The Throne of Solomon, borne on the breath of angels, descends slowly from the height of the ceiling and comes to rest upon its podium between the roaring golden lions. The blast of the organ, which masks the whirring of its mechanism, dies away.
“Constantine Psellus, elevated to the rank of Protospatharios and Senator, approach the throne.” The Master of Ceremonies taps his gilded staff on the marble floor and at once another thundering chord from the water organ reverberates through the vast hall. January the sixth, the Day of Epiphany, the day on which bureaucratic promotions are announced.
Psellus adjusts the new crimson cloak that hangs from his shoulder, touches the new ceremonial sword at his side, and advances through the throng of courtiers. They part to make way for him. Hundreds of curious faces watch him. Most of them don’t know him, but he knows them; he’s made it his business to. In a few of those faces he reads envy. He doesn’t mind. He expects, intends, to make them envious.
He casts a quick glance up to the gallery where spectators hang over the railing. Somewhere up there are his mother and father in their black robes, released from their monastic cells for this special day. And dear Olympia—fifteen years old, four months now his adoring bride and already pregnant with their first child; and her well-to-do parents, delighted to have this ambitious young man for a son-in-law.
Passing down the aisle, he catches the Logothete’s eye and his quick, encouraging smile. Only twenty-two years old, Psellus reflects with a rush of satisfaction, and I am now his Chief of Staff, First Secretary of the Office of Barbarians, with a fine new house, and a salary of seventy-two gold solidi a year, and much more than that under the guise of ‘gifts’ that a senior bureaucrat is entitled to collect. No one in memory has come so far so fast. And then he considers again, If only we lived in happier times.
He kneels at the foot of the throne where Michael and Zoe sit side by side, swathed in their brocaded wraps like a pair of elegant corpses. Michael sick unto death; Zoe, a prisoner in her chambers, paraded only on these few occasions in the year.
Then the Emperor leans forward stiffly—as he will do dozens more times throughout this long day—to kiss the honoree’s head, to fasten the collar of office around his neck, and hand him the ivory plaque inscribed with his name and title. It is all Psellus can do to suppress a shudder: those bloodless lips, those eyes swollen nearly shut with the dropsy, the breath—well, try not to breathe… He rises and steps backward from the throne, feeling the weight of the collar on his neck. Applause from the spectators. It is all just a piece of theater, in which they are simultaneously actors and audience. But where would the empire be without theater?
“A toast?” The Logothete extends his wine glass and clinks rims with Psellus. “To your bright future.”
“I owe it all to you, sir.”
“Nonsense, my boy, not at all. Your public speeches, the matter so learned, the expression so apt. The Emperor is charmed by your eloquence—especially in one so young.”
Psellus lowers his eyes modestly, but it’s true. He has labored hard over them—models of explication on a dozen different subjects; they are, if he says so himself, brilliant.
They are sitting together in Eustathius’s private dining room, the small one at the back of the house, to which only particular guests are invited. A beautifully appointed room, where part of the Logothete’s butterfly collection hangs on the walls. Psellus squeezes his eyes, under their heavy brows, and passes a hand over his head. It’s been a tiring day. The ceremony in the throne room, followed by the procession to the cathedral, where the Blues and Greens chanted their acclamations; then hours of standing through the liturgy as they venerated the right arm of John the Baptist in its jeweled sheath. Then the banquet. The last thing Psellus wants is more to eat, but this intimate late-night supper is a mark of favor and friendship not to be refused.
Eustathius dips a prawn in cumin-laced sauce, places it between his teeth, crunches it and sucks the meat. “Delicious. Try them, my chef’s specialty.”
Shellfish don’t agree with Psellus, but dutifully he selects one and tastes it.
“Another toast,” says Eustathius, refilling Psellus’s glass. “Confusion to our enemies.”
“Amen to that, sir.”
The Logothete waves the servants away and lowers his voice. “The Guardian of Orphans, our ruler in all but name. That man, my God. The arrogance of a demi-god wedded to the soul of a bookkeeper. We’re at war with him, I don’t need to tell you that, and he is winning.”
“Surely, your influence—”
“—is shrinking by the day. I’m not listened to anymore. It’s the war of course. Sicily. Costing us a fortune and no end in sight. And John has used it as an excuse to invade my office, questioning my accounts, cutting my budget to the bone, doing everything he can to destroy the Department. ‘No more field agents,’ says John, ‘we can’t afford them, or the couriers. And who needs them anyway when my brother Stephen tells us everything we need to know?’” Eustathius drains his glass, pours himself another. He’s getting drunk. There is nothing here that they haven’t talked about many times before, but the old man can’t leave it alone.
“And we learn nothing from Maniakes?” Psellus says.
“You’ve seen his dispatches. They say less and less. The man’s in a funk, doesn’t know what to do and won’t admit it. All he does is ask for more troops, which we can’t spare him. I’ve no idea how things really stand there and now I have no other ears to the ground.”
“Odd Tangle-Hair, sir?”
“What? Oh, that young barbarian? Yes, I was sorry to lose touch with him. He did tell us one or two things that were useful. It’s been what? Nearly two years now? I wonder if he’s still alive. Probably not, there’ve been so many casualties.”
“I did too, but it never pays to become too attached to these mercenaries, you know. They live hard and die young.” A dismissive shrug.
Psellus nods, yet he hopes that Odd is still alive. He invested a good deal of time in him. Odd was his project, the living proof of his theory that barbarians were educable. “Could we ask Maniakes about him?”
“Not without revealing that we even know the fellow, which we have no plausible excuse for. You can’t enquire about your spy from the man you’re spying on. One question leads to another. No, too risky. Best to let it go.”
“We’ve been paying his wife a small subsidy.”
“Yes, well, that’s gone by the board. Frivolous expenses, you know. John again.”
“I should look her up. I’ve neglected her. I invited her to my wedding but she didn’t come. Something gives me the idea there’s another man.”
“Really? Well, not surprising.”
They were silent for a while.
“I’m getting too old for the battle,” the Logothete sighs. “I don’t relish it anymore. I have a villa on Rhodes. I long to retire to it, doze in the sun, listen to the birds…”
He has aged lately. Thinner, frailer. Psellus was never close to his own father, but he feels a great love for this gentle man with his wry smile and kind eyes. He chose Psellus for advancement from an office-full of young aspirants, attracted by his passion for the work. Psellus isn’t from a rich family; he needs to succeed.
“But you won’t, will you, sir—retire?”
The Logothete reaches out a hand and touches him on the arm. “Don’t look so alarmed. No, not yet. That’s what John’s hoping for. Cheer up now, this is a happy occasion, we’ll weather the storm. And I expect great things from you. But you must be careful, make friends wherever you can, do favors—you can afford to now. You’re too young yet to have enemies at court, John sees no threat in you, but that won’t last. He will try to intimidate you, use you.”
“He won’t succeed, sir.” Psellus dares not admit that the Guardian of Orphans scares him.
“I know he won’t. Well—” Eustathius pushes the jug toward him. “More wine? Another prawn?”