Queen of lies, p.30
Queen of Lies, page 30
Michael paces impatiently to and fro in the Treasury as Vassilis enters. Photios is there, as is Christoferos, the new Logothete.
“If I understand correctly,” Michael is furious, “we have some figures, although we do not know how far we can trust them. You say there are about three hundred pounds of gold in the treasury?”
Christoferos bows, and picks up a document. “According to the records, when the Emperor Theophilos died he left eighty thousand pounds in the Imperial Treasury reserve fund. The former … Regent added a further eight thousand by the time she … left office, which means Your Worthiness began with about ninety thousand pounds.”
“Are you sure you there are only three hundred left?” asks Michael nervously. “You don’t mean three thousand?”
The officials gaze nervously at the floor. Christoferos ventures a nod in the affirmative. Everyone knows that both Symvatios and Michael are to blame for this, the former for giving in to the latter’s whims at every opportunity.
“Well,” Michael says, “does anyone have any suggestions? It is obvious that we are in trouble. And now the rumors of an insurrection run rife. I fear not only that I have no support in the Senate, and that we might have to fight our own Generals, but that now we cannot even afford to reimburse the lowliest foot soldier! What do I pay all of you for if you can’t deal with this kind of thing? How much was spent on the successful campaigns, against Melitene, and in Crete?”
“Preliminary calculations,” says Christoferos, “predict about eighty-five to ninety thousand pounds were spent, at most, on these ventures, primarily on weapons and machinery. Given salaries and taxes over the last twelve years, that still leaves ten to twenty thousand unaccounted for.”
Michael turns to Photios. “My dear Patriarch, you see where we are. What is your assessment?”
“Worthiness,” he says, “our churches are ideally places of contemplation and worship. Neither the Theotokos nor our Savior demand the extravagances that we have lavished on them recently, since the Iconoclast heresy was abolished.”
“Noble Patriarch,” Vassilis begins. “The gist of your suggestion amazes me. Surely you should be the keeper of the holy relics, not their merchant. Brother Emperor, I don’t doubt that this is the work of Symvatios again. But I think we should have words in private. Leave us now.”
Michael lays his head on Vassilis’ shoulder and grins rather sheepishly up at him. Vassilis is furious that we should be in such debt that we are forced to destroy our holy treasures. Fortunately we have a Theotokos of our own – the widow Danielli, as it turns out.
Chapter 37. The confidence of friends
Three months later, in the winter of late 866 AD
Our appeal to the coffers of Patras is dispatched none too soon, for the rumors of insurrection turn out to be horribly true. Just as soon as Marianos is appointed to the office of Demestikos, Symvatios, bitter and raging, sets tongues wagging when he sends his family secretly to their holiday home in Mytilene.
Then Symvatios himself vanishes from the court and sails off across the straits of the Bosporus, into the arms of his boyhood companion, George Peganes, the new Count of Opsician. What a fine pair! History is set to repeat itself – Opsician has always been the land of rebellion. Peganes heads a battalion and advances on the City, ravaging as he goes. If that is not enough, they denounce my Vassilis at every step, while loudly evincing their support for what they call `the good Emperor’.
How devious Vassilis must have seemed then. Photios writes that Vassilis must be the very hand of God, his destiny playing itself out little by little, in small ways winning everyone to him. Little does Photios realize, until now, the hearts Vassilis succeeded in winning, and the minds he employed to cunning ends, including many of our young officials.
In truth, the cunning sprung from all of us. Marianos uses his acquaintances among many of the rebel troops to distribute pamphlets to the rebel commanders. I humbly submit to Photios’ opinion – that the pamphlet was a stroke of genius, denouncing Symvatios and Peganes as traitors and rebels, and citing the many ways in which Vassilis – a man of humble background – had become the protector of the City, by the grace of the Theotokos herself! After all, I composed and dictated the pamphlet’s text to the scribes myself!
I make sure that there is no mention of Michael, lest it appear openly like treason, although anyone with an iota of understanding can easily perceive the implications. We assume that Michael would never lower himself to lay eyes on the pamphlet itself.
Vassilis spends long hours urging Michael to crush the rebels, while the two of them gallop side by side across verdant plains, like the Greeks of old, piercing fowl or deer with one of their arrows, Vassilis behind Michael’s shoulder, guiding him with wordless touches and gestures.
But sometimes fortune provides that small, vital gift that guarantees success. In this case it is a special hero – a virtually unknown commander, Nikolaos Maleinus. Not only is this fine young man prepared to defend the Realm, but he is ready to do so immediately. To everyone’s amazement a small but believable force materializes. In the space of two weeks, Maleinus succeeds in capturing Peganes with virtually no resistance. A week later he comes across Symvatios himself at an inn, his rebel troops having all but deserted him.
Now the two Emperors sit shoulder to shoulder in the Balcony, taking in the punishment for treason, as prescribed by Justinian. In some ways it is like a return to the days of the gladiators, looking down into the Hippodrome, the Senate assembled obediently behind them, and the small crowd bursting with curiosity below.
The hot irons are ready. Down in the pit, the new Eparch of the City, one Constantine Myares, has the ceremonial duty of plunging them into the traitors’ left eyes. Marianos is present alongside him – in his new role as Demestikos – to witness, as protocol demands, the administration of the sentence. Myares is clearly not up to the task, so Marianos moves over to take up the instruments. The crowd draws breath as one. The traitors cry out in anguish as their faces vanish in smoke.
Marianos proceeds to the second stage of the ceremony. The message must be made clear – that treason cannot be countenanced. A sharp sword appears and bloodied hands thud onto the ground. Stumps are bound roughly as the traitors double over onto their severed limbs. Their screams echo off stone seats and even stonier faces. The final part will be the worst – the humiliation of being made to stand at the gates of the Hippodrome with a bowl for alms, for at least a month.
† † †
Indeed, not even the great Photios could unravel the mystery! To him, and to everyone else, Vassilis was the hand of God. After all, how could a mere woman come up with such plans? If only everyone had thought a little harder it would have been obvious. We both understood what was needed; and bore the hope that drove us to it. For hope, in the darkest hour, is the distant candle on which you fix your gaze. It is the pinch of light that directs your stride when everything around you is shrouded with dread.
In celebration of the defeat of the rebels, Michael summons his favorites one evening to a sailor’s tavern. Vassilis descends to the harbor with Michael hanging on to him, staggering and singing. They enter to loud cheers. Nicetas and Anatellon of the Greens are there, as are a party of charioteers, and of course Vassilianiscus is there, his dark complexion all grins and simpering amicability.
“Seal the doors,” smiles Michael, clapping the tavern master on the back. “And bring us enough wine to last the night.”
The tables are pulled apart to allow a space in the center for the Emperors. Vassilis raises a goblet “I propose a toast – to the power of the one, true, ecumenical, orthodox and catholic Throne.” Sagely nods all round are followed by gulps of wine.
“And to the jerk-offs who try to abuse it!” calls out Michael, going over to Vassilis to stand beside him. This get roars of approval. “May their alm bowls be empty …,” he grimaces, hiding his hand up his sleeve, and stares menacingly around him”… and their bowels full to overflowing!” He knocks back the contents of his goblet to hoots of laughter.
Vassilianiscus says, “What of the Pope, and the Bulgar, your Serenities? Are we indeed one community in Christ?”
Michael frowns, then smiles. “Boris is not tempted again by Rome,” he says, propping one foot on a bench. “Pope Nicholas is a desperate man. He will do anything to bring Boris to Rome – even if it means baptizing himself in his own piss.” More guffaws from the gathering. “That way he can be amply on our doorstep – his legates eager to flit in and out of the City. Before we know it – we will become barbarians, speaking Latin!”
“Bugger the Latins, bugger the Latins, …,” the men thump the tables.
“That is one way to look at it,” Vassilis says as they drink. “But Photios’ words have done more harm than good. Do you know that he has given not the slightest thought to what Boris has requested – a new Bulgar patriarch?” Vassilianiscus cocks an eye at this.
“Clearly Boris wants to have more local control,” Vassilianiscus says. “I can’t say that I blame him. Why doesn’t he send one of our bishops?”
At this Michael makes a great show of looking around, his gaze alighting on one of the charioteers. “How about Nicetas here. I’ll appoint him bishop tomorrow! He’s the kind of thug who could convince a statue to shit marble!”
This gets laughs and jibes from everyone. Then Michael announces: “Come on, everyone, let’s have some theater. Vassilianiscus, attend! You play me, and I’ll play Photios.”
The men arrange a chair on the table and push Vassilianiscus up onto it with some difficulty. Michael throws a table cloth around his shoulders and hunches over.
“I am adamant,” Michael simpers in Photios’ well-rounded tones, “that we do not need to send any more of my bishops to my godson the Khan.”
“Why, Patriarch?” Vassilianiscus says. “Is it because you still struggle to control your priests even here in the City? Because you do not know how to keep them in obligation to you. Because you hem and haw, and would get confused by your own stole if it did not hang about your neck!”
“Yes, Worthiness,” moans Michael, “How can I exert influence over someone in Pliska when I can’t even stop turds shooting out of my own backside?”
The gathering collapses in mirth. Vassilis frowns, waiting for the laughter to subside. “Photios is a kind and honest man,” he says, “and does not deserve this kind of abuse.”
“Yes, but he is not a very political man,” Vassilianiscus retorts. “What is the point in dispatching to Boris two tomes of the history of the church? What else did he write about? The duties of a Christian prince, the functions of the Ecumenical Councils. All this to someone new to the faith who worries chiefly whether to celebrate the Easter Resurrection mass in the morning or the evening before? Or whether confession should be in Greek or the Bulgar tongue?”
“I agree with my brother,” Michael says, throwing off the cloak. “That’s quite enough silliness for tonight. But what the Khan needs is a helping hand, not a lecture. What about our monks already in Pliska? Can’t they help him out with these rather mundane questions?”
Vassilianiscus climbs down from the table. He says “These very monks are the cause of Boris’ concern, Worthiness. He frets about exactly the same thing that worries you when you imagine the Latins invading the City. Too many foreigners.”
“Then we should help Photios win some favor,” Michael says. “At least in the City. What will do it?’
The men debate and revel into the night. Vassilis knows, as I know, that wine will do little to ease the anger he feels at his brother’s stupidity. Yet plans are often borne out of that cavernous space that fills the end of any drunken discourse, and this night is no exception.
It is mid morning before Michael rolls awake on his bed. He leaps to his feet without any warning, throws a cloak over his shoulder, and orders guards to summon Vassilis, a unit of soldiers and a chariot.
Swathes of dust fill the gray airlessness of the Ayia Sofia’s mausoleum as the soldiers lift corpses from discarded marble slabs. Michael brooks no words of redress from Vassilis, and before long they find themselves in a chariot, hooves raising the dust of the Hippodrome, dragging a bizarre load behind them.
A small crowd has gathered. But this is no victory celebration.
The Emperors parade two stacks of bones topped with skulls and held together with rope and crumbling tunics. Learn your history well, my little Leo. One of them, belonging to Constantine “The Shitter”, has been consumed by more than fifty years of worm-cosseted dust. The other bones are newer; Patriarch John the Grammarian died less than ten years before this ridiculous event. Silent onlookers mill down the steps onto the dust as the Imperial brothers stop the chariot every so often, taking turns to smash the remnants of the corpses with whips.
As they complete a final ride around the Hippodrome, Vassilis notices the continued silence swallowing their progress. There are few cheers. Clearly the memory of the Iconoclast heretics has passed, at least for the common folk. They certainly don’t care as much as we do about these matters. Michael looks a fool, though a happy one. Vassilis and I confer. We agree that this kind of thing has to stop, as soon as possible.
† † †
There is a new servant in Michael’s quarters, a Paulician, and one of ours. We have made sure he tells us everything. The ranting, the weeping, even when His Worthiness vacates himself.
The tears stream down Michael’s face again tonight. The many candles, the wine, even the presence of extra servants fails to soothe him. He calls for a massage. Slave hands smooth oil across the Imperial limbs while thick fingers rub deep in the flesh, to just the right point. This role was once the duty of my peasant Emperor. But now that he occupies an Imperial bed all his own, Michael, in truth, has no one to turn to.
Michael rambles, the goblet never far. “Is the child mine? Or was Vardas’ lust responsible only for the previous one, the one we lost? The dark waves on its head look nothing like the lighter color of Vardas, of Theodora’s family.”
“Calm yourself, Worthiness” says the Paulician servant.
“Is my brother on his way?” Michael groans. “Am I to be left alone all evening?”
Michael takes off his robe and turns onto his chest. The servant oils and pummels his back.
The lock rattles – Vassilis is there. More metal on metal as he sets down his cloak.
“How could you leave me alone for so long?” Michael whines.
Vassilis lies down alongside Michael, caressing him with words. “Stop worrying. I am here. What is it? Come now! Cheer up! All is as we planned it. The court is ours, ready to carry out our every wish. Do you wish for me to arrange Ingerina?”
Michael turns slowly onto an elbow and searches Vassilis’ eyes. “Vardas was a father to me. You know this. How could he touch her? Why would he wish to break my soul in this way? I have not forgiven her either. No, I wish for nothing tonight. I am tired of everyone.” He drops back onto the couch.
Vassilis pulls him up gently. With a cloth he wipes away the remaining oil, with another he dabs away the tears.
“You know there was no way we could go on. You had lost all face at court. You had to show a strong hand! It is the only way with this den of slanderers and crooks.”
“But what will I do without him? I cannot bear the Throne Room any more, and the Senate is a bunch of whining pederasts. Not to mention the monks and bishops who never stop reminding me of the loss of their treasures. When will the widow’s gold reach us? Where are we supposed to find the money to go on if it doesn’t arrive?”
The last is what Vassilis has been working at all day. The gold leaf is being peeled from the walls of the site of their sacred union, the Chapel of the Virgin of the Lighthouse, but we agreed to leave the other churches alone. Why would we incur the wrath of the bishops? Michael doesn’t need to know of the negotiations with the Generals, that Vassilis is holding them off while Danielli’s gold arrives.
For my part, who needs church ornaments anyway? Life is more important than golden boxes, no matter how ornate. Though one evening Vassilis terrifies me, when I use these very words to him, by flying into one of his dark rages again. How could we possibly destroy the Holy Reliquaries?
“You must help,” whines Michael to Vassilis. “Will you take this burden from me, my dear brother?”
Where are the joyful times together now? The games of backgammon, the bags of wine after swimming side by side in a river, the pheasant hunts. A man who cannot control his feelings is more contemptible than a badly dressed woman – both leave a foul taste in one’s mouth.
Does my Emperor seek advantage from the situation? Does he trace Michael’s enduring leanness with one hand, even as the other hand eases Michael’s shoulders and neck? Does his warm breath blow over the Emperor’s cheek as Vassilis drinks in his smell? Perhaps thighs come to rest against each other as Vassilis puts a leg over him, the better to massage him, of course!
“I am here for you,” Vassilis’ breathes softly in Michael’s ear. “There is nothing to worry about. You must rest and, if you wish, mourn for your uncle’s passing. He was a great man – but he played where he should not have. You will be greater yet.”
This time Michael doesn’t seem to mind Vassilis’ lips on his cheek, a tongue lovingly exploring the line of his jaw, arms enfolding him. As they sink back onto the couch, I imagine Michael feels at peace the way I do when I curl up into Vassilis’ frame.
Michael murmurs. “I regret now that I gave in to Symvatios’ request. I should never have allowed George Peganes to become Count of Opsician.” He reaches out to cup Vassilis’ cheek, but does that disarm him? Does he chance to release some of his burning lust? No, he has learned his lesson.
“These events are all in the past, brother,” Vassilis says. “Forget them. In the morning we will gather some young men and go hunting in the countryside. I will arrange for Ingerina to visit you tomorrow evening. We will drink, dance, and make love. Life and empire are forever. Grief and regret are for the weak. They will pass, as does everything in this world. Do not forget you now have a child of your flesh. What more could you possibly ask for?”
