Queen of lies, p.11
Queen of Lies, page 11
They start down a long slope. A change in the breeze, now salty and warmed by the hot morning sun, blows across them. The horses’ footfalls awaken wonderful smells from the damp earth. Huge buildings of marble sprawl in the distance while, at the bottom of the slope before them, the bright sunrise reveals walls the size of which Vassilis has never seen before. The sea glistens beyond that, specks of silver on an azure arm stretched along and around the walls, luring these land-trapped peasants from the gloom of their somber, mountain world. Vassilis can hardly draw breath at the splendor of it all.
† † †
A king castles behind a row of pawns. A chessboard teeters on a pile of books, maps, and geometrical drawings, the kind that typically bore Michael. He much prefers the sea view from these rooms, and the way they seem to hover above the water. The Bucoleon Palace has always been one of my favorites as well, especially the way the sea laps at the feet of the marble lions guarding the walls.
The Eunuch and the Regent are receiving the new Envoy, so Photios has been left to pass the time with the young Emperor. He hopes earnestly that Michael doesn’t start whining to go out and tries to hold his attention even further by talking about some of his latest reading in the subject of mathematics.
“So the need to denote `nothing’,“says Photios, “when one calculates, according to the Indian number system, in fact, any number system except for the Roman, requires the invention of a cipher that is called `zero’. Has it ever occurred to you that we do not have a cipher to represent the absence of quantity? King’s knight to bishop four. Are you following, Your Worthiness?”
“A good move,” says Michael. “You are in close quarters to my King. Supposedly he is hiding away in his palace of pawns. Queen’s bishop takes pawn. A weak move – but you leave me starved for choice.”
Then he yawns, and his gaze wanders to the new drapings, covered in birds and flowers – the product of Abbasid weavers.
“If only I could visit the Abbasid lands, and conquer them as did the ancient Alexandros, as did my father!” says Michael. “Can we talk about something else? Algebra is so dull. Why should an Emperor bother with it?”
“Queen to queen six takes pawn. I’m afraid it’s checkmate in two moves.”
Michael fiddles with a map. But then he is up, looking out over the bay, his eyes scrunching up at the bright sun which has taken on an eerie brightness. “So why is mother talking to the Bulgar?” he says. “Who cares about them anyway? Aren’t they just a wild old lot?” Then another yawn, ill-suppressed.
Photios sighs. “A lesson in political history, I see. Where does one begin? Who does not yearn for our great City, settled by Constantine, enriched by Justinian, and set, as the brightest star in the sky of nations, at the very center of Empire, by the great Heraclios. Need I remind you of these things?”
“Of course you should, I’m a complete idiot, don’t you know!” he smiles mischievously. “We will talk more about your algebra soon. But why the Bulgar?”
“Worthiness, we have been struggling with the Bulgar for more than a hundred years. They plunder our Themes and attempt to thrust at our great City. But, even worse, they flirt with the Franks, who, while not being our enemies, are not our friends either. It is the Bulgar, in particular their Khan, Boris, who tries to play us against Louis of the Franks. He woos us both, as a man might woo women, although of course … in your position … this is hardly an issue, now that it is all decided.”
Photios pauses. “Nevertheless, it was your, let’s see, great-great grandmother, the great Irene, who first wooed the Franks, that is the great Charles, and was refused. No, that’s not right. Irene was Augusta Euphrosyne’s mother. Euphrosyne was your father Theophilos’ stepmother. I’m not sure if that means …”
“Augusta Irene!” he interrupts. “Why does no one talk about her? She brought the Icons back to us, did she not? Why will no one ever say a word about her to me?”
Photios busies himself with the maps, making distractions, searching for something to say. But Michael’s eyes are shining with interest.
“Well, it is indeed time someone told you. Irene was a worthy holder of the title of Augusta, actually the first woman to rule as Emperor. But that’s only because she took the title for herself.”
“And …?” says Michael.
“And she indeed restored the Icons, if only for a time. But it was very difficult for her. She had to convince the court. To make it worse, the Franks invaded our lands in Italy. Then the Abbasid Caliphs Al-Mahdi and Harun al-Rashid humiliated us by forcing her to pay tribute. Finally, Charles crowned himself Emperor of the Romans, or at least the Bishop of Rome did it for him. What was she to do?”
Now Michael is confused. “Was there no one who could be Emperor? Did she not have sons?”
“Yes, she did. She had a son – Constantine – who was … not up to being Emperor. But I suppose that is a story for another day.” Photios rises as if to leave.
But the young instinctively know deception. Michael gets up as well. “You simply must tell me.” he says. “Please, Master Photios. You know I have no one else I can talk to about these things. Mother is always too busy to talk and his Excellency, Lord Dickbreath,” in mock falsetto, “is ill-suited for chatter.”
“Your Worthiness, as you get older you will come to realize that people rely on what they have seen, what they have done, what others have done, to tell them what should be done. This is often very wrong. Less educated people fear the future because they fear the past. Perhaps learning, even algebra, will one day help them to move from this way of thinking but until then… Do you follow?”
“Yes … until you started on about algebra again. What is it that they fear?”
† † †
It was at the Palace of Blachernae that I must have had my first glimpse of Vassilis. The Palace stands amid the walls at the very edge of the City. It has become my favorite. I think all Empresses must love its beautiful windows, perfect for treading warily with unknowns. Like the lidded gaze of a cautious virgin they peer out, not quite ready to reveal any inner charms to a visitor, but sufficiently inviting to those with some curiosity … or ambition!
Her Worthiness had reluctantly let me back into her retinue after Father had woven his usual spell over her. But it had not changed her mind one bit about me. So I am demoted from the “cathedral” to maintaining the Imperial footwear. The smells are horrid, and one can only have limited admiration for boots, no matter how finely worked the leather is. Not to mention that I have to work directly under one of the Master of the Wardrobe’s officials, which I find very humiliating.
None of this stops me from wandering over to the windows. I want to see the foreigners. It has been some time since I have been able to see brave men, and, even though these are barbarians, they are so much more interesting than the empty-headed youths or over-opinionated graybeards that seem to make up the court.
The Regent and the Eunuch peer down into the sparse courtyard below, conscious that they are largely invisible behind a pane reflecting the afternoon sun. The guards clatter to attention. I lurk behind the curtains.
Theodora appears amused. I am disappointed. The riders seem fewer and less grand than I expected, not to mention a bit rough around the edges, possibly from their long ride.
“So your plans have borne fruit,” she is saying. “The Bulgar are here to discuss tribute and allegiance to us, I assume? Will they ever tire of battle? God knows that we have. How can we find common ground with such barbarians?”
Theoktistos looks away from the window. He knows he can’t answer that. “It would be a welcome peace, after so much struggle. But it is too soon to tell. We still need to find out exactly what they want. Methodios and Cyril have not been able to tell us much that we didn’t know already.”
The party has dismounted and is being held in the entrance chamber beneath our feet. Even though they are barbarians, the Regent has insisted that they be greeted with the usual cool wine, spelt cakes, and soft couches that any visiting patriarch or dignitary might receive. This way they can go back and tell those at home of the special hospitality of the Roman court.
“Whatever happens, I insist we do not let them farther into the City,” she murmurs. “It is enough having strangers here in my place of rest and worship.” She beckons to the maids. There is still time to finish her makeup and to compose herself. She calls for the brocaded dalmatica and the new gloves, and I am to find some jeweled boots. Digging around in the dirty footwear. How annoying!
Chapter 14. Old friends, new friends
Still midsummer 855 AD
Photios abandons all etiquette and looks deep into Michael’s eyes.
“It happened some eighty years ago. Irene was a remarkable woman. She had taken great care of the Akritai, as well as those of us who lived in our City. She had instructed the army to fight the Bulgar and others, and even tried to marry one of her daughters to the Franks to keep us all safe. But her attempts to give up the Regency to her son failed, at least in her eyes. She grew tired of his … weakness, his mistakes, both in battle and in court. Oh, and his lack of interest in having children. She loved him very much. But she felt it was more important that somebody strong was in charge of her people.” He pauses. There is no response. “Is all of that clear?”
The lapping of the waves is audible in the gloomy, gray sunlight. Michael nods.
“So, … she … diminished his capacity,”. Michael raises an eyebrow. “In the very room in which she bore him, the Purple Room, where you also flew into this world. Oh, how proud your father was finally to have another son, one who would live on and carry his name. Of course your mother was too.”
“What do you mean by saying she diminished his capacity?”
Michael needs to know how deeply unfair life can be – it is far more than simply a quest for comfort and satisfaction. But telling him this is a duty few others seem to want to shoulder. Photios, as always, is a stickler for duty.
“An emperor blinded is not worth much,” Photios says. “She had hot irons melt his eyes. There, I can’t say anymore.”
Michael’s frown vanishes, his cheeks pale.
“Do you understand now why everyone … defers rather than speaks straight to you about it?” Photios struggles for words. “She wept too. After all, she loved him. But she had shown him mercy through this act. She could have had him killed.”
He rustles papers, maps, anything he can find, and makes as if to leave. But then Michael reaches a hand out to him.
“Thank you, dear Photios, for this honesty and the courage you have shown me today,” he says. “May the Almighty absolve you. I think it is time for the Emperor to make some arrangements of his own.”
† † †
They must wait several hours for the first audience, though they are well refreshed with food and drink. Grozdan is restless in spite of Methodios’ pleasantly irreverent remarks to pass the time.
Guards arrive and march them down a passageway beyond the antechamber. There is barely enough time to take in the size and greatness of the vast bronze doors in front of them before they are thrust into a large hall.
Grozdan’s beard bobs with nerves. He drags silver-ringed fingers over a close-shaven head and pulls at the chains around his neck. Vassilis extracts from under his cloak a small wooden cross which he holds on to, partly in fear, partly out of habit, his coarse woolen stuffs contrasting with the dark silks of Methodios and the rather too elaborate spectacle of Grozdan. Come to think of it, Vassilis is not sure why he is there.
They follow Methodios’ lead and kneel. He whispers to them to lower their heads, but Vassilis sneaks a look.
They are in a large hall with open windows. The wind whistles around them. Vassilis marvels at the array of purple curtains, held up in wooden frames, before them.
A horn sounds. “Her Serenity, the Restorer of the Ages,” intone voices from the left hand side of the hall.
“The Wise and the Bountiful,” chant deeper voices from the right hand side. Attendants appear and slide the curtains out of the way.
The towering, slender frame of what must be the famous Eunuch appears, encased in a white senatorial toga and scarlet cloak. Another set of curtains stands behind him. He waits.
“Hand over the gifts,” whispers Methodios, nudging Grozdan.
Grozdan moves forward, head lowered, pushing a large bag of furs in front of him. The Eunuch nods to an attendant who takes the bag away. The second set of curtains is shifted away to reveal the Regent on a backless throne, perched on a raised dais that disappears into a shadowed apse. She is a study of elegant, veiled authority in deep purple, green, and gold.
The Eunuch adopts the usual pomp. “Welcome to our court, Envoy. Be at peace, we are here to use words not swords.”
They climb to their feet, and Vassilis lifts his head to look up. “Keep your eyes averted!” Methodios whispers fiercely.
“Your welcome warms my heart and …” Grozdan responds, struggling for the right phrase, “… and gives us leave to feel at ease.” A glance at Methodios reassures him.
“Her Worthiness will deign to discourse at her leisure.” the Eunuch says. “Your Greek is most impressive. I see you have made good use of our scholars.”
Methodios lowers his head further, in acknowledgment.
Grozdan decides to risk a compliment. She is, after all, a woman. “But my command of your language is humbled by the beauty I see around me.”
Methodios is now shaking his head. Her Worthiness is not the slightest bit interested in hearing this sort of thing, especially from a barbarian. In her position, I would have been offended.
“Then ready yourself to be greatly humbled,” she replies.
This is not quite the answer Grozdan expects. His eyes flash in anger as he raises them to look at the dais. “Your welcome is as warm as that of the great Louis of the Franks and the Bishop of old Rome. Do you know our cause?”
“You do not address Her Serene Worthiness,” Theoktistos retorts, “unless you receive a direct question. Enlighten us. We will hear you speak of it at length.”
The Envoy has memorized a small speech. “We seek commerce with wealthy peoples, a union of strength against the northern and eastern threats. Louis has been crowned Holy Emperor by the Bishop of Rome, as was his father, the magnificent Charles. He would have us bow to him in return for a presence at his court.”
Theoktistos frowns. “We do not recognize this title for Louis. The holiest of Roman Emperors has always been here in the City, in a long line since Constantine. The barbarians you mention were crowned without authority.”
Grozdan expected some resistance to this. “We have it on the authority of the Pope, your spiritual brother, that Constantine gave authority first and foremost to him to anoint kings and emperors. Do you deny this?”
Theodora speaks. “If you refer to that ridiculous fiction, the Donation of Constantine, then the Franks are as gullible as children. It is through Constantine himself that Rome came to Vyzantion, and not through the fabrications and plots of some bishop – even if he calls himself Pope – that we, and none other, can claim the right to the epithet of Holy Emperor.”
Vassilis is in new yet welcome territory. “Then where is this Emperor, Lady? Is it true that he is a child still?”
I can imagine the Regent is not sure who addresses her, or whether she cares for this young brute, but she feels compelled to answer. “We rule in his name until he is of age. No authority is in question here.”
But as she says this, the doors burst open and Michael stands before them, decked out in full chain mail, with a helmet under his arm, and a purple cloak hooked over his shoulders.
“Indeed, Holy Regent, our authority is not in question here.” Michael strides up to the dais where his wiry but short frame succeeds in towering over his mother.
“We acknowledge the presence of the Bulgar envoy,” announces Michael, perhaps a touch too loudly.
“We are aware of our brother, the King of the Franks, and his attempts at dominion over you.” This comes out in a more regular tone. “Have you yielded yet?”
Grozdan’s drink-dulled nerves combine with surprise to leave him struggling for words. He lifts his gaze.
He turns to Methodios for help, then back to the dais. “No, Your Worthiness, we have not, but it is not a question of yielding. It is a question of …” he leans over to Methodios to confer – then turns back to the throne, and then to Michael, and bows, “… embracing as brothers.”
Theoktistos is shaking his head. With a raised hand and rings flashing, Theodora checks him. No doubt she wants to see her son perform. As I will want to see you perform one day, my darling Leo. After all, a young Emperor should learn how to do this sort of thing.
Michael’s grin fascinates Vassilis. He has never seen an expression quite like this before, like a young wolf before the pounce.
“An interesting proposal,” Michael says, “but hardly appropriate. You are fortunate to be in the presence of the Chosen of God, the one who represents Christ on Earth, and has power over life and death. Yet you talk of brotherhood!”
Vassilis sees that Michael is even younger than him, perhaps by as much as four years. Is this who leads the Romans? My cunning Peasant senses that Michael lacks authority. And he wonders at the slender limbs, the elegant, ancient features.
“But your dominions are smaller, are they not, mighty Emperor,” says the Envoy, “as others occupy more of them?” Vassilis recalls the fascinating discussions with Methodios and Cyril of lands and people far away. No doubt Grozdan has had similar conversations with Methodios. The Envoy continues. “The Franks and Lombards have all but taken Italy. And I believe that Sicily and Amorion are now the domain of the Abbasid.”
