‘This is not him.’ A month in the monastery had worked miracles on Thomas’s Greek, though I was in no mood to appreciate it. Thomas looked closer, his hesitant lips moving silently as he rehearsed his next words. ‘But like.’
‘Like? Like what? This man is like the monk?’
A look of pain furrowed Thomas’s face, and I forced myself to repeat my questions more slowly.
He nodded. ‘Like. Like him.’
‘Like a brother, perhaps?’ I turned to our cowering captive, who had heard every word. ‘Is your brother a monk? Does he stay with you?’
I was tense enough to shake an answer out of him, but he merely snivelled a little and rested his head on his knees. One of the Patzinaks slapped the side of his face.
I looked to the sergeant. ‘Go downstairs and ask the grocer whether this man received visitors: a monk. Apologise for the damage you have done his house; tell him that the Eparch will see he is well paid for his trouble.’
The sergeant looked doubtful, but I was the only man in that room who could vouch for the Eparch. We waited in silence while the sergeant thudded down the ladders; then we heard raised voices, the sound of the grocer’s wife screaming accusations, and the crash of some clay vessel shattering.
The sergeant returned, flushed.
‘There was another man who often stayed here. The grocer’s wife had many rows with the tenant, who she calls Paul, over whether he should pay more rent for this guest. She was outraged that a man of God was taking advantage of them. “Why can he not stay in the monastery, with his brethren?” she asked.’
A flood of elation burst through me, but I tried to remain methodical. ‘What did this Paul say in return?’
‘That the man was his brother, brought to our city on a pilgrimage ordained by God. Who was he to deny him hospitality?’
‘And when was the last time this monk visited?’
The sergeant smiled in triumph. ‘Two days ago.’
I turned back to look at our prisoner. ‘Your brother is the monk I seek, the man who would kill the Emperor.’ I did not know whether to feel joy or anger that I had come so close. ‘Sergeant, take him to the palace for the torturers to start their work. Leave six of your men here in case the monk returns.’
As I had hoped, I saw the prisoner Paul go pale when I mentioned the torturers. ‘You will not snare my brother here,’ he protested. ‘He is gone.’
I watched him coolly. ‘Of course you say that. We will see what you say after a month in the dungeons.’
The prisoner went silent and bit his lip; his fingers were now wrapped tight about each other, and his nails gouged white weals in his skin. ‘He is escaped,’ he insisted. ‘I swear it. I saw him yesterday evening, in the forum of Arcadius, and he told me he would be gone by dawn. Whatever you want with him, you will not get it now.’
‘Then we will get it in the dungeon.’
‘But what more could I tell you there?’ The prisoner threw his gaze desperately around the room, beseeching pity, though the watching Patzinaks evinced nothing but menace. ‘He is gone, curse him, and he will not come back. You say he wanted to kill the Emperor, whom I pray to live a thousand years. Maybe he did. He was much changed, my brother, when he came here, and I think evil had blossomed in his heart, but what could I do? I could not bar my brother from my door: he would not let me — and he was my kin. “Do not be slow to entertain wayfarers,” he told me, “for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”’
I snorted. ‘He was far from an angel.’
‘He did not think so.’ The prisoner Paul shuffled his shoulders a little, trying to smooth out his tunic. ‘How many nights did I listen to him, his sermons of how the empire needed a purifying fire to descend and burn away its withered branches.’ Paul looked at me imploringly. ‘He was not like this when we were young.’
After his earlier silence, the torrent of Paul’s story left so many fragments I could scarce begin to think what to examine first. I settled on the beginning.
‘When you were young,’ I repeated. ‘When was that?’
‘Thirty years ago?’ Paul shrugged. ‘I have not counted. We grew up in the mountains of Macedonia, the sons of a farmer. Michael and I. .’
‘Michael? Your brother’s name is Michael?’
Paul shook his head. ‘It was then. But when I greeted him by it after he returned, he chastised me for it. “I am reborn in Christ,” he said. “And I have taken the name Odo.” After that he insisted I call him by this new, barbarian name.’
Once again the story was flowing away from me. ‘After he returned. . from where? When did he go?’
‘He went not long after he was grown to manhood. He and our father. . disagreed.’
‘Disagreed about what?’
Paul lifted his bound hands and wiped his wrists across his forehead. ‘Our father had arranged a bride for him, but Michael did not want to marry the girl. When my father insisted, Michael refused. Afterwards he left our village and came here, to the queen of cities. He said he would make a pilgrimage to the relics of Saint John the Baptist, and find absolution.’
‘Did he find it?’
‘Not here. He came, but he did not stay. He did not have the means to enjoy all the fruits of the city, and — though he did not say as much — I think he fell in with immoral companions. After he escaped them, his wanderings took him to the ends of the earth, to the lands of the Kelts and the Franks and the other barbarian tribes who cling to the fringes of the world. There he found his salvation.’
‘In the western church?’ No wonder he had taken a barbarian name, after the fashion of his new religion. ‘When was that?’
‘Some time in the past.’ Paul looked at me hopelessly. ‘I heard nothing from him in all those years after he left the village. Everything I know I have from what he told me when he returned. Some three months ago,’ he added, anticipating my inevitable question. ‘He sent no word that he was coming — I did not even know that he knew I was here. I had come much later, after our father died. One day I returned from my work to find Michael — Odo — sitting on a stone by the grocer’s door. I scarcely recognised him, but he knew me immediately and told me he had come to stay with me. How could I refuse?’
‘Did he say what he purposed here?’
‘Never. And after one attempt, I did not ask again. He was always a private man, my brother, and he grew more so in his wanderings. He told me nothing, not even when he would be here. Sometimes he disappeared for days or even weeks, leaving no word, and I thought that perhaps he had gone back to his friends in the west, but then he would return unannounced and demand my hospitality again. Only yesterday did he say that he was going forever. As I told you.’
‘Where was he going?’
‘He did not say.’
I should not have been surprised. ‘Did your brother ever mention any notable men of the city?’ I asked, wondering if I could at least draw some hint as to his masters.
As so often, Paul shook his head, then looked up doubtfully. ‘One evening I rebuked him for eating all my dinner. I had prepared none for him, thinking he would not return that evening. As was his habit, he responded with a bitter harangue on the pre-eminence of his work: he told me that he was employed by a great lord, and lesser men should presume nothing but to make straight his way.’
I kept my tone restrained. ‘Did he say which lord?’
‘Of course not. I assumed he meant the lord God. He often spoke of his calling as the Lord’s avenger, the cleansing flame of the Holy Spirit.’
‘Did he speak of what he would avenge?’
For the first time, I drew from Paul a feeble smile. ‘Constantly. He wanted to cleanse the city of her filth, her heresies, and restore purity to her streets. To him she is Babylon, the great mother of whores and abominations, drunk on the blood of the saints. Michael swore that in the hour of her doom she will be made desolate and naked, her flesh will be devoured and burned with fire, and he will be the agent of this destruction.’ His smile widened a little. ‘If you read the apocalypse of the divine Saint John, you will understand.’
‘I know the apocalypse.’
‘During his years in Rheims, he had somehow been persuaded that this was his proper task.’
‘His years where?’
‘Rheims, I think he called it. A barbarian town. He spent some time at a school there, and later took orders in its abbey. It is where he was re-baptised as Odo. I do not know where it is.’
I did not know where it was either, but I knew I had heard of it. I thought back to a dusty library and a severe archivist lecturing me on Frankish saints.
‘Did your brother ever speak of a Saint Remigius?’ I asked. ‘Or show you a ring inscribed with that name, mounted with a cracked garnet.’ I reached into my pocket, fumbling for the ring which I had carried with me ever since that day in the forest, as if by holding his totem I might gain some grasp over the monk himself. ‘This ring?’
Impervious to the excitement in my voice, Paul shrugged. ‘He did have a ring, but I did not see it closely. It was red; it may be the one you hold. I glimpsed it only when he washed. He said it was a token of the barbarian town.’
‘Did you ever see any others with such a ring?’
‘None. As I have said, no-one visited my brother here.’
I spent another hour throwing questions at the prisoner, checking the details of his story and prodding for any clue he might reveal, wittingly or not. I asked about his own circumstances — he was unmarried, it transpired, and worked as a minor clerk for a notary, taking a fraction of his employer’s earnings for the documents he prepared. He worshipped in the approved manner, fervently but without the zealous self-righteousness which the fathers condemned. He told me the name of his village and I wrote it down, for someone would have to travel there and ask about his brother. It would not be me: a journey through the Macedonian mountains in winter would not, I decided, afford the best use of my time and talents.
Outside the windows, evening was coming early to the dark day, and I was keen to be away. I had only a single question remaining, and it was more curiosity than hope. ‘Tell me, Paul, was your brother a violent man?’
The words seemed to agitate the prisoner greatly. He did not answer, but jerked his head against his shoulder as if shaking water from his ear.
‘Unbind me, and I will show you.’
I ordered a Patzinak to cut his bonds. Paul gave a grimace of acknowledgement as his hands were freed, and pulled up his sleeve. I drew in a breath, for all down to his wrist the entire arm was black, as if it had been burned or rotted away. Only after a few moments could I see that they were in fact a mottled patchwork of overlapping bruises.
‘It does not become a man to speak ill of his brother,’ said Paul heavily, ‘but even in our childhood Michael was cruel. I told you he departed our village because he disagreed with my father’s choice of bride. In truth, he fled before the vengeance of her father, after his rage had left the poor girl almost dead. He has learned many new things on his travels since then, but he has forgotten nothing. If he could throw down our city in a cauldron of blood, he would not hesitate.’ He rubbed his loosened wrists. ‘Indeed, he would revel in it.’
‘So he is a Roman, corrupted by Franks into turning on his mother city, and returned to work violence and sedition.’ Krysaphios licked the honey from his fingers as he considered this; he had been eating when I found him at the palace, and the urgency of my news would not deter him from his meal. ‘And just across the waters of the Horn we have ten thousand armed Franks, who spurn our hospitality and provoke our ambassadors. Who arrived mere weeks after your monk. I imagine you have noticed the coincidence?’
‘I have.’
‘But how could they profit from killing the Emperor unless they could take the city. And what could give them to think they could do that? They have no siege engines to batter down the land walls, and no fleet to attack us from the seaward side. They depend utterly on the Emperor to provide for them. If they risked an assault and failed, we could starve or execute them at our leisure.’
‘Then they must be confident. Or fools.’ The contradictions bothered me too, for it was ever my task to question the anomalies which other men dismissed or did not notice, but here I could not resolve them. They were barbarians, I told myself — they did not think as we did. ‘Perhaps they relied on the monk, or Aelric, to open the way for them.’
‘It would need more than one treacherous Varangian to open our gates to an enemy horde.’ A honeyed nut crunched between Krysaphios’ teeth. ‘And my spies have yet to discover any others who were complicit with Aelric.’
‘Yet the Varangians remain exiled from the palace,’ I observed. Every door and alcove still had a Patzinak by it.
‘The Varangians are posted on the walls, away from the gatehouses, and will remain there indefinitely. We need men we can trust about us, Demetrios, and the Patzinaks are ferocious in their loyalty.’
‘Until the monk manages to corrupt one of them.’
Krysaphios’ smooth forehead wrinkled with mock confusion. ‘But the monk is gone, you told me. His brother said so. Do you not think he has fled back to Frankia?’
‘I doubt he is further than a mile beyond our walls, and probably safe in Galata with the barbarians.’
‘You think he will come back? Attempt to murder the Emperor a third time?’
‘I do. If his brother spoke truly, and I believe he did, then he is too much a zealot not to. Whomever he serves.’
Krysaphios fixed me with an inscrutable look. ‘And so? How do you propose to act next?’
Here I was on firmer ground, for I had spent the march back to the palace pondering exactly that. ‘First, we need to find a home for the monk’s brother. I have brought him here, but he should not be cast into the dungeon. He has done nothing to deserve it, and a little kindness might repay itself with more news of the monk. We should leave him somewhere comfortable but secure.’
Krysaphios nodded. ‘You have an extravagant kindness, Demetrios, but I will do as you suggest. You can quarter him in one of the houses we use for foreign emissaries.’
‘Good. After that, we need to worm a spy into the barbarian camp. Someone who can see if the monk is hiding there, and listen for any word of a plot against the Emperor.’
‘That will be harder. There are many eyes watching the barbarians: the Patzinaks, the merchants who supply their needs, even down to the drovers and carters who deliver it — all that they see is reported back to me. But to penetrate their darkest confidences. . I cannot see how that would be done.’
‘I can.’ With brief words, I told him my plan. He did not like it; indeed, he rebelled against the sacrifice and chastised me for a sentimental fool. But, after a full hour’s argument, I won him round.
Anna did not like the plan either when I told her the next morning.
‘It will almost certainly fail,’ she told me. ‘Either he will abandon you the moment he has crossed the Horn, or he will be discovered and tortured to death. Either way, you would never forgive yourself.’
I rubbed my chin. ‘I know. But I cannot think of an alternative. And if he does desert me, then he will be back among his own people and I, for one, will not feel his loss. There are many poulia in this game, and he is one who has no other role to play. If he succeeds it will be a great blessing; if not, we have lost nothing.
It was a poor choice of words, and Anna hissed with anger. ‘You’ve spent too much time in the halls of the palace, among the generals and eunuchs, if you believe that men and boys are all just counters in a game, to be discarded from the board at the throw of a die.’
‘I’m sending him back where he belongs.’ Her words pierced me like arrows, that she should think me so callous, but I hid my shame and persevered. ‘A boy of his age should not be kept locked in a monastery far from home, to be tutored by monks. If he chooses to come back, then he will have earned his freedom and far more besides; if he does not, he is still free.’
‘And if he tries to come back and is found and killed by the barbarians?’ Anna’s anger had not subsided. ‘What will you do then, Demetrios?’
‘I will pray for his soul. And for mine. I do not do this lightly, Anna, but there are no others who would be trusted in the barbarian camp who could pass for a Frank.’
‘Thomas doesn’t pass for a Frank — he is a Frank,’ Anna observed tartly. ‘And what of your monk? If he is in the camp, as you believe, then he will recognise Thomas and he will kill him, as he tried before.’
‘Yes.’ I had come to tell Anna that I would be taking Thomas away from her, but she had quickly forced from me the entire story of my plan and the reasons for it. ‘There are ten thousand men lodged in Galata. With luck he will keep apart from the monk.’
‘Luck.’ Anna snorted, not at all like a lady. ‘If you are trusting to luck, Demetrios, then you are a bigger fool even than I thought.’ She pulled her fingers through her hair, and seemed to relent a little. ‘Are you really so desperate to keep him away from your daughters?’
Despite all the gravity of the moment, I laughed. ‘I would be grateful if you did not tell Helena. But I cannot force Thomas to do anything against his will, so I had better speak with him myself.’
Reluctantly, Anna acquiesced. She led me across the monastery courtyard to the kitchen door, where the sweet smell of baking bread mingled with smoke and the scent of onions. The aromas played on my stomach, for I had not yet eaten; they also reminded me of another cause for my visit.
‘Anna,’ I called, stopping her just before the door. ‘Before we speak to Thomas, I had almost forgotten: I wondered whether you would come for supper with me. And the girls,’ I added hastily, lest I seem too suggestive. ‘Perhaps on some evening in the next fortnight, before the fast of Great Lent constrains my hospitality.’
Anna turned and eyed me with suspicion. She wore a reddish-brown dalmatica today, its inexpert dying giving the effect of woodgrain, or mottled leaves. It was tied over her hips with the silken cord she always wore, and the breeze in the courtyard blew the skirt close against her thighs.
‘I accept your invitation,’ she told me. ‘But if you are merely trying to corrupt me into agreeing with your wicked plan, then you will fail.’
‘It’s neither for you to agree or otherwise. Thomas will decide.’
Thomas was in the kitchen, stirring a simmering pot of beans without enthusiasm, while a monk sat on the stairs and read at him from a dust-worn Bible. He scowled at the sight of Anna and slammed his book shut, locked the clasps and climbed the stairs out of the room.
‘It happens often,’ said Anna, without offence. ‘Some of them do not like having a woman within their walls, and all of them fear what might happen if they were found alone with her.’
‘Their misfortune.’
Thomas looked up from his cauldron as we approached. He gave a shy smile on seeing Anna, a broader smile on seeing that the monk had departed, and a nervous frown on seeing me. He let go of his ladle, and cursed fluently as it slid beneath the oozy surface of his broth. I doubted he had learned that expression from being lectured out of a Bible.
‘Demetrios has come.’ Anna spoke slowly. ‘He wants to ask you something.’
I pushed past a row of iron pots to stand beside her. ‘I have news of the monk.’ I paused to see if he had understood me. From the way his eyes stilled and his cheek twitched, I guessed he had. ‘We think he is in a big camp of barbar. . of your people, outside the walls of our city.’
Thomas glanced hesitantly at Anna, who added a few words in his natural tongue.
‘I want you to go there and find him.’
For a long time Thomas remained silent, while the pot beside him bubbled, and spat its liquid into the air. Some of it landed on his tunic but he did not seem to notice.
‘If I go, he kills me,’ he said at last.
I shook my head. ‘No. You find where he lives. Then you go to the house of my friend.’ My fervour hastened my words, and I had to concentrate to rein them in again. ‘He will protect you, and send us your news. Then we will come with many soldiers and catch the monk, and lock him in the dungeon.’
Again Anna spoke in the barbarian language. I kept my eyes on Thomas, hoping Anna did not take advantage of my ignorance to dissuade him. Thomas replied in kind, hunching his shoulders and gesticulating with his arms; I felt a growing anger that I was barred from their arguments.
‘I go.’
Coming at the end of a string of foreign sounds, I failed to realise that Thomas had reverted to Greek until he had repeated himself.
‘I go.’
‘You will go?’
He nodded, uncertainly.
‘Good. Very good.’
‘And when he returns, he will be free to go where he pleases, to return to Frankia or stay in Constantinople or settle in the empire, whichever.’ Anna stared at me with steel in her eyes. ‘You promise that.’
‘I promise.’ I would wonder how to persuade Krysaphios to honour that promise later, if the boy delivered the monk into our hands, and if he did not desert to his kinsmen.
If he lived long enough.