Queen of lies, p.33
Queen of Lies, page 33
Vassilis helps him into a sitting position next to the basin. Michael should have something around his waist, so I throw Vassilis Michael’s britches. He covers Michael’s shriveled modesty.
“You must forgive me, brother,” Vassilis says. “What I do now I do for all of us. Have another drink.”
Vassilis tips a goblet into Michael’s mouth and then kisses him again, quite deeply. He lays him down carefully, stretching his arms out and away from his sides. But clearly every movement is an act of will for him. The grating of his sword as he draws it from its sheath seems unnatural in the quiet. The tears seep from his eyes. I lay a hand on his shoulder in encouragement, but he tears away from me and turns to face the door.
John Chaldis takes him aside with a half-grin. “So! Not so strong now, Your Worthiness? What are we to do?”
“What you must do,” I say, “is clear. Here is the Christ-emblazoned Emperor, the rightful holder of the Imperial Throne. None other should share this title.” I look deep into my Emperor’s eyes as I tear at his tunic, ripping it down the front. I turn him around for all to see.
“The Chi-Rho,” they gasp. “Truly, he has been touched by Christ!” The men gather around, placing their hands on Vassilis’ breast, on the wounds of Michael’s handiwork.
“Come,” says Chaldis. “We will do the deed.”
“The Emperor should not be present,” Marianos says. He takes Vassilis by the arm and leads him out. I follow on the other arm. John Chaldis and Jakovitzes stand poised above Michael.
With identical strokes from each of the men, Michael’s hands flop to the floor. He writhes and cries out as the stumps flail wildly, spraying blood everywhere.
Vassilis tears himself away and runs back, falling to his knees, grabbing a cloth as he does so. “Quickly – before he loses too much.” The basin clouds with blood.
Then he is back on his feet. “Where is the physician? Why isn’t he present?” he howls.
It is not fitting that an Emperor should writhe before the people so wretchedly. I surprise everyone, including myself.
“Come on you idiots,” I say, “We cannot let him die.” I grab his arms and try to lift them, to stem the flow of blood.
Vassilis’ hands crush mine as he pulls them away from Michael. I feel the terrible weakness of being a woman. We may be superior in most things but not when it comes to brute strength. I flinch under his terrible gaze as Michael moans. Vassilis shouts at me, “We should not be here, what will you tell your son one day!”
As we rush from the room I look back over my shoulder to see Michael face gripped in disbelief. He struggles to rise, only to fall back, the stumps spurting fresh, bright blood over his face.
In the adjacent bedchamber everyone circles in indecision. “Where is the physician?” Vassilis agonizes. “His arms must be cauterized immediately!”
The men demur, their faces twisted in guilt and weakness, as Michael’s cries echo next door. Vassilis calls for the servants. Then the physician arrives. Vassilis barks orders for the fire to be built up. He takes the physician by the arm. I stop them.
“Why do we need to do anything?” I say. “Let justice be served.”
Vassilis frowns at me, and then pushes me aside. The sense of being released from a lifelong prison suddenly blazes inside me
“It is probably too late,” I say. “The cuts were too high. He will not last long.”
Vassilis keeps shaking his head. I continue. “How long has he got? A few hours, perhaps a day at most? While he suffers what is our position? Do you plan to escort a complete invalid back to the Palace? There are still those who would stand in his defense – in defense of the old ways.”
“Have you forgotten our dream?” I say. “Our goals? One day our children should mount the Throne. Your children, not Michael’s. What about the one I carry?”
The door to the bath chamber rattles. The men jump back. It is Michael, trying, but failing, to open the door. Blood seeps into the room as he pushes against it.
“If you love him then allow him this mercy,” I say. I beckon for Marianos and remove a dagger I had hidden within my robe. I press it into his hand. He says nothing and pushes past me.
There is a strangled howl followed by a sudden splash. Vassilis rushes inside. I slowly pull open the door. Vassilis is up to his knees in the water, Michael hangs limp in his arms. The basin is a lake of red. Tears stream down Vassilis’ cheeks in a way which I will only ever see one other time.
You must be wondering, little Leo, why I let this happen to your father? There was a time when I loved him. But there can only be one Emperor, just as there can only be one head on a person. Even you, who will be crowned Emperor soon, will learn that you need to make choices every day. I had to choose the man who could be the father you needed and the leader we all needed. It had little to do with how I felt about either of them.
Vassilis is once again in front of me. I feel the tears and blood on my face as he holds it between his hands. “Do not tell me the child you bear is Michael’s?”
“It is not,” I say. “It is yours.” As far as I can tell, I know this to be true.
Marianos forces his way between us. “Rest easy, brother. All is as it should be.”
I take Vassilis’ arm in mine and guide him from the room. “The times have changed!” I cry out. “The Palace is ours. Prepare the boat for our return. The people will see that have done what was needed, that we are here to restore order. We must enter the Palace before the servants wake up the Senate and chaos descends. The future is ours for the taking!”
† † †
The Palace is deathly quiet and gloomy, like the overcast sky above. At first Vassilis and I worry at the silence, then relax at the absence of protest. By the evening of our return Vassilis summons the Senate to order and they, as agreeable as a herd of deer, renew their oath of full allegiance to him as the chosen Emperor of all the Romans. Not even the meekest voice of outrage or disagreement is heard! I am forced to admit the obvious: either they cringe in terror at my Peasant Emperor, or they welcome Michael’s departure. Either explanation satisfies me!
So here is my Vassilis, alone on his Throne, in full Imperial robes, boots, and crown, having summoned Photios to hear his orders. Ignatios is there as well, grinning from ear to ear. Vassilis pronounce Photios’ banishment to the island of Stenos. Does he finally understand what John the Grammarian must have felt all those years ago? But no, my little Leo, this was not an act of revenge on Photios, it was pure politics. We had to deal with facing down Hadrian, the cunning new Bishop of Rome.
We allow Photios a last wish, to pay his respects to Michael. Yet he still finds time for a final word, even though he has already slipped his special volume recording all these events to his brother to hide it in the Chapel of the Virgin of the Pharos. How cunning he was to instruct Tarasios very clearly not to take it to his library.
Photios writes that he takes a boat to the Palace of Saint Mamas, where he descends into the flagstone-decked gloom of the mausoleum. An old mosaic of Saint Vassilis is there, yet to be properly restored, peering out from under flaked plaster in the cross-hatching of reflected light. The Icons thrust into our world; they are not windows, but intrusions, he writes. They admonish us, but give no clue as to what ephemeral glories or darkness lie waiting behind their stern gaze. That is why those of us born as Iconoclasts never cared much for them.
The old Regent weeps, her expression old and lined from all the tears. Constant sorrow dries one out, or so I’m told.
She clasps at the cloth in search of hands that are no longer there, to hold something of her child, to comfort him as she herself needs to be comforted. Photios covers the shrunken, blue-tinged foot which has crept out from under the green brocaded blanket that usually covered Michael’s favorite chariot horse before a race.
Theodora’s sobs wring out. “First, a husband, then a dear friend, then both brothers. Then a grandchild I never knew. Now … my little Michael. Oh Father God, will you never stop crucifying me!”
Photios puts an arm around her shoulders.
“Christ gave up his life,” she weeps, “but I have given up six times as much!”
“You must be brave,” he says. “These are difficult times”.
Thekla and Michael’s other sisters are there too: Anna, Anastasia, and now not so little Pulcheria. They weep too, but for their mother’s pain, not the loss of their brother.
A guard strides toward them, kicking fragments of rubble out of his way. “The Emperor has commanded that the body not be left to lie in the catacombs, but be taken across the Bosporus. Leave! You will not want to witness our travails.”
It is unfortunate that Michael will not be laid to rest in the mausoleum of the Ayia Sofia, as tradition demands, but, again, we cannot afford to show any leniency.
Photios writes that he tries to speak to Theodora’s pain. I did not know he had such compassion in him. “Dear cousin, fear not, he will live on … through your grandsons.”
The words mean nothing to her. “My son must not be taken from me. He has every right to lie with his ancestors, near me, where I have prepared a place for him, for all of us. He will be absolved – he didn’t understand – he is innocent!”
† † †
The complexity of the preparations for my coronation seems excessive, but an Augusta’s coronation is even more elaborate than most other rituals. After all, women are the most important force in the cosmos, the givers of life.
The Augusteon is filled to bursting with senators, officials, and their wives. They crowd around waiting for their part in the ceremony. I process on Vassilis’ left. Patriarch Ignatios and visiting Metropolitans are right behind us. The Patriarch brings the procession to a halt with several loud thumps of his staff.
He blesses the Imperial tunic, crown and pendants. Together with Vassilis, he lowers a ruby and emerald encrusted tunic over my white robe. Vassilis and the Patriarch crown me over my veil. Vassilis drapes beaded pendants across the crown. I delight in the sumptuousness of it all.
The thrones arrive, both of them simple affairs. We sit to receive the procession: wave upon wave of officials, from the first to the eleventh rank, first prostrating themselves, then kissing our knees. Then their wives and mothers arrive and effect obeisances with three deep reverences, though not quite to the floor, and similar kissing of knees. But the air chokes me with damp and stuffiness, and I am conscious that we have barely started.
I realize I have never witnessed such a ritual before. I suspect few alive have, for such a ceremony has not happened in at least thirty years, since Theodora ascended alongside her Theophilos.
We are on the move again, with the most senior senators’ wives surrounding us. A bunch of old hags, really, but I must do my best to play along for soon I will have need of them. Vassilis leans across and mentions that he should have arranged for Danielli to be here. I nod in agreement. But her time will come.
The statue of the Golden Hand greets us at the portico of the Augusteon. Ritual dictates that Christoferos the Logothete should dismiss those gathered and before he hands me over to my new ladies in waiting.
They accompany me to the portico of the Single Foot, at which the elderly patricians kneel with cries of many good years.
I arrive at the Diakonikon, where an enormous curtain hangs between the two main pillars. A group of young senators throw themselves to the floor suddenly, shouting ritual acclamations, startling me!
With the curtain drawn aside, banners dazzle the eye, rattling in the stiff breeze. Fresh air, at last! The staircase to the Balcony is lined by the Counts and Generals in full ceremonial dress. Scepters and insignias of the Themes frame a huge crucifix. I ascend the stairs with the Logothete and present myself to the Hippodrome. I have to steady myself to endure the immense wave of jubilation which cascades over me.
The Greens and the Blues begin their endless chanting. I could wait here forever. Perhaps Photios is right – perhaps royal blood does flow in our veins. But I don’t care about the past. The future is what matters most, especially that of my family.
The standards and ensigns are lowered in ritual self-abasement. The cries of “Worthy, worthy, may you live long” fall like manna, lining the Balcony with dreams to be fulfilled. I turn back to watch Vassilis ascend the steps toward me, a smile on his lips, arm extended, his fingers curling in anticipation of the Imperial hand I will place within it.
We turn to face the Hippodrome as one.
Acknowledgments
This work would have been impossible without the commitment, interest, and contributions of my parents, Amalia-Eleni and Nicholas, and many dear friends, among them Leonardo Roumieh, Adam Stevens, Laurence Lily, Nike Kojakovič, Douglas Leckie, Ray Hamilton, Sarah Ruden, Joy Hayes, Matt Edge, Lambros Bourodimos, Khanh Nguyen, Caroline Spencer, Jim Watts, Elena Jessup, Ilyas Malick, Lucy Lamb, and Barbara Lowi, who all took time out of their busy lives to read the manuscript in a variety of draft forms and comment on my handling (or otherwise!) of the material.
In writing fiction based on history one must often interpolate between the facts, and make inference where more informed minds would balk. At the same time one has a duty to make the times as accessible as possible without foisting modern norms and assumptions onto the past. Any resulting mistakes are mine alone, and not due to a lack of fine scholarship on the subject.
Concerning the latter, I am indebted to the research of Arnold Toynbee, Judith Herrin, John Haldon, John Geanakoplos, Oliver Mango, Gilbert Dagron, Steve Tougher, Benedict Benedikz, Despina Stratoudaki-White, Angeliki Laiou, George Saliba, Joachim Henning, Ioli Kalavrezou, Lynda Garland, Paul Magdalino, Maria Mavroudi, and John Boswell.
Sources of literary inspiration include the writings of two of the very few known female writers of the time, Anna Komnena and Kassia the Nun; Oliver Mango’s translations of Photios’ epistles and sermons; Sarah Ruden’s translation of Lysistrata; John Haldon’s translation of the Testamentum Porcelli fragment; Ivan Morris’ translation of the The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon; and anonymous translations of Homer’s Odyssey and Abbè Guettèe.
Editorial services have been provided by Jennifer Quinlan of Historical Editorial. I am deeply grateful for her probing questions and thoughtful suggestions.
Notes
I use dates in modern notation, viz. AD, rather than the Hebrew system in use back then, which started with the Biblical date of creation (and in which 842 AD would have been 4602 Anno Mundi). I have tried to retain a flavor of the times by translating some terms and using others in transliteration, where, by my judgment, readability will not be needlessly hampered. Most special terms are listed and explained in the below. I have used the modern terms such as “Iconoclast” throughout rather than the needlessly verbose “followers of the Isaurian heresy.” I also refer to specific geographical features in modern terms, such as the Sea of Marmara (rather than the Propontis), the Black River (Mavropotamus), and Anatolia (to refer to the region that makes up modern day mainland Turkey and which would probably have simply been called “Asia” back then), but retain, somewhat inconsistently, a phonetic spelling for some people’s names where, I believe, it adds richness.
In almost all cases I have retained modern English spelling where place names are involved (Bosporus instead of Vosporos, Macedonian rather than Makedonian, and Constantinople rather than Constantinopolis). However I have chosen to use “Augusta” as well as Empress depending on the context (not every consort of an Emperor was a designated ruler) but have decided to stick to Emperor rather than use the Greek term Vassilleos (to avoid confusion with a major character’s name).
This brings up an unfortunate aspect of writing about this period – infants were frequently baptized with names from a limited pool of possibilities, invariably associated with historical acts of benevolence or great import, mostly Christian in origin or construction. The abundance of names prefixed with “Theo” (Greek for “God”) is one example , and I hope you will not be confused between Theodora, Theophilos, Theoktistos, etc. To avoid inundating you further with numerous references to similarly-dubbed yet very different minor characters I have renamed some of them.
The above is particularly true of the very common name Constantine. To avoid confusion with the original Constantine the Great I have tried to use alternatives wherever possible. For example, I refer to Vassilis’ first born as Constantinos. Also, the scholar Cyril was born with the name Constantine. He only adopted the name Cyril late in life, when he took holy orders, but I have used the latter throughout. I trust that scholars will forgive me this gloss.
On the subject of names, I should point out that the use of nicknames was both common and a common source of ridicule. It is important to understand that ridicule was, in itself, a form of humor at court, and probably a release from the tedium of hours of ritual and procession. The epithet “Dickbreath” is my invention, but Constantine “the Shitter” is my translation of Constantine V’s court moniker Copronymus (literally, the dung-named). Many nicknames were in even worse taste, at least from a modern point of view, and I have omitted mention of these from this text.
A final note, which will be expanded further online, centers on historicity. Virtually all the characters existed, though any information on their motives, and frequently on their origins, is extremely sparse. If my interpolation of the events they experienced and the decisions they made – based on available fact – jars with what the recorded histories say, it is partly in those instances where the main sources disagree. Much of the history of the characters portrayed is colored by a hagiographical approach to relating events. The effect is to remove the less appealing bits and focus on the `holier’ aspects of the life being related. I refer here mainly to the events of Vassilis’ arrival in Constantinople, which are shrouded in mystery, as is his birth.
