Then came the matter Joannes had prompted the Logothete to raise. The new Caliph of Egypt, Moustanir Billah,’ the Logothete humbly intoned, his stubby fingers clasped almost penitently to his chest, ‘is proving himself the very manifestation of peaceful coexistence between Rome and the Arab world. He has released tens of thousands of Christian captives from the caliphate’s dungeons. He has entered into a thirty-year treaty of peace with the Roman Empire. He has kept passage to Jerusalem open to Christians who wish to journey to the Holy Shrines. And to crown his achievements, he has authorized rebuilding of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Is it not time to honour this Saracen avatar of Christian virtues with a gesture of regard for his estimable conduct?’
The Emperor nodded.
‘What is your suggestion, Logothete?’ asked Joannes.
‘What better way to express our respect and trust for the Caliph, and indeed convey to the ordinary Roman taxpayer the peace that Roman hegemony has brought to the entire civilized world, than for eminent and honoured Roman dignitaries to lead a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre of Christ Pantocrator in Jerusalem?’
‘And what dignitaries would the Logothete suggest as appropriate to the significance of this new accord in the lands where Our Lord was sinlessly made incarnate in flesh?’ asked Joannes. ‘We must not offend the Caliph by sending him any less than his equal in rank and diplomacy.’
‘It would, of course, be inconceivable to ask our Emperor Father to make such a time-consuming journey at a time when his children are in desperate need of his Holy Presence. But perhaps the Empress Mother, who has spared no effort on previous occasions to vouchsafe her exemplary piety, would lead the Roman standards on a pilgrimage of such profound implication that it may well be thought to augur the millennium of the Pantocrator’s Holy Kingdom. I pray that our Emperor Father will bless us with the loan of his living treasure, though it is certain that for him, and indeed for those of us who will remain in the Empress City, each moment without our Blessed Mother will be a torment to echo the diabolical distresses Christ Pantocrator Himself endured in the wilderness.’
Joannes looked around the room. The Dhynatoi would concur in this initiative, since such a profound expression of Saracen-Christian accord would almost immediately escalate the value of their estates in the Eastern themes, which had long suffered from Arab raids. And their dung hauler, the Grand Domestic Dalassena, would certainly have to join their accord, even though he knew that he could not even guarantee the Empress safe passage from Cesare Mazacha to Adana in the heart of Roman Asia Minor!
Joannes turned his lowered palm forward, signalling the Emperor that he should reply. Of course the Lord of the Entire World would accede to this request; the idea of a pilgrimage would appeal to his ardent piety, but less so than the opportunity to remove himself from the scheming harlot who plagued him to distraction with her unyielding demands for the most lascivious affections. The woman was a menace, and Joannes longed for the day when she would prove unnecessary.
When the Emperor had given his approval, Joannes thought of the small matter that had troubled him earlier. He was fatigued from the meeting but reminded himself that the enormity of his responsibility required unremitting attention to detail.
‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ said Joannes, ‘let me presume to acknowledge the angelic quality of your affections for our Mother the Empress, a model of devotion such that even those of us who love the Holy Theotokos as we do cannot hope to exceed the adoration you have vested in our earthly Mother’s precious vessel. And so to protect this wondrously adorned yet fragile vessel, I would suggest her guard be augmented with a special gift to her Holy Presence, a force of Tauro-Scythians of proven ferocity and dauntless ability in dealing with foes of Christendom. The Tauro-Scythians who vanquished the despicable Saracen miscreants off the coast of Africa are languishing in disuse, and I fear that their services will soon be lost to the Roman Empire if they are not given employment suitable to their evident worth as champions of Christ. Name these men as the Empress’s special guard, and the Mother of God herself will take our Mother’s hand as she ventures forth to pray for us at the shrines of Christ the King.’
The Emperor quickly agreed, and Joannes watched the Grand Domestic Dalassena’s eyes, looking for a sign. As he had suspected, he saw nothing.
‘Purple.’ Even Halldor’s voice was edged with fatigue, shock and rage. Asbjorn Ingvarson’s funeral pyre, which had burned in the courtyard all afternoon, still sent a raven-sooted plume into the indigo sky. The authorities had barred the gates and prevented the Varangians from burying the young Swede at sea, and it had taken all of Haraldr’s force as a leader to keep his men from breaking out and assaulting the city walls.
‘Purple?’ asked Ulfr numbly. He jerked his head up. His chair scraped against the stone paving of the little store-room.
Halldor spoke like a man in a trance, determined to make his point to listeners he could scarcely see. ‘When the first two Emperors died, the woman passed the crown to their successors, neither of whom wore purple when they first appeared. Purple implies royal lineage.’
Haraldr tried to focus on Halldor’s words through his own scarcely controllable fury. Although he had not known Asbjorn Ingvarson well, the agreeable young pagan had been one of his most devoted pledge-men, and his death screamed for Odin’s vengeance; Asbjorn’s soul could not begin the long journey through the spirit world while his murderer remained in the middle realm. But Haraldr realized that his sword was sheathed by his own ignorance; as yet he could only guess at the identity of the murderer of Asbjorn Ingvarson. He was convinced, however, that Euthymius’s curious mime provided them important clues. He struggled to make sense of Halldor’s reasoning.
‘So you see,’ Halldor droned on, ‘the man the monk brought in on his horse, who was surely intended to represent the Emperor who received you, Haraldr, is not of royal blood.’
Haraldr nodded, his intellect finally stirring. ‘So this “bitch-whore” is the last of the Bulgar-Slayer’s lineage, and the kiss of her loins can legitimize any would-be Emperor skilled in aiming the lance he carries between his legs.’
‘The monk gave the last Emperor his crown,’ rebutted Ulfr.
‘But the Emperor still had to embrace the “bitch-whore” in order to receive the crown and purple robe,’ countered Halldor.
‘Why would the monk pick this particular man?’ mused Haraldr, almost to himself.
‘You’re certain this monk is the same one you saw that night at Nicephorus Argyrus’s?’ asked Ulfr.
‘No. There are so many black-frocks among these Romans. I could never be certain. But this Joannes – I am certain that was his name – inspired fear, as if he could indeed topple an Emperor and raise up another in his stead. And his name is whispered, here and there, again and again.’
‘I believe that this Joannes was the monk portrayed here last night,’ ventured Halldor. ‘And clearly the Emperor, a usurper with no blood claim to the throne, is but a puppet of both Joannes and Mar. The question left is: what were they telling their puppet to do with you?’
Haraldr massaged his aching temples. ‘I’m not certain any of it is that simple. Yes, Mar and Joannes are very powerful, but the very fact that they might need a puppet to represent them indicates the limits of their power; after all, one is a eunuch, the other a barbaros. I have also seen the array of court-men who surround this Emperor, and among those hundreds there must be other factions as well.’ Haraldr placed his hands together and looked searchingly at Ulfr and Halldor, his scarred eyebrow twitching slightly. ‘Consider this. What if, in the play, Mar and Joannes were actually disputing for the Emperor’s ear? If Mar is my enemy, then Joannes might be my friend.’