‘St Demetrius has issued our Father an urgent summons,’ said Mar. He tried to imagine the pain and frustration cloaked behind Theodora’s chalky, impassive features. With her reddish-blonde hair drawn back into a single tight braid, the Augusta not only looked older than her sister but also, curiously, more innocent; the rumour, widely bandied about by the satirists and street gossips, was that Theodora was still a virgin.
‘And while he obeys the summons of his patron he permits his Hetairarch to make his own pilgrimages.’ Her inflection was acid. ‘Perhaps customs have changed since I … left the palace. I had always assumed that the Hetairarch kept a relentless vigil at His Majesty’s side.’
‘I will rejoin the Imperial procession this evening,’ said Mar without a hint of apology. ‘It is often my habit to depute the care of his Imperial Majesty to my lieutenants.’
‘I see.’ Theodora’s grim lips pursed as they resisted a mocking grin. ‘You are so often occupied with more important errands.’ The Augusta looked straight at Mar and then laughed, the throaty, masculine laugh of a woman too clever really to care about her sexuality. ‘Such an ambitious man. Indeed, haven’t I heard of your ambitions . . . somewhere . . . wherever? You know I do not go out much.’ She fluttered her hand in a gesture of mock femininity. The voice that followed cut like a newly honed blade. ‘Why do you think I would wish to further your desires?’
Mar composed himself, determined to meet this notoriously direct woman with his own candour. ‘Because I believe your Majesty and I share a common enemy.’
Theodora smiled at Mar as if she were indulging a small child in some elaborate masquerade. ‘But of course you must know that out here I have no enemies. Only water bugs. And servants who prefer gossip to work.’
Mar leaned forward slightly. ‘Have your tongue-wagging servants told you of the Orphanotrophus Joannes’s most recent success?’
Theodora snapped back: ‘What do you mean, Hetairarch?’
‘I know that Joannes engineered the abduction of your sister.’
‘There are many of us who suspect that.’
‘I can offer proof.’
Theodora considered what use such proof might be to her sister or her mentor, Alexius. Very little, without command of the Imperial Taghmata. But any knowledge of Joannes was a potentially deadly weapon. ‘Can you produce this evidence?’
‘Shall I have Ignatius Attalietes sent to you? He and I had a brief . . . misunderstanding, but I assure you that now his greatest delight is to do what I bid him.’
‘It will be sufficient for you to speak in his stead, Hetairarch. I am well aware of your reputation for thorough interrogation.’
Mar went on to describe the plot as revealed in an antechamber of the Numera by the virtually hysterical Ignatius; a few seconds of listening to the screams of some of the other guests had turned the Attalietes scion into a pop-eyed, desperately rambling geyser of information. Enough information to expose the handprints of Joannes all over the entire scheme.
Theodora absorbed Mar’s account impassively. When he had finished, she rose quickly and lithely. She walked half a circuit of her apartment’s bare, dull marble walls, then stopped to look out of an arched window towards the distant city; Constantinople was invisible in the mist. When she turned back to Mar, her faced seemed pinched, even smaller than usual. ‘How would you check Joannes, Hetairarch? You acknowledge his freshly wrought alliance with the Attalietes clique, but you did not mention that Joannes, now equipped with the resources of the Dhynatoi, is sponsoring a rival to you, the Tauro-Scythian who effected the rescue of my sister. This Haraldr whose name is on everyone’s lips. He has been named Manglavite, and the Middle Hetairia has been expanded to receive his band of cutthroats. Joannes has given him a palace near the Forum of Constantine.’ She looked at Mar piercingly. ‘As I told you, my servants have time for nothing but idle chatter.’ Theodora wondered again if the rumours she had received about Maria’s liaison with this Haraldr were true. Of course, it was only one of Maria’s caprices, but this one seemed more reckless than usual.
‘This Haraldr will soon turn on his patron, Majesty. At my command.’ Mar reflected the good fortune that had thwarted his own efforts to have Haraldr Sigurdarson eliminated. When he had learned that Joannes was Haraldr’s sponsor – the meeting in Neorion had left no doubt – he had considered the princeling to be far more of a liability than an asset. But in that impetuous decision, Mar now realized, he had behaved like a Norseman, which was not the way to deal with these Romans. Now he could see that Haraldr Sigurdarson was more useful than ever. Vastly so.
‘Indeed,’ said Theodora. ‘You have persuaded this Haraldr as you did Ignatius Attalietes? I would think one of your kind far more resistant to such blandishments than a pathetic Dhynatoi sodomite.’
‘Even the gods could not save Achilleus once his peculiar vulnerability became known.’
‘Well. Between your abilities and those of this new Tauro-Scythian Achilleus, whom you alone command, it would seem that we Romans are already as helpless as Isaac upon Abraham’s altar. Why offer an alliance to a scorned, indeed discarded, Augusta, when you fair-hairs have merely to let the sword fall? Do you pity me so much? Strange that I never suspected you of charity, Hetairarch.’ Theodora’s mouth worked in minute contractions, and her eyes glistened.
Mar ignored the taunts, as well aware as the purple-born Theodora of the power a Norseman could never acquire no matter how keen his blade or intellect; he would not insult either of them by mentioning it. Instead he would propose a more subtle form of patronage. ‘Would I be too bold to admit that I envy the friendship you share with the Patriarch of the One True Oecumenical, Orthodox and Catholic Faith?’
Theodora showed small, uneven teeth. ‘You have become so much more interesting than when I was previously acquainted with you, Hetairarch. You have become so much more . . . Roman.’ The corners of her eyes crinkled as she mused on the proposition. Fortunately the Hetairarch had been clever enough not to propose making an Empress of her; Theodora had no intention of challenging her sister, even if Joannes’s carefully seeded lies had convinced Zoe otherwise. But consider how profoundly the defence of the One True Faith might be enhanced if the Patriarch Alexius’s mighty spiritual sword were joined by the Hetairarch’s mighty secular sword.
Theodora signalled her eunuch, Emmanuel. ‘Keleusate,’ intoned the tall, important-looking chamberlain. Mar rose and Theodora walked directly up to him, her face vivid, almost girlish. ‘I shall ask our Patriarch to instruct you in the One True Oecumenical, Orthodox and Catholic Faith, Hetairarch. Strange that I had always thought you an irretrievable pagan.’
‘He is present,’ whispered the monk, Cosmas Tzintzuluces. ‘He is waiting for you in the ciborium.’
Michael, Lord of the Entire World, Emperor, Autocrator and Basileus of the Romans, stepped into the nave of the Church of St Demetrius in Thessalonica. From the aisle vaults the brilliant, frescoed presences of the saints, the Holy Virgin and the Pantocrator glimmered like welcoming friends. The Emperor was profoundly grateful for the familiar splendour of what was becoming if not his home, then his sanctuary. He did not come here for renewal – he never could expect that much – but for relief. It was a place of temporary sustenance, where he could arrest but not reverse the inexorable starvation of his immortal soul.
To the Emperor’s left, midway down the nave, stood the ciborium, a miniature hexagonal temple, sheathed entirely in beautiful chased silver, the canopy topped with a large silver sphere and cross. The Emperor proceeded towards the ciborium, the thickly bearded monk Cosmas Tzintzuluces gently at his arm; both men seemed to glide over the marble floor as if drawn by some supernatural force. The monk paused and opened the silver door to the little chamber.