I had fallen asleep in a state of weary confusion. I awoke to one of the most remarkable days of my life. I opened my eyes to find an old man bending over me, prodding me to wakefulness with a bony hand. He was richly dressed in a long, silk caftan with pearls at the collar and cuffs. A dry brown leaf of a man, his skin was the color of tallow and infinitely wrinkled, and his chin was hairless. I had learned by now to recognize such creatures as eunuchs—half men. (I will tell more about them in another place.) Seeing me wake, he introduced himself as Sgouritzes, an attendant of the Sacred Bedchamber of the Empress Zoe. He produced from his sleeve a scroll of purple vellum covered with writing in silver ink and, in a piping voice, read that I was requested to call upon the Empress this morning in her apartment in the Daphne palace. Groggy and ill-tempered as I was, it took Sgouritzes and Piotr between them to get me washed and dressed and fed to where I looked presentable and felt almost human.
The Daphne is the heart of the Great Palace, reached by paths that wind endlessly through gardens and pavilions, watered by fountains and shaded by poplars. It is a lovely building where the Emperor and Empress each keep a suite of rooms. Few outsiders ever see it. The mosaics that cover its walls and floors are not the pained faces of saints but rather fields of flowers bursting with color, and scenes of hunting and of children playing. But the closer we got to the Empress’s rooms the stronger grew the smell—heavy, cloying, sweet, almost physically sticky, hanging in the air like a fine mist of honey. The eunuch smiled at me with a look of anticipation—an aged grandparent taking a child to see some secret treat. Two beardless guards flanked the silver-paneled door. They stood aside for us and we entered upon a scene indescribably bizarre. It was a huge room, dimly lit, and filled with steaming copper cauldrons sitting on charcoal braziers, each one big enough to boil a sheep in. The heat hit me like a blast from an oven, the air was unbreathable. Men and women, dripping with sweat, stirred these cauldrons while others ladled out the content—some of it amber-colored and thin, some of it white and viscous—sniffed it or rubbed it between their fingertips, and either poured it back or took it to a long table where other workers decanted it into little flasks, careful not to waste a drop. Still others sealed the flasks with glass stoppers and melted wax and attached labels to them. Over our head hung baskets and bunches of dried herbs and flowers. One of the women set aside her ladle and turned toward us. She was plump, short, aged about forty, I guessed, with a generous bosom. Her brown eyes were large and set wide apart, her skin was as smooth as a ripe apricot, and her blonde hair hung in damp tendrils on her neck. She drew a sleeve across heavy eyebrows of dark gold. She wore only a sheer cotton shift that clung to her body. I found myself staring at her nipples. Sgouritzes dropped to his ancient knees and touched his forehead to the floor. I did the same.
“Please,” she said in a voice that sounded like a little girl’s. “We’re quite informal here, as you see. Do stand up.”
“Majesty, I present Ambassador Churillo Igorevich who—”
“I know who he is. Thank you, Sgouritzes, you may withdraw.”
With an expression that looked like relief, the eunuch bowed himself out.
“And what do you think of our factory, ambassador? Back to work, everyone.” She clapped her hands. (They had all stopped momentarily to look at me.) “Spikenard,” she said, taking a bunch of some dried stuff and dropping it into one of the cauldrons, “and aloes and attar of roses and musk and cassia. Do you like it?”
A memory flashed through my mind. The first day that I visited Princess Ingigerd in Novgorod she had opened a tiny bottle and flooded her bedroom with the scent of roses: my first experience of perfume. That little bottle seemed like a priceless treasure—and probably was. But here were vats, oceans of the stuff. It was too much to take in.
“Why?” I stammered. “What is it all for? Do you sell it?”
“Certainly not.” There was amusement in the eyes. “I worship God with sweet-smelling perfumes and unguents. They drive away evil spirits, you know. And I apply them to my person, why shouldn’t I? Suddenly, she was uncomfortably close to me. She took my hand and held it under her chin. Her flesh had an unnaturally buttery feel to it. “Still firm, is it not?” she simpered. “How old do you think I am, Churillo Igorevich?”
Oh, by the One-Eyed Odin, I thought to myself, backing away, this is how I got mixed up with Inge, and look how that turned out! Not again. “Your Majesty, I’m very bad at guessing ages—”
“How old?” she demanded. “And you may call me Zoe.”
“Thirty-five?” I mumbled, hoping to err on the side of youth.
“Sixty next month. And not a wrinkle anywhere on my body. Anywhere on my body, Churillo, thanks to these lotions of mine. And,” she went on, “I do give a lot of it away to my women and my friends. I delight in generosity. Here.” She took a stoppered flask from its rack. “For your sweetheart. You have one, I hope? No? A handsome young barbarian like you? Well, you soon will, I’m sure. I’m fond of barbarians. So different from our men.” She placed the little bottle in my hand and squeezed my fingers around it. If she simpers and squeezes my hand again, I will bolt for the door. But she was too fast for me. “Does the heat bother you?” Taking my arm in hers, she led me out into the garden. A small dog, a bundle of brown fluff, trotted after us, its nails tapping on the marble. Two of her women and a young eunuch followed at a discreet distance. Although a hot sun blazed overhead, the change in temperature from that stifling room sent a chill through me. Zoe seated herself on a marble bench and pulled me down beside her so that our thighs touched. The dog leapt into her lap. Nearby, a peacock dragged its gorgeous tail and, above us, bright-colored birds chattered in the branches. I kept finding it hard not to look at Zoe’s breasts, which, if she was telling the truth about her age, were perfect miracles of firmness.
“A word of advice while you’re here, ambassador. Never say anything within four walls that you don’t want overheard and reported.” This was exactly what Harald had said to me last night.
“Reported to whom, Majesty?” (I was not about to call her ‘Zoe’.)
“John.” The word came as a whisper and her lips twisted as if from a bad taste.
Something told me I shouldn’t pursue this, but my curiosity was piqued. “It’s a common name. Which John do you mean?” She looked hard at me for a moment and I thought she wanted to say more, but she changed her mind. “So,” she smiled, “I’m told that you’re here to arrange a marriage for Grand Prince Yaroslav’s daughter with some young man of our family. You’re very young to be an ambassador. We haven’t had the pleasure of your company here before, have we? Forgive me for not knowing, I’m afraid I don’t participate in court life as much as I used to.”
“You prefer solitude, then?”
“Prefer! It is not what I prefer.” Her voice was suddenly shrill, her eyes flashed with anger, or—even more dangerous—hate. Her little dog, with an animal’s sensitivity, fled under the bench. She looked away and fought to get herself under control. After a few deep breaths, she continued in a more conversational tone. “I have a great fondness for the Rus, Churillo. My aunt Anna, who was sister to the Emperor Basil, was given in marriage to Vladimir, Prince of Kiev. It was she who persuaded him to adopt the True Faith and she herself founded many churches and monasteries. I was only ten when she went away, but she wrote me letters saying how wonderful and beautiful everything was in Gardariki. I was a lonely child; they meant much to me, those letters.”
I doubted that a Greek princess really found Vladimir’s log-hewn hall and his rough, hard-drinking Rus warriors all that charming, but I smiled encouragingly.
“Well,” she concluded, “I am sure Yelisaveta is a lovely girl. You should realize, though, that our Emperor is not in good health and has much on his mind, so you must be patient. But you have me on your side. I like to do favors for my friends. I hope I may consider you one?” She looked at me under her lashes and touched my hand again. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I didn’t move. Whoever this woman’s enemies were, whoever the dreaded John might be, I wanted nothing to do with any of them. After a moment, she drew back her hand and stood up. “Let me show you around my little realm, Churillo.”
One of her women, grey-haired and thin-lipped, approached with a warning look. “Is that wise, Majesty? If the man stays here too long, people—”
Zoe stamped her foot. “Am I not to be my own mistress even here?” The woman bowed and retreated. Zoe led me out of the garden and down a short path to a small, domed building with a pillared forecourt. Its doors swung open on silver hinges; inside was a rainbow of colored marble. At the back of it sat an altar encrusted with rubies and carnelians. “The Chapel of the Holy Virgin of Pharos,” Zoe breathed. She bowed low to the altar and I, of course, did the same. (With every passing day these pretenses were getting easier.)
“Churillo, you cannot imagine the power that dwells here. It is not for the eyes of just anyone. Two pieces of the True Cross, the Crown of Thorns, the cloth with the imprint of Our Savior’s face, as well as his sandals and tunic and a phial of his sacred blood.” She pointed each one out to me—nondescript lumps of wood and who-knows-what-else encased in gold and silver settings. “And the right arm of John the Baptist, and, oh, much more. This is our strength, ambassador, not ships, not engines of war. This is why our empire will endure to the end of time. When you return to your country this is what you must tell them.” She had drawn herself up to her full height, and I understood that I was hearing the voice of an Empress—the wife, the daughter, the grand-daughter of Emperors—speaking with the unquenchable pride of a thousand years of history. Who was I to doubt the magic in these things? “And one thing more I will show you—and I show it to very few.” Upon the altar, wrapped in a piece of purple silk was the small figurine of a man only a little bigger than my hand. Lovingly, she unwrapped it, put it to her lips and kissed it, then held it to her bosom and sighed. I cannot say what the thing was made of; at one moment it looked like gold, and then again like silver. I could almost swear that it changed color while I stared at it. “Christ,” she murmured. “My own Christ. I speak to him and he answers me. He warns me, Churillo, when danger is near. When he turns blood red then I know I must act.”
“And has he done that, Majesty?”
“Oh, yes, Churillo. He has. And he will again.”
She set the figurine back gently on the altar and we went out into the sunlight.
Back in the perfumery she gave me her hand to kiss. “Come again, Churillo Igorevich, whenever you like. Think of me as a friend. And I will see what can be done about your young princess. And here, don’t forget your bottle of scent and take another one too. It’s all I have to give nowadays.”
Sgouritzes walked me to the palace gate. My clothes were wet with sweat and the smell of perfume seemed to follow me like a fog. I would need a bath to get it out of my hair.
“You’ve served the Empress a long time?” I asked him.
“Nearly all her life.”
“I sense there is something, some—difficulty in her affairs?”
“That is none of your concern, ambassador. God will protect her from her enemies.”
And that was all he would say.
All the rest of that day I couldn’t get Zoe out of my thoughts. What was she? A lonely, pathetic eccentric? A dangerous lunatic? Who were her enemies? Who was this man John? What might she do if that little statue of her god should turn red? What had she done already that had brought her to this sad state? Was there some smell there that all the perfumes in the world could not forever disguise?