Just in front of Hagia Sophia, the Palace of the Patriarch (also called the Patriarchate) lay through a gate and to the right. The terrified monks and priests inside this palace babbled that His Holiness the Patriarch Eustratios Garidas was currently preoccupied inside the Great Church. Ignoring them, Narses and his men entered Hagia Sophia’s atrium—with its burbling fountain at the center, the paved paths lined with dark cypresses and gray flowerbeds—that led to the mountain of shining white-silver domes which was the Church of Holy Wisdom.
Narses needed to keep from staring at the monumental marble architecture that rose around him. Since coming to Byzantium from the old world, he had lacked the time to visit this place. Though he was no believer—only feigning belief to appease the rubes—the church’s size and beauty stunned him. On Sunday mornings it was packed with all kinds of people, the veiled beauties donning the skimpiest clothes they could get away with, the choir singing the most beautiful songs, the whole City echoing with them, most of the congregation spending their time socializing while the priests performed their various functions to appease the Lord. But now Konstantinopolis knew that trouble was afoot. Only strong young men carrying swords, spears, maces, knives, wooden beams—whatever could be used as a weapon—were out and about. As a result, the church atrium was, like the Augustaion, deserted.
Narses and his men hauled open Hagia Sophia’s Silver Doors. These were heavy, as tall as several men standing atop each other, and plated with silver reliefs (thus their name). Choir music and clouds of sweet incense swept over Narses and his men. Priests and monks swarmed the inner and outer narthexes, scattering like frightened pigeons at Narses’s approach. They were of all ages, from young beardless choir boys to black-bearded acolytes to grey-bearded deacons and white-bearded presbyters. But for the most part, among the priests and monks at least, longbeards prevailed. Rare indeed was the bushy beard that failed to reach its owner’s chest. Faces were framed on the bottom by vast beards, and on the top by black headdresses, black-and-white patterned skullcaps, or coverings which resembled black top hats.
But monks and clergy were far from the only people here. Dirty, hairy penitents reeking of sweat were also present. Dressed in tattered gray rags and bast shoes—they must have walked all the way from Pskov or Novgorod—they were bowing and crying at the golden mosaics of six-winged seraphs, the black marble pillars, the tall narrow windows that just kept going up and up, the glowing chandeliers hanging on chains that dangled from the distant ceiling that seemed to float on a glowing halo of light. Some white-clad Aethiopian pilgrims were among them. Narses and his men knocked many penitents aside.
In the enormous nave at the church’s heart, beneath the pigeons flapping around the gigantic dome, the priests wore flashy silver silk robes, waved smoking censers—the chains ringing—and held aloft open gilded books to the misty sunlight that beamed down through the windows. The organ player banged away at his keys like he meant it. Priests bellowed a call-and-response prayer with the choir, crossing themselves, exchanging tall thin candles for silver staffs, and then the staffs for the candles again. Only a few congregants were milling about, and all were men.
Narses and his own men didn’t wait for the service to conclude, though some knelt and crossed themselves. The priests moved to the magnificent golden altar at the church’s far end, behind the gilded screens and paintings of the ikonostasis, beneath the spectacular marble ciborium. Meanwhile, Narses’s men approached the oldest whitebeard. Some priests blocked them, but Narses and his men brandished their weapons.
“You’ve worked too hard and too long to die like this,” Narses said. “Not when you’ve got so much to lose.”
The priests backed off. Narses asked the lead whitebeard if he was the patriarch, shouting over the singing and organ playing which was rising to the dome and echoing back down again. The whitebeard pointed to a different man, only a graybeard, who had been yawning with a wide mouth, his eyes red with tears, though at Narses’s approach he had tried sneaking out of the sanctuary and into the vestry, where he might have been planning to hide in one of the closets. Narses pulled him into the nave.
“Are you Eustratios Garidas?” Narses shouted.
“What?” the man said.
The deep-voiced choir was really wailing now. Narses was about to lose his mind. He was ready to hug one of these black marble pillars and, Samson-like, bring the whole church crashing down around him.
“Are you Eustratios Garidas?” Narses repeated, bellowing as loud as he could.
“Who wants to know?” the man shouted back.
“Since when does the patriarch of the holy church hide from people seeking his wisdom?”
“Since you came in here with a bunch of armed, nasty-looking goons!”
“I am General Narses. I need you to crown me as emperor.”
“You couldn’t wait until after the service?”
“We are in a hurry, priest.”
“What’s the rush?”
What was wrong with this man? Well, everyone had said that Garidas was a lazy, uneducated fool. In this case, it seemed rumor matched reality. Nikephoros’s mother had appointed him patriarch because she enjoyed his services as a fortune-teller, and he usually did whatever his superiors told him. Except for now, of course.
“There could be pretenders to the throne,” Narses said.
“Don’t you want more witnesses?” Garidas gestured to the nave. “There’s practically nobody here! Aren’t coronations supposed to be grand spectacles? If you have a small one, it’ll augur poorly for your reign.”
“I just want to get this over with, priest.”
“But if you’re already emperor, why do you need me to crown you?”
“I’m finished with this discussion. You will—”
“Well, I’m not. Nothing you’re saying makes any sense! Furthermore, you are profaning a sacred place! I saw what you did to those poor pilgrims back there!” Garidas pointed at the inner narthex, where some penitents were still lying on the floor, clutching their heads, cursing Narses’s men. “They came all this way just to get beaten up by a bunch of vandals!”
“Who are you calling vandals?” Goudeles said. He was holding an unlit torch like a baton.
“You!” Garidas indicated Goudeles. “I am calling you a vandal, because that’s exactly what you are!”
“I’ll have you know.” Goudeles waved the unlit torch at Garidas. “I own The Swan tavern in the Fifth Region. We serve the finest Kretan malvasa in the City.”
“What are you talking about?” Garidas cried. “You profit from poisoning people, that’s what you do!”
“You will crown me now.” Narses stepped between Garidas and Goudeles. “Willingly or unwillingly.”
“But I don’t even know how to crown you! I’ve never done a coronation in my life!”
With his left hand, Narses grasped Garidas by his silver silk collar; with his right, he wound up to punch the patriarch’s face. Paul took the emperor aside in time, however. This was more difficult for Paul than it seemed, since he was still clutching the coronation finery close to his chest. If he put anything down, it would be stolen and lost instantly and forever. Each item in his hands was centuries old and valuable enough to purchase an entire kingdom—priceless, infinite as the Seal of Solomon.
“The patriarch is correct,” Paul explained. “We need more people here with us, o despota mou.”
“You choose to tell me this now?” Narses said.
“Forgive me, o despota mou.” Paul bowed. “The army, the people, the senate, they’re all supposed to be here acclaiming you in the church. You can’t just get coronated with a few priests, ruffians, and dirty peasants—”
“Since when does the emperor have to follow rules?”
“What are we without rules and traditions?” Paul growled. “Ignore them at your peril! Why must I keep explaining this to you?”
“Emperors are acclaimed in the countryside all the time,” Narses said. “Don’t they get raised up on a soldier’s shield, and that’s it?”
Paul winced. “Yes, but they come here after the fact to have their coronation ratified in a second ceremony—”
“Then when the dust settles, we will have a proper, second coronation.”
“Two coronations for one man in the same church.” Paul looked to the ceiling. “Be patient with him, lord.”
Narses took the diadem from Paul and thrust it into Garidas’s hands. He then gestured for Paul to give him the purple cloak, which Paul managed to swing over Narses’s shoulders while still holding the scepter and orbis terrarum. After Narses took his seat on the patriarch’s throne, Paul gave him these last two items, and then switched his soldier’s sandals with the purple buskins.
“Jesus,” Narses said. “How long will this take?”
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Many priests in the church crossed themselves, looked to the ceiling, and murmured: “kyrie eleison,” lord have mercy. Paul covered his face, but then moved close to Narses to guide him through the process.
Escorted by the tavernkeeper Goudeles, Patriarch Garidas left to instruct the choir and the organ player to prepare for a song called the “coronation litany.” They nodded, although they were still singing another song. He then returned to Narses with a choir boy, who carried a gilded bejeweled tome which Garidas opened on a lectern. The patriarch licked his finger—slobbered all over it, in Narses’s opinion—and then flipped through the heavy, dusty pages, still holding the diadem in his other hand. During a brief pause in the singing, Garidas raised his hands. The music stopped. When he lowered his hands, everyone began singing a different song. Narses’s men, meanwhile, had been grabbing all the people they could find in the narthexes and in the streets outside and forcing them into the nave. Many of these people were covered in blood, bruises, and soot, their clothes tattered. Wide-eyed, they looked as though they had no idea what was going on.
Same goes for me, Narses thought, stifling a yawn.
His day had begun early in the morning on the Latin ship Rosa. Now afternoon was turning to evening, and the sunlight was dimming in the windows. Or was that just smoke from the City burning outside? Narses didn’t care. Things would work themselves out like always.
“Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy and Immortal, have mercy on us,” everyone chanted, at Garidas’s command.
Narses’s men also hauled in a few wrinkled patrikioi whom they must have found in the half-ruined mansions located in nearby neighborhoods. Perhaps some senators or pensioned-off generals were among them. At Garidas’s direction, they all chanted together: “We wish you many and good years, o autokratōr!” They made the sign of the cross.
Now it’s official, Narses thought.
The ceremony proceeded. Paul instructed Narses to answer: “Lord have mercy” during the pauses in Garidas’s litany, which was barely audible over the singing choir and the humming pipe organ. No one had rehearsed any of this, so there were many mistakes and awkward pauses, as Garidas chanted some phrase and then waited for Narses or the audience to respond. Usually the responses were supposed to be “lord have mercy,” but nobody was sure.
“Glory to the Father,” Garidas said. “And to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, both now and ever and to the ages of ages. Amen.”
Paul whispered for Narses to bow. Narses did so. Garidas then prayed over him, and with both hands set the diadem on his head. The crown was heavy as a brick, and its cold pearls and rubies dangled over Narses’s cheeks and temples.
Turning back to the audience, Garidas shouted: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost!”
“Holy, holy, holy!” the crowd responded. “Glory to God in the highest and on Earth peace!”
This was repeated three times. Hagia Sophia echoed with their cries, though the yelling, crashing, and burning from outside was filtering through the huge open Silver Doors, as was some smoke.
“We are finished.” Narses stood from the throne.
Paul forced him back down. “We’re only just getting started, majesty.”
More officials from the Great Palace had been hobbling or running into Hagia Sophia during this time. Apparently word was spreading that a coronation was taking place. Not wanting to miss it—not wanting to lose their jobs—the various eunuch officials in the bureaucracy (in addition to a few military officers) threw on their ceremonial garb and rushed inside just in time to pay Narses homage.
“Many years to Narses, great emperor and sovereign!” they yelled, bowing all the way to the cold dusty marble floor, pressing their foreheads to it, practically making out with it.
Proskynesis. That’s the word for it. Kissing the earth. Eastern corruption. Soon we’ll get rid of it. We’ll replace it with something manlier. Something more Roman.
The priests and choir singers joined them, chanting again: “lord have mercy.” A few soldiers lowered the red and yellow chi-rho standards they were carrying. Captain Nampites, the Varangian guard’s Roman leader, was present, as was Count Martinos of the Excubitores. Both were dressed in ceremonial regalia, which included large, boat-shaped hats. They lowered pennants for Narses, rather than standards.
Narses nodded. He was really, truly ready to leave at this point. His City was burning, he could have eaten an entire stable’s worth of horses and then passed out for a hundred years like the Seven Sleepers, but instead he was sitting on the patriarch’s throne as the various elderly higher-ups approached him—some arguing and even scuffling, in the mean time, about who was supposed to go first. Paul disciplined them. As parakoimomenos, he placed himself at the line’s head. He was followed by the Postal Logothete, the Logothete of the Herds (in charge of rearing horses, mules, and camels for the army and government), the Logothete of the Special Affairs Department (this concerned factories, storehouses, and government monopolies like silk), the Praetorian Logothete (who managed City officials), the Logothete of the Waters (in charge of City aqueducts, plumbing, and harbor dredging), and Logothete of the Bureau of the Barbarians (in charge of diplomacy, which mostly meant bribing foreign powers to attack each other rather than Rome).
Too many logothetes, Narses thought.
There was also the protostrator, in charge of the imperial stables, as well as a protospatharios, or sword-carrier, both so elderly it looked as though decades had passed since either had ridden a horse or held a sword. Some shouted odd, confused comments or questions to their helpers, asking where they were or what they were doing. One, a reliably imperialist senator named Scholastikos, even addressed Narses as Nikephoros. No one corrected him.
Always a good sign when your government is a gerontocracy.
To keep the various ministries running smoothly, new emperors usually kept the officials appointed by their predecessors, and it showed. Many of these men struggled to stand in the nave and needed to be helped up and down by their younger assistants and secretaries, who must have been the ones who were doing the real work in the palace.
These elderly eunuchs approached Narses in a line, stepping carefully with the music and the lord-have-mercies, their assistants holding their arms. They stretched out on the floor again, and—disturbingly—kissed Narses’s knees. The eunuchs were trembling with age, their eyes milky with cataracts, their lips filmy with phlegm. Even Paul needed to kiss Narses’s knees.
How to react? Narses kept rigid, repeating to himself—as minutes became yet another hour, as his knees grew wet with other people’s saliva, as he struggled to avoid gagging—that it was almost over. Out of boredom, perhaps, the organ player had begun hammering out a livelier folk tune. The choir sang along.
“Lord have mercy, lord have mercy!” the crowd chanted.
Narses had never been partial to music. There were only two exceptions. One: the horn music he had heard the Latin knights blast on the beaches of Trebizond. Two: whatever was on the radio of his old world pickup truck—like fireworks on the Fourth of July. That was how the lyrics always went. Of course there was no Fourth of July here, and fireworks had been invented in Sera, and anything connected to Sera was bad. Anyway, he missed those old songs. They were always about how politics was too complicated. It was better to just hang out with your friends, drink a beer, and go fishing. It was impossible to make anything better. While the world fell apart, all you could do was take care of yourself and maybe a few friends and family. The loyal ones. Not the backstabbers.
When the chips are down, that’s when you can tell who your real friends are.
Then there were always commercials about great deals at local car dealerships—always support local business—and amazing job opportunities at the state prison—
“I thought this was what you wanted, majesty,” Paul whispered in his ear.
This startled Narses. He had been disassociating. An old man dressed in a stiff jeweled kaftan of Tyrian purple with a white silk broad-brimmed hat had been kissing his knees and wishing him many long and good years. He was the proedros (president) of the senate, someone named Xeros, a real zero in Narses’s opinion, a xerox of a xerox of a xerox.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Paul repeated. “What did you think being Roman emperor meant?”
“Glory,” Narses said.
“There’s glory enough in these kinds of festive occasions,” Paul said.
“I never knew there would be so much empty ceremony,” Narses whispered back.
“It may seem like empty ceremony to you, majesty,” Paul said. “But it matters to them. You need to show them recognition. Each of these people has filial and patron connections stretching across the empire. This is how you get things done. If you’re going to have any hope of survival, you need to work together with these men. You need to honor them.”
“I will kill myself if I ever see any of them again,” Narses said.
“It’s not as though many people would mind,” Paul murmured, though Narses was unsure he had said this.
“What was that?” Narses said.
Paul bowed. “Nothing, majesty.”
Though the closest officials were only a cubit from Narses and Paul, none reacted to this conversation. All the old men did was smile, bow, wish Narses well, kiss his knees, and leave. There were so many, the line seemed to extend out the Silver Doors. The entire City was going to take a break from destroying itself to kiss Narses’s knees. Then it would go back to destruction.
Maybe if I’m lucky, Narses thought, some Skythians from the land of Gog and Magog will join in. And some Franks, too. Let’s just have the entire world stop by here so they can all kiss my knees and wish me many long and good years.
Clearing his throat, Paul wiped the saliva from Narses’s knees with a silver kerchief.
When Narses was convinced with every fiber of his being that if he remained in his chair for another instant he would die, the bowing and knee-kissing ended. The audience acclaimed him again, and everyone marched back outside to the Augustaion square, where in the winter sunset light, with torches flickering against purple tapestries hanging from the pillars, Narses sat on a steel shield, and his two Turkish and two Varangian guards lifted him into the air, their arms trembling, shocked by how heavy he was. Anyone who had made the mistake of attempting to pick him up had remarked that he was much weightier than he looked.
While Narses was raised up on this shield, he felt like he was on top of the world, that he would achieve Justinian’s heights if only he could rise a little higher. He would soar into the sky and be free forever, flying among the clouds…
Then he noticed Galata burning across the Golden Horn. Flames flickered at the night, the ashes mixing with smoke. Screams rose in the distance, swords clanged, and some galleys were even ramming each other, their crews roaring as they jumped aboard each other’s decks. Yet no one in the Augustaion cared. Another crowd had gathered in the square, this one more wretched compared to the doddering, silk-and-jewel-clad dignitaries who had been kissing Narses’s knees in Hagia Sophia. Now it was mostly shawled babushkas who bowed to Narses and blessed him as he flung ringing golden nomismas their way—snatching fistfuls of coins from sacks Paul handed him.
“Lord have mercy, lord have mercy!” the babushkas cried, throwing themselves to the ground and fighting over the coins that had fallen there.
Narses smiled at Paul. “You see? Everyone is naturally greedy.”
“They aren’t greedy, majesty,” Paul said. “Can you not see how they are desperately poor? If anything, they aren’t greedy enough!”
“Where did you get all this money?” Narses asked, wanting to change the subject. “How many Venetian dicks did you suck to pay for this?”
“Let the logothete handle things,” Paul said.
“I sense I’m going to hear that many times.”
“Yes.” Paul was guiding Narses out of the Augustaion now, followed by his retinue.
“What now?” Narses said. His hunger and fatigue had returned. He was more than ready to rest after such a long day. His stamina had almost completely collapsed.
“We have a banquet in the palace,” Paul said. “In your honor, majesty.”
“Lord have mercy,” Narses said.