Couches. They wait here to see the emperor. It’s become rather more popular since the mouth of hell spewed out all this brimstone across the sky. People imagine the emperor will defend them from the devil’s legions.’
‘You know what is causing this sky?’
‘That’s your job, isn’t it?’
‘What do you know of my job?’
‘This is Contantinople, my friend. The ancient city of Byzan-ti-um.’ He enunciated every syllable of the city’s old name in a way that was far from friendly. ‘Everyone knows everything about everyone here. And if they don’t, they make it up.’
Loys swallowed. ‘It is the mouth of hell? You know this?’
‘A figure of speech. Surely you should tell me what it is.’
‘I don’t know. At the moment my only concern is for my wife. Is she here?’
The man did not reply, just led Loys out of the Room of Nineteen Couches through a bronze door struck with the sickle and star of the city’s emblem. They went down a short corridor.
Loys studied the figure beside him. He had been so keen to find Beatrice that he hadn’t really paid any attention to the man. He’d taken him for a servant but he didn’t talk like a servant. And he wore velvet, a deep green. No one dressed their servants so richly, no one.
This corridor was as splendid as the couch room, the walls glittering with greens and blues showing an undersea scene, complete with images of the sea god Poseidon with his chariot of wave-horses. The light came from lamps arranged all the way down the wall and a big window at the end. It was uncovered and opened on to a lovely garden of orange trees. Loys shivered as the draught blew in.
They walked down corridors and through rooms glittering with decoration. Loys would have liked to have seen more Christian symbols, but he knew the emperor and his retinue for holy men so could find nothing to object to in them mimicking the art of previous generations. Men love stories and, as long as they saw them as stories, there was no harm in them. But where was Beatrice?
They came to a corridor plainer than the rest but still hardly simple. Here the mosaic was only on the floor – scenes of rural life, children feeding donkeys, men collecting hay from the fields.
‘You’re aware your appointment has caused a stir in the palace.’
‘What sort of stir?’
‘There are those who say it shows a lack of faith in the abilities of the existing intelligence services.’
Bronze doors led off the passage. Was Beatrice behind one of them?
‘I have nothing to do with the investigation of foreigners.’
‘Then you think your evil magicians could be Romans? You’re in our city for a blink and already you’re slandering us.’
‘No. I don’t know. I haven’t started investigating.’
‘No, you haven’t, because you don’t know what you’re doing. Let me point out where you might start.’
‘I’d be grateful.’
They had stopped and the man faced Loys directly. He had the appearance of being made of something more solid than flesh, some weighty marble, maybe.
‘The Varangians. It doesn’t take a great scholar to work it out. A clear blue day – no problems. The Varangians march in – the sky darkens. So work back. The rebel Phokas is struck dead by magic. Who was there? The Varangians. The emperor fought three battles without them and the outcome was decided by sword and shield. This one by sorcery. Their arrival is heralded by a comet.’
‘That wouldn’t explain the emperor’s ongoing illness.’
‘The emperor has an illness?’
‘No, I—’
‘Dear, dear, you need to control your tongue, scholar. That is treason, did you know that?’
‘I said nothing.’
The man glanced around him.
‘Indeed not. But you are a northern oaf and may well make such a mistake again one day, and in front of witnesses, at which point you will need friends. I could be one of those friends. Let me give you a word of advice. The Varangians are to blame for this. No question. Make
‘You know what is causing this sky?’
‘That’s your job, isn’t it?’
‘What do you know of my job?’
‘This is Contantinople, my friend. The ancient city of Byzan-ti-um.’ He enunciated every syllable of the city’s old name in a way that was far from friendly. ‘Everyone knows everything about everyone here. And if they don’t, they make it up.’
Loys swallowed. ‘It is the mouth of hell? You know this?’
‘A figure of speech. Surely you should tell me what it is.’
‘I don’t know. At the moment my only concern is for my wife. Is she here?’
The man did not reply, just led Loys out of the Room of Nineteen Couches through a bronze door struck with the sickle and star of the city’s emblem. They went down a short corridor.
Loys studied the figure beside him. He had been so keen to find Beatrice that he hadn’t really paid any attention to the man. He’d taken him for a servant but he didn’t talk like a servant. And he wore velvet, a deep green. No one dressed their servants so richly, no one.
This corridor was as splendid as the couch room, the walls glittering with greens and blues showing an undersea scene, complete with images of the sea god Poseidon with his chariot of wave-horses. The light came from lamps arranged all the way down the wall and a big window at the end. It was uncovered and opened on to a lovely garden of orange trees. Loys shivered as the draught blew in.
They walked down corridors and through rooms glittering with decoration. Loys would have liked to have seen more Christian symbols, but he knew the emperor and his retinue for holy men so could find nothing to object to in them mimicking the art of previous generations. Men love stories and, as long as they saw them as stories, there was no harm in them. But where was Beatrice?
They came to a corridor plainer than the rest but still hardly simple. Here the mosaic was only on the floor – scenes of rural life, children feeding donkeys, men collecting hay from the fields.
‘You’re aware your appointment has caused a stir in the palace.’
‘What sort of stir?’
‘There are those who say it shows a lack of faith in the abilities of the existing intelligence services.’
Bronze doors led off the passage. Was Beatrice behind one of them?
‘I have nothing to do with the investigation of foreigners.’
‘Then you think your evil magicians could be Romans? You’re in our city for a blink and already you’re slandering us.’
‘No. I don’t know. I haven’t started investigating.’
‘No, you haven’t, because you don’t know what you’re doing. Let me point out where you might start.’
‘I’d be grateful.’
They had stopped and the man faced Loys directly. He had the appearance of being made of something more solid than flesh, some weighty marble, maybe.
‘The Varangians. It doesn’t take a great scholar to work it out. A clear blue day – no problems. The Varangians march in – the sky darkens. So work back. The rebel Phokas is struck dead by magic. Who was there? The Varangians. The emperor fought three battles without them and the outcome was decided by sword and shield. This one by sorcery. Their arrival is heralded by a comet.’
‘That wouldn’t explain the emperor’s ongoing illness.’
‘The emperor has an illness?’
‘No, I—’
‘Dear, dear, you need to control your tongue, scholar. That is treason, did you know that?’
‘I said nothing.’
The man glanced around him.
‘Indeed not. But you are a northern oaf and may well make such a mistake again one day, and in front of witnesses, at which point you will need friends. I could be one of those friends. Let me give you a word of advice. The Varangians are to blame for this. No question. Make
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