordbrikt!’ Michael stood, glaring; his chest surged wildly. ‘Tell my Pechenegs to destroy Haraldr Nordbrikt!’ he screamed with neck-cording rage.
‘Nephew,’ said Constantine, ‘Haraldr Nordbrikt also requested the surrender of your Pecheneg guard. When they refused, his Varangians slaughtered them to the last man.’
Constantine walked forward and clasped Michael’s arms. ‘We must accept the offer of sanctuary.’
Michael was suddenly calm, again introspective, hearing other voices. ‘Yes. Quite. We must save our lives and await the collapse of this absurd coalition against us. Whom did you say had the charity to receive us?’
‘The blessed Brothers of the Holy Studite Monastery, Majesty.’
The lowering sun bored through the windows high above and projected great tunnels of light directly across the vast, darkening interior of the Hagia Sophia. The subdeacons and doorkeepers moved about on the arcades and soaring ambulatories, beginning the lengthy ritual of lighting the bronze and silver candelabra, lamps and polycandelons. The Augusta Theodora, clad in the purple robes of state, was seated on a throne beneath the semi-dome at the west end of the nave; the bejewelled diadem of the Imperial Augusta seemed like a piece of ornate architecture perched atop her small head. The improvised court that knelt one by one in obeisance before her was unlike any Rome had seen before. The dignitaries were present in their robes of state and emblems of rank, but the new Empress was also attended by the people of the city -guild members, merchants, the humble poor of the Studion. And women had been admitted to the floor of the great church, as only befitted an Empire that was now ruled by two sisters.