Chapter 42

Meanwhile, At the Palace

It was the darkest part of the night. The guard at the gate of the Blachernae Palace had known this as the hour of the wolf as a youth in his homeland of Rus. All was still and cool after the previous evening’s thunder shower with a light fog in from the sea. Even the insects and gulls were at rest. A knock at the gate was muffled in the mist. The guard slid back the viewing slit set in the heavy wooden door at Varangian height to look down on the face of a skull - cloaked and hooded in black.

“I am expected.”

The guard grunted and withdrew the bolt to allow the portal to open and the shadowy figure to enter. “My orders were to send you directly to his personal chambers. I take it, you know the way?”

Stephen swept on, walking past the guard and into the courtyard, without deigning to reply. He strode past the fountains, statues, and topiary without so much as glancing at the red brick building to his right - the dungeon where he and Andronikos had met and shared stories years earlier.

The Varangians at the entrance to the palace building proper, and those at the entrance to the Emperor’s sleeping chamber, followed the same orders as their brother at the gate and allowed him to pass. The last two foreign soldiers refused to even look Stephen in the eyes. This made him smile as he knocked at the final door. Dangerous warriors made disquiet. Having a skull-like face had its advantages. Hearing a sleepy, “Come,” he lifted the latch and stepped in.

The chamber beyond was cool and dark. The only light was a soft silvery glimmer of moonlight fighting its way through the mist to to glisten off the polished marble pillars which flanked the door to the terrace. On the sleeping couch Stephen could see two figures under a coverlet, the curve of a shapely leg bare.

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“What is it?”

“Basileus it is I, Stephen. You told me to come no matter the hour.”

“Yes. Yes. Do come closer.” To his bed mate he said, “Wake up, Sweetling.”

“Make him go away. I am sleepy. It is not morning yet.” A soft murmur.

“No. Stephen has a story to tell, and his story is so exciting it can not wait until dawn. It is best told in the dark. Is that not so, Stephen?”

Stephen was not a storyteller of Nestor’s quality, but he knew his audience and so he skipped the preamble. Of no interest were the finer details of how Stephen had whistled up half a score of disreputable thugs: criminals, young provincials seeking advancement in the capital by whatever means necessary - as he had once been himself, discontented men from the watch and regular army. The evening’s work would see if they had what it took to continue soldiering on in the new reign.

Although it was exciting in its own way, Stephen did not tell the Emperor how he and his cadre barged into the convent, baring the doors behind themselves to prevent escape. During the rampage the holy sisters fled with shrieks and wails or cowered with sobs and prayers. The Mother Superior sensing what was about to ensue, grabbed a crozier from beside the altar and tried futilely to bar the intruders' progress towards the Empress Regent’s apartments. She was struck aside.

Andronikos did not need details of the setting, how the apartments were sumptuously decorated, despite Maria having only occupied them a few days earlier. Xene. Not Maria. Foreigner. Proudly calling herself what she was. When she had taken her vows as a nun she had also taken on that new name. Whatever she was calling herself these days, Stephen decided the furnishings were too luxurious to befit a bride of Christ. Humility was needed.

Nor did the Emperor need a description of the main character. He knew her and despised her. The woman herself, even in her last hour, had the boldness of State which had been bred into her and nurtured since she was an infant, to demand: “Who dares approach me in such a manner?” Then seeing the death’s head visage stalking sowards her, she spat. “I should have known he would not stoop to violate a holy sanctuary. Of course the old coward sends his most loathsome, boot-licking, henchman to do murder in the night. My son will see the justice of this.”

“Oh, It is not a murder. It is an execution. I have with me your death warrant.” Stephen produced the rolled document with a flourish and a sinister smile. “ Please read it. Be sure to check the seal and signature.”

Skipping to the heart of the narrative, Stephen began to whisper his story.