Queen of lies, p.21
Queen of Lies, page 21
The senators file out, muttering and shaking their heads. Vassilis moves to the foot of the Throne and lowers his head. “There is no need for this great honor. I am always yours to command. You know this.”
Michael climbs down and falls into his arms. He is trembling. “I do. Yet … I am so tired. Without you by my side, I fear that each day will be more wearisome than the one before. You are more than a companion. You are my brother and father as well.”
Vassilis takes this simply. “It is time for you to rest, to get your strength back. You must not concern yourself.”
Michael gazes up into Vassilis’ eyes. “Travel. War. Marriage. All duty – all slavery. We should be the masters. Though what did Plato say … that the masters are the slaves?” With his head on Vassilis’ chest, he murmurs. “I want joy, love, and beauty. Bring me my Ingerina. Only her touch can restore me.”
“I will do as you command,” Vassilis says.
“At my chambers, tomorrow evening. I would have you both there!”
Chapter 26. Knight and bishop to king’s flank
Ten months later, late in the summer of 860 AD
The spicy market smells fill the room, enticing Maria out of bed, even as her gaze falls on the small Icon of Saint Vassilis nailed to the wall – to which she give thanks again for being next to the person – once a boy, now a man – who she wants to wake up next to for the rest of her life.
Constantinos is barely able to wolf down some yogurt and honey before insisting that they head out to play. The new accommodations have worked out well – Maria does not need to go to court if she chooses not to. She would rather spend the day here making new friends at the market and watching their son to make sure he keeps out of trouble.
Vassilis has had his fill of the court lately, even though they have only been back a few months. He would like to be out on campaign again, with Michael. The life of a warrior appeals to a man who has grown up with the boredom of village life.
Constantinos is still quite lonely; his poor Greek does not quite allow him to mix freely and he often suffers abuse for being a Scythian – as do all foreigners from the north. Vassilis has not been able to get him a tutor yet at court, and he wants them to spend more time together, so that Constantinos can learn the old ways: to read a little, pray a lot, and be ready for anything.
Papa has a surprise for him. They are going to spend the whole day together. But first they will go down to the market with mother to buy today’s meal. The boy – a young man a moment ago, but now a child again – embraces him and rushes off to pull on his sandals and a fresh tunic.
The market is a moving mosaic of smells, arguments, and color. Vassilis really has no time for the noise and the debate over prices, but soon there is a monstrous sea bream in the basket and a fine bunch of okra.
“What should we do know, eh?” Vassilis whispers into Constantinos’ ear. “A turn around the bay? Or a race to see who can make it first up the ramparts?”
The child is wide-eyed. Are they allowed up the ramparts? The Companion has the run of the City if he wishes, Vassilis proudly informs. The decision made, they leave mother behind. There is much work to be done, and, anyway, one of her new friends has come around with some honey cakes.
How you loved your boy, my darling Vassilis! I knew it, and I am sorry for what happened. But a hen’s concern is always for her brood. From the condition that Vassilis and Constantinos came home in, Maria can only imagine what must have happened.
They stroll across the courtyards within the Palace complex, skirting the walled walkways. Vassilis proudly points out the Emperor’s quarters but, of course, the young one is not very interested. No matter – there will be plenty of time for him later to show his face at court.
Now away from the Palace, the Hippodrome directly behind them, the stairs of a tower in the south wall materialize from behind a stretch of trees. Vassilis challenges Constantinos to a race up into the dark stairwell. Their legs and lungs burn with effort as they burst out into the sunlight. The Bucoleon Palace squats magnificently at the shoreline in front of them.
“It looks as if the bulls and lions are alive!” says Constantinos. I, too, can gaze at the reflections of these marble ornaments off the Sea of Marmara for hours.
“You beat me! How did you get to be so quick in Pliska?” Vassilis teases.
“My friends would race me to the river every day.” Constantinos nestles against him. “It would have been more fun if you had been there. We climbed lots of trees – there are so many more than here. But here we have the sea. Perhaps one day you can take me out on the bay?”
Now here is the myth Photios believes he invented. It is not his at all. Vassilis believed this before he ever set foot in the City.
“Over this small sea lies Anatolia,” Vassilis says. “A long, deep land, even more beautiful than what we see here. At the end of the land, on the other side of some broad mountains, is our home, the kingdom of Armenia, and far to the south of this is a great city, Caesarea, where my patron saint lived.”
“Why are we here, Papa, and not there?” Constantinos is … was a bright lad. I can easily imagine him thinking hard and questioning everything.
“Because we were thrown here by those more powerful than us. They took your grandparents from the rich lands they lived in and dropped them in a rocky place, leaving us at the mercy of everyone who was more powerful than us, like the Bulgar … and the Romans.”
“But isn’t the Emperor powerful? Couldn’t he have saved them?”
“There was a different Emperor then, a cruel man, who cared neither for us nor what we believed in.”
“Will you be Emperor one day?” I love how children always come up with tricky questions like this. Though yours are sometimes impossible, my bright little Leo.
“I doubt it. But God’s will is difficult to know. As he set up his Son, a man, to be our Lord, so he could take even the lowliest, humblest beggar to be Emperor.”
“You are no beggar!” Constantinos stretches up to touch Vassilis’ face. “You are a very special papa.”
Vassilis pretends to bite his fingers, and then mock wrestles him to the ground. “Why, even you could be Emperor one day!”
Constantinos slips out of his grasp and they hurtle along the ramparts, one after the other, teetering on dangerous slopes, jumping to adjacent walkways, like the arrogant little Macedonian goats on whose milk Vassilis was raised.
As the child tears out of sight around a corner, Vassilis hears a cry. He finds Constantinos lying curled up on the stone floor, blood dripping from an elbow, tears flowing.
Vassilis ignores the wails, does not waste time on comforting, but pulls off his own tunic and tears it into ribbons.
“You are fast, but a bit silly, aren’t you? When you escape danger, you must not allow yourself to fall into something worse. You must be fleet of foot like Achilles, but sure of step like Hercules.”
The wound wrapped up tightly, Vassilis takes him in his arms. I know he adores having his son close to him. He lives for the kisses that the little one showers on his eyes and hands, especially as the tears dry. Constantinos’ cheek rubs against my Peasant’s chest, where I have spent far too few evenings for my own satisfaction. The boy must be getting feverish. He seems to be muttering and repeating himself.
Maria heard the child’s plea many times. “Papa, you went away for so long. I missed you so much. You must never leave me. Promise me that will not happen again!”
Perhaps Vassilis hugs the little one even more tightly as they descend the steps. “You are my greatest hope. You are my life and my dreams. You need never want for anything as long as I am near.”
I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment.
† † †
Without me or anyone else knowing about it, the Comptroller, at Symvatios behest, consults Photios for advice. I read that Photios pities him, being new to the job and eager to impress the Throne. Or perhaps it is vanity on Photios’ part, that men should consult him for advice. The registers reveal a healthy increase in the quantity of merchant ships passing through the Golden Horn, especially to the eastern Themes. However this does not square with the duties being paid. This means that the state is not receive proportionate revenue from all this shipping! Photios calls for an investigation, to which the Comptroller agrees, eager to set his men to action.
Meanwhile gossip entwines itself around the Palace, like a vine groping for sustenance yet unsure where to rest its tentacles. Why are we refusing to let the legates enter the City to resolve the issue? Why does the Emperor play with the papal emissaries, keeping them waiting on the other side of Macedonia for more than a month, professing business and distraction? Michael had been indulging in plans for rebuilding churches and had even commissioned the re-fortification of the city of Ancyra, the ancestral home in Amorion, as well as the redecoration of the Virgin of the Lighthouse chapel, here in the Palace. All this to leave his mark on history, I suspect. At least it is better than the marble stables that are only partially used.
Photios and the Comptroller press the officials for more details on the goings on at customs. Over the months large shipments of olive oil have been coming from Patras to the Golden Horn, where they are resold to merchants taking them onward, mostly on ships destined for Amisos and Trapezus, in the Chaldian and Armeniacon Themes. But the sales are happening on board ship, and transfers from ship to ship are being effected directly, thus escaping the full harbor tax that would normally be applied if these goods were to touch the shore. Photios is cunning: he advises the Comptroller to find out who is involved, but also to do nothing for the time being.
Everyone admires Michael’s pluck, the way he is not opposed to toying with the Pope. The bishops and monks are angry – they are convinced that Photios is encouraging Michael to show strength in order to bolster his own position.
The legates come and go. Vardas and Photios agree that Ignatios can be brought back from Terebinthos, and can perhaps lead the rebuilding of Pilos, after what the Rus did to it. We are all convinced the storm has blown over.
But then Vardas and Photios decide to engage in a little theater. Photios now has all the evidence he needs to prove who was behind the unlawful harbor trading uncovered by the Comptroller.
The two of them enter the Throne Room from the patriarchal entrance on the left side, silently and without the usual ceremony. Rooster and raven strut wing by wing, the purple, gold-lined cloak of the Demestikos shining out against the Patriarch’s sombre garments. Michael’s nose is deep in documents but he is no doubt desperate for the morning’s work to be done.
Vardas fixes an eye on Vassilis and crows: “Don’t I get even so much as a nod? Or the Patriarch, here? Haven’t you learned the correct obeisance in the presence of the Demestikos, or don’t they teach you that in the stables?”
Photios reaches up to hand Michael a sheaf of documents containing the findings of the Comptroller’s men.
“Or perhaps the lessons are different,” Vardas says, “for those who frequent the dock sides? I’ve heard that is where you take your instruction.”
Michael peers suspiciously at the papers in his hand.
Vardas continues. “I am waiting for a decent demonstration of the honor due to my station, Spatharios. Must I wait until old age sets in, until the Abbasid embrace Christ as their savior?”
He walks up to Vassilis and faces him, arms folded. Vassilis normally stands at attendance with hand on wrist – now his arms are at his sides, fists tightening. He forces himself to bow, though his legs tense as if to spring. Vardas reaches out suddenly and pulls my Peasant’s chin up.
“My, my,” Michael says, cocking an eye down at Vassilis, “it is obvious someone has been dipping his finger in the fish stew. Really, I expected something a little less simple-minded, fascinating though it is…”
“The facts we have uncovered are nothing, nephew. There have always been those who try to rob the state of its due.”
“Then there isn’t really any problem with this …?” Michael says, hopefully.
Vardas paces, pretending to be deep in thought. “You are being made to look ridiculous – a laughing stock for anyone with a mind to think it through. This won’t go down well with the soldiers.”
Michael fidgets as Vardas continues. “I think it should be made clear that you do not stand for this sort of deceit, especially not within your own ranks. Don’t you recall how your father felt when he discovered your mother’s business interests? He ordered one of her ships burned! When those close to you deal in underhanded ways, you run the risk of the state being despoiled – involved in petty disputes and other unseemly business.”
“Alright, Uncle, I think you have made your point. So what are we to do?”
“I worry that this knowledge is already public in certain circles. I suggest we deal with it in some suitably public way.”
Michael slips to the floor and places a ringed hand on Vassilis’ shoulder. He whispers in his ear. “I wish you had been a little more careful, don’t you know who you’re dealing with?”
Vardas smiles. “I would recommend something small, say twenty lashings in the Augusteon, no invitations or announcements, just anyone who happens to be passing. How about after a meeting of the Senate? Perhaps ten would suffice. We wouldn’t want to appear too harsh.”
Michael paces for a minute before returning to Vassilis. “I have no choice,” he mumbles. “It’s about reputation. You do understand, don’t you?”
Vassilis pales and appears to be trembling. “As I have said before, I am yours to command.”
“Well,” announces Michael, “that’s all settled then. Let’s get it over with, shall we?” He flashes a sudden grin at everyone. “After all, wasn’t it Cicero who pointed out that the merchant classes are the backbone of society, Patriarch Photios? So it can’t be all that bad.”
He strides across the floor, vanishing without any escort, while guards spring forward at a nod from Vardas, to march my beautiful Peasant off to the gaol.
Chapter 27. Holy trinity
Just over a year later, in the fall of 862 AD
When Vassilis told me what had been going on – much later of course – I chided him severely before I let him speak another word. It was not that he lowered himself to negotiate with scum, even though they professed to be his countrymen, but that he believed that they would keep their mouths shut out of a sense of honor. Someone had bribed them to talk to the Comptroller’s men. Honor counts for nothing among thieves – unless there is a price attached. I would have thought by now that even a peasant would have learned this!
If only Photios really knew what was afoot. Indeed, catching these small fish may have been very useful, distracting Vardas and Photios from much larger prey beyond their reach. How easy it is to be delighted by a full net in the light of the moon, when the sea beyond teems in darkness. You see, my patient Leo, back in the Gynaeconitis we are hearing other things, spiced even further by news of the whipping.
Although there had been no proclamation of the event, the whole court knows about it. We women can’t talk about anything else, so fascinated are we by this stable boy from the sticks, that he should draw upon himself the wrath of the Throne in this way. The confusion stirs the broth even more – some are convinced that the Emperor bears the love that dare not speak its name for the Companion. So how could he let this happen? But I know Michael enough to know that this rumor is not true, and events today prove it to me, were that proof needed.
My curiosity is piqued. How exactly will this so-called justice be served? Though it would not be seemly for women to watch such an event, the day’s work is done, and it is almost time to go home, so I reach for a head scarf, throw caution to the wind, and slip out with Eudokia to the Augusteon, to peer from the shadows. This is when she tells me what Symvatios told her: that Vardas is behind this show of authority. I forgive Michael, though not by much, but resolve to harden my heart toward the old bastard.
Some senators have stopped to watch, but one could hardly call it a gathering. Vassilis is standing with feet apart, facing the wall. The paleness of his arms is a wonder to behold, the muscles in them like knots of exquisite cypress. Thick hair flows down beyond his shoulders and onto his chest, covering his face, so I can only imagine how those fine cheekbones rest against the marble. Even if he were guilty, who could not bring themselves to forgive such a wonderful being!
My heart skips a beat as I conclude that I have made a mistake in coming. I cannot bear to witness that perfect flesh being corrupted, like an Odysseus at the mercy of some cruel Polyphemus. I turn to leave before the whip arrives, dragging Eudokia away.
And what does my Peasant think of such humiliations? Well, he fumes at his own stupidity! How Father would despise him, were he to see such an abomination! How Mother would weep at the shame! He utters an angry verse of Elijah to himself with every blow, leaving scarcely a thought for the pain.
In the days that follow, the gossip turns around how Vassilis took the punishment like a stoic, and how strange it is that he was treated like a common thief. Word has it that Vassilis has played some part in even further business dealings, with buyers and sellers from west to east. That must explain Vardas’ wrath! I am intrigued, though I still have only an inkling of how far this peasant smithy has come from forging metal to forging deals.
Michael has returned from his trip to investigate the new fortifications in Ancyra, so I must prepare once again for our evening games together. The whipping still unsettles me, and I am not particularly of a mind for what he is usually after. This will be my first visit to the newly redecorated Karianos Palace, taken over by Michael since his mother and sisters finally relented and withdrew, though still not tonsured, to the Ta Gastria monastery, and I fear my tongue will get the better of me.
† † †
The weather matches my mood. Thunder rolls over the Palace, driving down sheets of rain. Two eunuchs from Michael’s retinue arrive to escort me and I step hastily through puddles, along mosaic pathways, beneath half walls and dark trees. The necklace around my neck – a gift from Michael – hangs heavy, even as the rain weighs down my cloak, and lashes my hair to my face.
