‘You’re certain it is the Empress herself you are to see and not Symeon, that--’ Halldor was about to make some satirical reference to the Empress’s prize geld. He caught himself out of deference to Gregory, who had just entered Haraldr’s tent.
‘Symeon brought me the message himself. Signed in purple ink just like the Emperor’s missives.’ Haraldr looked over at Gregory, who had put on a white silk robe that swallowed him up as if he were a boy in a man’s tunic. ‘You appear more nervous now than when we faced four times our number in Saracen brigands this afternoon, my friend. Don’t tell me your fearless breast is quavering.’
Gregory was indeed nervous; he hardly smiled at Haraldr’s attempt to lighten his burden. Blessed though the Holy Mother and Father of the Romans indisputably were, it simply was not safe to come too close to them. As he began his career in the Imperial Administration Gregory had never imagined he would have reason for that concern, and was more than happy to think that his viewings of their Imperial Majesties would be from no greater proximity than those permitted the rabble of the Empress City. Now to think of entering an Imperial pavilion and – may Christ grant him absolution for thinking so – especially that of Her Imperial Majesty, who could quite clearly eliminate anyone who gave her offence, even an Emperor and Autocrator! No, he cautioned himself, it was too irreverent, as well as profoundly unsettling, even to think such things. ‘There is an ancient Greek story I have not told you of, Haraldr Nordbrikt,’ Gregory said weakly. ‘About a man named Daedalus, who built wings of wax for himself and his son. The boy flew too close to the sun and perished.’
‘Well,’ said Haraldr, ‘I don’t think my problem on this journey has been one of overexposure to the Imperial sun.’ Haraldr shook his head in bewilderment. He had quickly learned that an assignment to guard the person of the Empress actually meant guarding the swarm of eunuchs who in fact guarded the person of the Empress. These pale drones, who on this journey had probably not trodden with their silk slippers more than two ells of their Empire’s vast expanse of naked earth, became angry hornets defending their nest when even the homes of Her Majesty’s special Imperial Guard approached the Imperial Carriage and Pavilions. Gregory had insisted to Haraldr that these imperious functionaries were versed in a combat at which he was ill-equipped to best them, so Haraldr had observed the curious protocols and had been rewarded with an occasional sighting of blurred crimson silk as Her Imperial Majesty was escorted from her brightly gilt carriage into the scarlet pavilion that the advance party had waiting for her every evening.
And Maria. He was certain she was among the ladies who occupied the four curtained carriages; perhaps she even rode in Her Imperial Majesty’s carriage. A eunuch had whispered her name in one of the endless, flustered, hand-wringing deliberations over protocol. Maria. Haraldr could not describe the agitation that had seized him just to hear the name. Was she waiting with her mistress now? How could he keep his face from colouring like a maiden’s when he finally saw her? No. He must not think of her. He was here to serve the Emperor.
‘I am certain this will be a brief interview,’ said Haraldr as he gave his hair a final combing; a servant held a mirror above his silver washbasin. ‘Just as one is not permitted in the presence of the Emperor and Autocrator for any length of time.’
The eunuchs met Haraldr and Gregory just inside the encirclement of one hundred and fifty Varangians that secured the complex of Her Imperial Majesty’s domed brocade pavilions; anyone who came within an axe shaft of this human barricade without plainly declaring a password that was changed each evening would have his skull instantly split. The ritual the eunuchs explained to Haraldr was identical to that for his audience with the Emperor, but with a surprising exception: ‘Her Imperial Majesty,’ the wizened Symeon had unctuously droned, ‘expects you to reply without prompting from her Chamberlain.’
The entrance to the main Imperial Pavilion was curtained with brocade so thick that it seemed to be made of lead. The sound of some sort of stringed instrument, much more elegant and melodious than anything Haraldr had heard at the court of Yaroslav, sweetened an atmosphere already rich with the scent of fresh roses. Walls of heavy brocade divided the pavilion into separate spacious rooms with gauzy canopies overhead. Haraldr and Gregory were led through two fabric ante-chambers before they were finally thrust to their faces in the thick nap of a carpet that smelled of myrrh.
A eunuch guided Haraldr to a couch covered in glass-smooth silk. Cushions thick with down seemed to swallow him up, producing a disorienting, weightless feeling. The lamps flickered. He dared not look directly at either woman, but he already knew. His heart pounded his ribs with huge, hollow thumps and he was certain his voice would quaver. This was worse than any battle. Helpless, sinking, he gave himself up to the god who had suffered unspeakable torment to give men the beauty of verse. Let this torture make him as eloquent in the face of her beauty. Maria.
The voice was throaty, almost mesmerizing, flowing forth like a thick fragrant syrup. Haraldr could only distantly observe that it was not Maria who spoke. ‘Your Mother the Empress greets you and thanks you for the assurance your offices have given her on this most arduous yet joyous pilgrimage.’ Gregory, seated to Haraldr’s left, translated with considerable fortitude. Haraldr forced himself to concentrate.
When the translation was finished, Haraldr knew he should look upon the Empress. Kristr! Which of the two was lovelier? The Empress was like a living statue, a beauty so ideal that it could exist only in the imagination. Or upon the face next to her. In fact, they looked almost as alike as sisters. The same pearl-laced coils framing the same exquisitely contoured, slightly rouged cheeks; the glistening, deftly sculpted lips. But the eyes of the Empress were ash-tinted with a sorrow that showed even in the surrounding flesh, in minute creases that shadowed the corners of her eyes. Maria’s eyes, almost amethyst in this light, challenged him; they were as hard as the gem they resembled. It was as if she knew of the liberties he had taken with her in his fantasies. He was shamed, a boy confronted by his secret love.
The Empress said something to Maria about ‘gold’ or ‘golden’, and ‘hair’, and Haraldr’s wealth; it was an aside that Gregory was not invited to translate. Maria’s gemstone eyes remained obdurate, fixed on a point somewhere to Haraldr’s left and considerably behind him. The Empress laughed, showing perfect, small teeth; for the first time Haraldr registered that her coiled tresses were as stunningly golden as Maria’s were raven-black. An uneasy silence followed. The Empress looked at Haraldr steadily, forcing him to lower his eyes. His head buzzed with tension. Was this acute coyness his fantasy lover’s fashion? Hadn’t Maria haunted him with her eyes on their previous meeting? Hadn’t she hoped to see his fair hair again? Oh, no. What a fool, he suddenly realized in the pit of his stomach. That declaration had only been manufactured by Mar to his purpose.
Maria spoke an aside to the Empress, her tone like a knife’s blade. ‘Tongue’ and ‘oxen’; something to the effect that one should not expect a beast set to the plough to regale one with wit. Haraldr felt as if hot irons had been placed to the backs of his ears. He knew his forehead visibly flamed. Why would not Odin release his tongue? The weight on his chest was crushing.
The Empress spoke again and Gregory translated. ‘The lady Maria says she has dined with you on a previous occasion and that your tongue was, shall we say, charmingly . . . audacious. It would distress your Mother so to think that the honours and wealth you have won since then have made you reticent among us.’