Imperial Fire

Constantinople
III

Vallon left his squadron at its winter quarters in Hebdomon, seven miles south of Constantinople, and set off alone for the ride home. He entered the city’s triple line of defences through the Golden Gate, passing under a triumphal arch bristling with statues of emperors, sculptural reliefs and a chariot pulled by four colossal elephants. His route took him along the Mese, the wide marble-paved thoroughfare used by emperors embarking on or returning from campaigns. Snow had fallen and Vallon had the road almost to himself, the city muted and melancholy under a gloomy November sky. He jogged through empty plazas, horse and rider dwarfed by the lofty statues of dead emperors whose triumphant attitudes only made the defeat at Dyrrachium more humiliating. At the Forum of Constantine he turned left and made his way down to Prosphorion Harbour on the south side of the Golden Horn. Here he caught a ferry to the north shore, remounted his horse and rode up into the suburb of Galata.

His walled villa stood near the top of the hill. He frowned to see the courtyard door standing ajar. He pushed it open and entered, breathing a sigh of weary pleasure at being home again. For a few moments he stood absorbing the atmosphere. He’d owned the villa for four years and in all that time he’d spent only eleven months under its roof.

From a precinct behind the stable came the clatter of practice swords. Vallon led his horse over to find Aiken sparring with Wulfstan, his Viking watchman. Vallon watched, putting off the moment when he’d have to break the news to Aiken.

As always, he was struck by how little the boy resembled his father.

Aiken was slight, of medium height, with straight mousy hair and grey eyes. Two of him would comfortably have fitted into his father’s massive frame. Even allowing for the blood inheritance on his mother’s side, it wasn’t credible that Beorn had sired him, yet the Varangian had never broached the subject and in all respects treated the lad as if he were flesh of his own flesh.

Wulfstan lowered his sword. ‘No! You keep closing up. You’re not a snail; you don’t have a shell. All you’re doing is showing your opponent that you’re scared.’

‘I am scared. Who wouldn’t be?’

‘Listen. There’s no reason to fear being killed in battle. If you receive the death blow, the shock and pain will stop you thinking about death. And once you’re dead, you won’t be thinking about anything.’

‘False dialectic. According to Plato — ’

‘Listen, lad, I might not have your book-learning, but I know one thing. A man who’s scared of death is fearful of life, and a man who’s fearful of life might as well be dead.’

Vallon cleared his throat.

Wulfstan whirled and his bruiser’s whiskered face lit up. He freed the stump of his left hand from the socket attached to the back of his shield. ‘Lord Vallon! Welcome home, sir.’

‘It’s good to be back,’ Vallon said, not taking his eyes off Aiken.

Wulfstan knew that look and what it meant. ‘Lord save us. Don’t tell me…’

Vallon handed him the reins of his horse. ‘She’s weary. Feed, water and groom her.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Wulfstan said in a downcast tone.

Aiken hurried over, a boyish smile lighting his face, then he registered Vallon’s expression and the smile withered.

Vallon didn’t soften the blow. ‘I’m sorry to bring you woeful news. Your father perished at Dyrrachium. He died gallantly, leading a charge against the Normans, singing his battle hymn. He didn’t suffer.’

Aiken swallowed. Something in his throat clicked.

Vallon took his hands. ‘Before the battle, your father and I spoke at length about you. He told me how proud he was of your achievements. So am I. We’ll arrange a mass to pray for his ascent into heaven. You’ll need a period of mourning and reflection, but after that it’s my wish to adopt you as my son. I know you already hold that place in my Lady Caitlin’s heart.’

A tear winked on Aiken’s lashes. ‘What a waste.’ He pulled free and stumbled away.

The villa door opened and Vallon’s daughters ran out, skidding on the slush. ‘Daddy! Daddy!’

He caught them one in each arm and swung them up. ‘Zoe! Helena! How you’ve grown. What beauties you’ve turned into.’

Over their heads he saw Caitlin hurry onto the veranda, followed by Peter, his house servant. Her lips trembled. His own mouth twitched and his heart distended. At thirty-three, she was as beautiful as the day he’d first seen her — more so, thanks to the ministrations of maids and hairdressers and seamstresses.

She held up the hem of her skirts and hurried towards him. ‘You should have sent notice of your homecoming. I would have arranged a celebration.’

‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to celebrate.’

Only then did Caitlin notice Aiken leaning against the wall in the corner of the courtyard, his shoulders racking with sobs. Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Beorn’s dead?’

Vallon nodded. ‘Along with most of the Varangian Guard.’ He put out a restraining hand. ‘Give him some time on his own.’

She batted aside his hand, ran to Aiken and squeezed his head to her bosom.

‘What’s wrong, Father?’

Vallon looked into the uplifted faces of his daughters. He tried to smile. ‘I brought you some presents.’

Vallon’s homecomings seldom went as joyously as he’d anticipated. Always there was distance to be bridged, a friction that took time to smooth away. Beorn’s death and its consequences made this the most strained reunion yet. Over supper, Caitlin tried to show interest in Vallon’s activities during his seven-month absence. He filled the silences with questions about domestic matters, the girls, Caitlin’s social arrangements. Aiken had retired to his room.

When the servants had cleared the dishes, Caitlin looked at the empty table. ‘What will become of him?’

‘As I told you, we’ll adopt the boy.’

‘I meant, what does life hold for him?’

‘He’ll join the military under my tutelage.’

Caitlin screwed up her napkin. ‘No!’

‘Aiken is my squire, my shield-bearer. It’s his duty.’

‘The boy isn’t a soldier. He has no aptitude for violence. Ask Wulfstan. What he does have is a gift for languages and philosophy.’

‘Caitlin, I have no choice in the matter. I swore an oath to his father.’

‘A loud-mouthed roaring idiot who got himself killed just like all those foolhardy warriors who perished at Hastings.’

‘Beorn died defending the empire.’

‘From what you told me, it sounds like he squandered his life to settle an old blood grudge.’

Vallon gritted his teeth. ‘My lady, I think you’ve settled so comfortably into the luxurious ways of Constantinople that you forget what sacrifices have been made to safeguard your lifestyle.’

Both of them stared at the table. Caitlin eventually broke the silence. ‘Surely you don’t mean to take Aiken on your next campaign.’

‘I do.’

‘But he’s only sixteen, just a boy.’

‘He’s the same age I was when I first saw military service. Don’t worry. I’ll lead him on gently.’

Caitlin stared through him, then rose and made for the door.

‘Where are you going?’

She whirled, eyes ablaze. ‘Where do you think?’

Vallon remained at the table, half articulating justifications for his decision, his discomfort worsened by the knowledge that Caitlin probably was right. Sweet anticipation of returning home had soured. Smacking the board with his fist, he picked up the flagon of wine and two beakers and went to Wulfstan’s lodgings by the gate.

‘I’m not keeping you from sleep, am I?’

‘God, no, sir.’

‘I thought we might drink to my safe return and Beorn’s voyage into the afterlife.’

The Viking swept a bench clean with his good hand. He quaffed his cup in one and leaned forward, eyes shining. ‘Tell me about the battle, sir.’

Vallon sipped his wine and his gaze wandered back to that chaotic day. ‘It was a complete mess…’

Half-drunk by the time he’d finished his account, he looked up to see Wulfstan’s gaze rapt and distant. The Viking’s nostrils flared. ‘God, I’d give anything to fight another battle.’

‘Isn’t the loss of one hand enough?’

Wulfstan looked at his stump and laughed. ‘I can still hold a sword.’

Vallon sobered. ‘Do you think Aiken will make a soldier?’

Wulfstan’s manner grew circumspect. ‘Under your tutelage, I think any lad would.’

‘The truth now.’

‘His sword-play is quite pretty.’

‘But he lacks fire and fibre.’

Wulfstan had drunk twice as much as Vallon. ‘The trouble with Aiken is that he thinks too much. Imagination is the enemy of action.’

‘That suggests I think too little.’

Wulfstan gave a tipsy chuckle. ‘Not at all. I remember the day you fought Thorfinn Wolfbreath in the forests north of Rus. Christ, what a contest that was.’ He glugged his wine. ‘At dawn before the contest, you were sitting alone at the edge of the arena and Thorfinn, who’d been pouring birch ale down his throat all night and boasting how he’d break his fast on your liver, spotted you and said, “Couldn’t you sleep?” And you replied cool as autumn dew, “Only a fool lies awake brooding over his problems. When morning comes, he’s tired out and the problems are the same as before.”’ Wulfstan thumped the table. ‘I knew then that you’d beat him.’

‘I don’t remember,’ Vallon said. He lurched to his feet. ‘I swore an oath against my better judgement. I don’t want to force Aiken down a path not of his own choosing. I’ll wait a few weeks and let him decide for himself.’

Vallon and Caitlin made up, as they always did. They shared a bed, made love with mutual pleasure, sat together during the long evenings, easy in each other’s company, occasionally breaking off from their private pursuits to exchange smiles.

Late one raw afternoon soon after the turn of the year, Vallon was working on his campaign report close to the hearth when the courtyard bell rang. Caitlin looked up from her embroidery. ‘Are we expecting visitors?’

‘No,’ Vallon said. He went to a window overlooking the courtyard and parted the shutters. Wulfstan had opened the gate and through the gap Vallon could see a group of men armed with swords.

The Viking marched towards the house, followed by an officer. ‘Soldiers of the Imperial Guard,’ Vallon told Caitlin.

Wulfstan opened the door, admitting a gust of cold air. ‘A squad of vestiaritae. Their captain wants to see you. Won’t say why.’

‘Show him in.’

Caitlin came close. ‘What can they want?’

Vallon shook his head and faced the door. Boots slapped on the floor with military precision and a young officer entered, wearing a fur mantle against the cold. He snapped a salute at Vallon and made a bow to Caitlin. ‘John Chlorus, commander of a fifty in the vestiaritae, with orders for Count Vallon the Frank.’

Vallon sketched a salute. ‘I know your face.’

‘I know yours, sir. We fought at Dyrrachium. You’re one of the few mercenaries I do recognise. Most of the others I know only from their backs.’

‘And the reason for your visit?’

‘My orders are to escort you to the Great Palace. You’d better wrap up warm. We’re travelling by boat.’

That was a two-mile journey. It would be dark before they reached the palace. ‘What’s the purpose of the summons?’

‘That I can’t tell you, Count.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

Chlorus hesitated. ‘My orders are to accompany you to the palace. That’s all.’

Caitlin stepped between them. ‘Night is falling. Do you really think I’d let you carry my husband into the dark without knowing who he’s meeting?’

Chlorus had been trying to keep his eyes off her since entering.

‘Well?’ Caitlin demanded.

‘My orders were issued by the Logothete tou Dromou.’

Vallon’s eyes narrowed. The title translated as something like the ‘Auditor of the Roads’, but the Logothete’s responsibilities went much further than maintaining the empire’s highways. He supervised the Byzantine government’s postal service and diplomatic corps, monitored the activities of foreigners in Constantinople and ran an empire-wide network of spies and informers. He was in effect the emperor’s foreign minister, a personal adviser who wielded great and covert influence.

‘In that case I won’t keep the minister a moment longer than necessary. You’ll have to excuse me while I make myself presentable. My house guard will bring wine to warm you.’ Vallon cast a loaded look at the Viking hovering behind the officer, his hand on his sword, his face glowering with mistrust. ‘Wulfstan, the soldiers must be perishing. Invite them inside.’

Caitlin hurried after Vallon as he made for their sleeping chamber. She seized his elbow. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Vallon, struggling out of his gown.

Caitlin watched him dress. ‘It must have something to do with you saving the emperor’s life.’

‘Don’t speak of it. According to the official accounts, Alexius fought his way to freedom after slaying twenty Normans and riding his horse up a hundred-foot precipice.’

With mounting impatience, Caitlin watched Vallon pull on a tunic. ‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t wear that. Let me.’

He let her complete his costume and then he buckled on his sword. She stood back and appraised him. ‘Well, you won’t disgrace us. I’m sure the emperor intends to reward you.’

Vallon took her in his arms and kissed her. Their lips lingered. She stroked his neck. ‘Return soon, dear husband. I want to show how much I love you.’

‘As soon as I can,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll hold you to your promise.’

He broke the clinch, turned and went to face his destiny with a neutral smile. ‘Shall we go?’

A caique rowed by eight men carried them down the Bosporus, their passage speeded by a cutting northerly. Vallon’s escort spoke little and only among themselves. Dreary dusk darkened to starless night. Shielded by a windbreak, Vallon watched the torches on the great sea walls sliding past to starboard. He wondered how he would return home, and then it occurred to him that this might be a one-way journey. Officers who’d distinguished themselves in battle weren’t wrenched from the fireside on a cold winter night.

They passed the Pharos, its flame projected by mirrors far out to sea, and docked at the port of Bucoleon, the emperor’s private harbour south of the Great Palace complex. Vallon’s heart beat faster. The escort formed up around him and marched through a postern guarded by bronze lions. They crossed a series of open spaces lit by lanterns whose fitful flames illuminated gardens and fish ponds, pavilions and pleasure grounds. Vallon had never been inside the complex before and had no idea where the escort was taking him. They angled left towards a massy building with random lights showing at some of the windows.

‘Which palace is this?’

‘Daphne,’ said Chlorus. He ran up a monumental flight of steps leading to the entrance. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to hand over your sword and submit to a search.’

Vallon stood unmoving while the men patted him for secret weapons. Chlorus pounded on the doors and they opened into a blaze of candelabra. A chamberlain carrying a silver staff of office received them and led the way through aisles and halls supported by onyx and porphyry columns, through lofty chambers decorated with polychrome mosaics and tapestries, across pavements inset with gold peacocks and eagles, past fountains spouting water from the mouths of bronze dolphins. At each entrance guardsmen and eunuchs stood rooted at attention.

They entered a plain room with a door at the far end guarded by two soldiers. One of them threw the door open and Vallon found himself in a passage or tunnel lit by torches in sconces. His footsteps echoed off bare walls wringing with condensation. The passage must have been fifty yards long and the torches fluttered in an icy draught issuing from the far end.

The chamberlain halted at an entrance open to the night. ‘Wait here.’

He went out and gave a deep bow, murmured something inaudible and received an even fainter response. He turned and beckoned Chlorus forward. The officer put every fibre of his being into his salute. ‘Allagion Chlorus reporting with Count Vallon.’

‘Admit the count,’ a voice said, ‘then you and your men withdraw.’

Vallon stepped onto a covered balcony overlooking a lake of darkness surrounded by the faint breathing glow of the city. It took a moment to realise that the U-shaped arena beneath him was the Hippodrome, and that he was looking down on it from the imperial box. His flesh seemed to congeal about his bones.

Three figures swathed in fur overgarments occupied the balcony, seated around two braziers that cast only enough light to suggest form but not features. Vallon had the impression that one of them was veiled and possibly a woman.

One of the muffled shapes rose. ‘An interesting perspective,’ he said. ‘Looking out over the city while it sleeps.’

Vallon struggled for words. ‘Indeed.’

‘I am Theoctistus Scylitzes, Logothete tou Dromou. I apologise for dragging you away from your hearth on such a bitter night.’

Vallon decided that a deep bow was sufficient response. No seat had been set out for him and the minister obviously had no intention of introducing the other figures. Vallon indicated the arena. ‘It’s strange to see it empty. The last time I was in the Hippodrome it must have held sixty thousand spectators.’

A breeze fanned the coals, throwing the Logothete’s bearded face into relief. He held up what looked like a bound document. ‘I’ve been telling the emperor about the travels that led you from the barbarian northlands to Constantinople.’

Vallon’s nape crawled at that ‘I’ve been telling’. His gaze darted to the other two figures. Was that the emperor? Surely not.

‘Yes,’ said the Logothete, ‘I spent two days studying the report you wrote for my predecessor.’

Vallon found his voice. ‘I didn’t pen it myself. It was written nine years ago, before I’d mastered Greek. The account of our travels was set down by a companion, Hero of Syracuse.’

‘Quite so. He seems to have a gift for literary exposition.’

‘He has many gifts.’

‘And a fertile imagination.’

‘My Lord?’

The Logothete tapped the book. ‘Most interesting, absolutely fascinating.’ He paused. ‘If true.’

‘Tell me which part of the account rings false and I’ll try to set your doubts to rest.’

Theoctistus laughed and smacked the document across his knee. ‘The whole damn thing. Are you really telling me that you journeyed from France to England, then sailed north to Ultima Thule before returning south through the land of Rus and crossing the Black Sea to Rum?’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘And all to deliver a ransom of falcons demanded by that rogue Suleyman.’

‘In essence, yes, Lord.’

The Logothete appraised him. ‘You’re a remarkable fellow, Vallon.’

‘Remarkably lucky. If I succeeded, it was because I was well served by a brave and ingenious company.’

One of the other figures leaned towards the Logothete and whispered. The minister nodded.

‘Vallon, I’ll come to the point. I want you to undertake another journey on behalf of the empire.’

Vallon’s guts constricted. ‘May I ask where you propose to send me?’

The Logothete took a moment to answer. ‘In your account you describe a former Byzantine diplomat, a noted traveller known as Cosmas Monopthalmos.’

Vallon saw the Greek’s dark eye as if it were yesterday. ‘Indeed I do, Lord. Although I only met him in his dying hours, he left a lasting impression.’

‘Then you’ll remember that Cosmas travelled as far east as Samarkand.’

‘It’s only a name to me.’

‘Samarkand lies beyond the Oxus, in the wilderness that spawned the Seljuk Turks and all the other swarms of horse nomads who plague our eastern frontiers.’

‘You want me to lead a mission to Samarkand?’

‘You’ll pass through it. I calculate that it marks the halfway point on your journey.’

Despite the cold, sweat filmed Vallon’s forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Lord. My knowledge of that part of the world is flimsy.’

The glow from the braziers cast the Logothete’s face in sinister relief. ‘Have you heard of an empire called China? It goes by other names, including Cathay, though some reports suggest that Cathay and China are separate empires. Its own citizens, subjects of the Song emperor, call it the Middle Kingdom or Celestial Empire, titles stemming from their belief that it occupies an exalted position between heaven and earth.’

‘I’ve heard rumours of a rich kingdom at the eastern end of the world. I have no idea how to reach it.’

The Logothete pointed down the tunnel leading from the balcony. ‘Quite simple. Follow the rising sun and you should reach it in about a year.’

About a year! Vallon was so shocked that he missed some of the Logothete’s smooth exposition. He shook himself. ‘Even Alexander the Great never travelled so far.’

‘You’ll be following the Silk Road, a well-trodden trade route, travelling in stages, stopping and resting at entrepôts and caravanserais.’

Vallon stiffened. A year felt like being saddled by a dead weight, but that represented only the period of outward travel. A year to reach China, a year returning, and God knows how long spent between the two termini. He felt old before he’d taken a single step.

‘Might I ask the purpose of the expedition?’

The Logothete spread his hands. ‘Constantinople is the mirror of Western civilisation. By all accounts, China enjoys the same glittering pre-eminence in the East.’ He brought his hands together. ‘It’s only natural that the two poles of civilisation should establish diplomatic relations. Yours won’t be the first Byzantine mission to China. I’ve examined the records and discovered that the empire has sent seven embassies to China in as many centuries.’

‘Resulting in benefits to Byzantium. I trust.’

The Logothete’s breath condensed in the chill air. ‘They have created mutual recognition and respect.’

Achieved absolutely nothing, Vallon interpreted.

‘Now is the time to build on this foundation,’ the Logothete said. ‘An alliance with China will yield practical rewards.’ He pulled his cape tight over his shoulders. ‘Vallon, you don’t need me to tell you what a plight we’re in. Seljuks within a day’s ride of the Bosporus, Normans hammering at our Balkan possessions, Arabs threatening our sea lanes. Byzantium is under siege from all sides. We need allies; we need friends.’

‘I agree, but I fail to see how a foreign power a year’s journey to the east can offer any succour.’

‘China is also threatened by the steppe barbarians. Form an alliance with them and we can squeeze our common enemy, allowing us to concentrate on foes closer to home. Other benefits will flow from establishing a conduit to the East. With our trade routes closed or under competition from Venice and Genoa, opening up a road to China will provide a much-needed lifeline.’

Vallon knew that he was on the rim of a whirlpool and would be sucked down if he didn’t thrash clear. ‘Lord, I’m not the man to accomplish these goals. Next year I turn forty. My health is not as robust as it was when I made the journey to the north. I have — ’

The Logothete slapped the document. ‘You’re cunning and resourceful, steadfast and brave. Don’t think your actions at Dyrrachium have gone unnoticed. You’ve had years of experience campaigning against the nomads. You employ Turkmen soldiers in your own squadron.’

Vallon opened his mouth and then shut it. A decision had been made at the highest level, and nothing he could say would change it.

The minister resumed his seat. ‘There are other prizes to be sought in China.’

Vallon’s response sounded dull in his ears. ‘Such as?’

The Logothete looked over the empty arena. ‘You know that silk is Constantinople’s most valuable export.’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘Do you know where we obtained the secret of its manunfacture?’

‘A place called Seres, somewhere in the East, beyond the River Oxus.’

The Logothete turned in some surprise. ‘You’re better informed than I imagined.’

‘Hero of Syracuse told me, passing on information he obtained from Cosmas. Both men thirsted for knowledge about far-off places.’

‘I’d like to meet this Hero of Syracuse.’

Vallon held his tongue, and after a few moments of interrogative silence, the Logothete continued. ‘Seres and China are one and the same. Five hundred years ago, an official who held a post corresponding to mine sent a pair of Nestorian monks into a silk-making town east of Samarkand. They smuggled silk worms back in hollowed-out staffs.’ The Logothete reached under his furs and stroked his gown. ‘Silk has been the mainstay of our wealth ever since, but now the Arabs and others have learned how to produce it and broken our monopoly. It’s time to discover fresh secrets in China — new metals, ingenious war engines.’ The Logothete eyed Vallon. ‘No doubt you’ve seen Greek Fire used in battle.’

‘Yes. I’ve never employed it myself. I don’t know its formula.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Greek Fire is the secret weapon that forms the bulwark between Byzantium and its enemies.’

‘Long may it preserve us,’ Vallon said, in the tone of someone reciting a response in a litany.

The Logothete stepped close and spoke in a scented whisper. ‘Suppose I told you that China possesses a weapon more powerful than Greek Fire.’

Vallon resisted the instinct to step back. ‘That would be a prize worth having.’

The Logothete withdrew. ‘Three years ago slavers in Turkestan captured a Chinese merchant who eventually ended up in Constantinople. The man had been a soldier and engineer. Under questioning, he told his interrogators that Chinese alchemists had formulated a compound called Fire Drug, a substance that ignites with a spark and explodes when packed into a container. Now then, Vallon. You’ve seen a sealed bottle of oil burst in a fire. Poof! Alarming and possibly injurious to those standing close by.’ The Logothete’s face ducked back into the firelight. ‘In the same circumstances, a bottle of Fire Drug would blow everybody within twenty yards to shreds.’

Vallon massaged his throat. The Logothete swung away and tramped along the balcony, one hand slapping the rail.

‘Packed into cylinders, Fire Drug propels arrows twice as far as any bow can shoot. Encased in iron spheres, it explodes with a force that can shatter a ship into splinters.’

‘An army equipped with such a weapon wouldn’t need knights, only engineers.’

‘Precisely,’ the Logothete said. ‘But the strange thing is that the Chinese don’t exploit this terrible incendiary for military purposes. Apparently, they use it to frighten away evil spirits.’ The Logothete paused. ‘We want you to obtain the formula for this devastating compound.’

‘Lord, Byzantium has possessed Greek Fire for centuries, and during all that time we’ve kept the secret of its manufacture to ourselves. The engineers of Cathay will guard their formula just as closely.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find a way of discovering the secret.’

‘Steal it, you mean. If the theft is discovered, it would wipe out any diplomatic gains at a stroke.’

‘That won’t do at all. You must use guile and ingenuity.’

Vallon recognised finality in the Logothete’s tone. He drew a shuddering breath. ‘When does the expedition set out?’

‘Next spring, as early as wind and weather permit.’

‘Lord, if the embassy is so important, I can’t understand why you would choose a foreign count to lead it.’

‘Not lead. Escort. Professional diplomats will head the mission. You’ll meet them in due course. But you’re right. Your rank must befit the importance of your commission.’ The Logothete bowed. ‘Congratulations, Strategos.’

General. Never had promotion been so unwished for. It was all Vallon could do to bow and acknowledge the honour.

‘I should stress that the expedition is secret,’ the minister said. ‘Your promotion will be announced as recognition for your valour at Dyrrachium.’

‘I understand,’ said Vallon.

The Logothete resumed his seat. The braziers hummed in a swirl of air. A harsh female voice spoke. ‘We’ve been told that your wife is a beauty.’

Vallon’s night vision had sharpened. A veil covered the speaker’s face, but he was sure that the woman was the Empress-Mother, Anna Dalassena, the most duplicitous schemer in Constantinople and the woman who’d plotted her son’s seizure of the throne. Which meant that the third figure hunched over in his furs must be Alexius.

‘My wife is from Iceland,’ Vallon said. ‘The island breeds a fair race.’

‘You dwell in Galata, I understand. I’ve never been there. Of course, when you return, you must find a home closer to the palace.’ Her hand described a circle. ‘And perhaps a small estate on the Marmara coast.’

Vallon managed a bow before turning to the Logothete. ‘How many men will I command?’

‘One hundred cavalry, chosen from your own squadron, each man selected for his courage, loyalty and versatility in arms. Our ambassador will be accompanied by his personal guards and staff. With grooms, muleteers, surgeons, cooks — about two hundred men in all.’

‘Two hundred is too few to fight a battle, too many to keep supplied on a year’s land march.’

‘I don’t anticipate any serious fighting. I’ve already taken steps to arrange a safe conduct through the Seljuk territories in Armenia and Persia. Once you’ve passed through those lands, you won’t face anybody more fearsome than nomad bandits.’

How do you know? Vallon wanted to shout. That’s how you dismissed the Seljuk Turks who defeated the cream of the Byzantine military and captured the emperor only ten years ago. He breathed deep. ‘My men are mercenaries. I can’t compel them to follow me to China.’

‘You won’t tell them until you’ve taken ship. Until then, you must convince them that they’re bound for another spell on the Bulgarian border. Only when you’re three days’ sail from Constantinople will you reveal your orders. To soften any distress this might cause, you’re authorised to tell your men that they’ll be drawing double wages for the duration of the expedition.’

None of them would see a penny, Vallon thought. All of them would perish in a nameless desert with not even a coin to close their eyes against the sun.

‘I’m sorry, Lord. I won’t lie to my men. They’re a rag-tag bunch drawn from many lands and my greatest pride is that they trust me. I won’t betray that trust. I will take only volunteers who know what hazards they face.’

Outside the walls of the Hippodrome, dogs barked and a bell tolled from a distant church. Gases hissed in the braziers. The third figure — it had to be Alexius — reached out and took the Logothete’s sleeve. The minister leaned and then straightened.

‘Very well. You’ll tell your squadron at the last moment, without informing them of their precise destination. That’s a simple security precaution. You’ll be carrying a great deal of treasure.’

Vallon drew himself up. ‘I’m honoured that you regard me as equal to the task. I humbly submit that you overestimate my talents and I beg to be relieved of it.’

‘Your request is denied, General. You have three months to prepare. During that time, you will meet with the diplomats and learn everything you can about China.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘That would be treason, and the punishment for treason is to be blinded and whipped through the city sitting backwards on an ass.’ The Logothete gave a signal and Chlorus emerged from the tunnel. ‘His Imperial Majesty has promoted Vallon the Frank to a general’s command, and an officer of such high rank shouldn’t be exposed to another choppy ride on the Bosporus. You’ll find a carriage waiting at the Chalke Gate.’

Vallon’s escort set him down outside his villa and rode back to the ferry. He hesitated before pulling the bell, aware that this might be one of the last times he entered his home. To the south the metropolis slept under a glowing bubble. Across the Bosporus only a few isolated lights marked the Asian shore. He wrenched the bell-pull and Wulfstan shepherded him inside, goggling with questions he didn’t dare ask. Caitlin jumped up from the fireside.

‘Was I right? Has the emperor rewarded your valour?’

Vallon sat down and massaged his eyes. ‘In a way. I’ve been promoted to general.’

‘Then why do you look like a man under sentence of death?’

‘I’ve been ordered to lead an expedition to China.’

‘Where’s that?’

Vallon gave a curdled smile, aware that he would hear the same question many times in the months ahead. ‘Already I face a problem. I have strict orders to tell no one about the mission.’

‘Nonsense, Vallon. I’m not one of those Greek gossips. We’ve never let secrets divide us.’

‘I’m merely warning you that you mustn’t repeat anything I tell you.’

‘Of course I won’t.’

Vallon blew out his cheeks. ‘China is an empire on the other side of the world, a year’s journey away, a year back. I’ll be old before I return. If I return.’

Caitlin took both his hands. ‘You’re frozen.’ She turned and called. A maid appeared. ‘Hot wine for the master.’ Caitlin led him to a couch, sat him down and knelt before him, kneading his hands. ‘I couldn’t bear such a long separation.’

Vallon shrugged. ‘The only way to avoid the mission would be to flee Byzantium.’

‘Where would we go?’

Another shrug. ‘I could take up the Seljuk Sultan’s offer to join his army.’ Vallon laughed. ‘I encountered the Normans’ second-in-command on the field of battle. He made a similar offer. I could go anywhere they’d employ an ageing mercenary.’

Caitlin looked around the comfortable apartment. ‘It would mean giving up everything and starting afresh in a foreign land. The children would have to learn new languages.’

Vallon sat straight. ‘No. I won’t allow my family to be uprooted. I’ll carry out my orders, even if I might never see my loved ones again. I’m sorry that you will have to make a similar sacrifice.’

The maid returned with the wine. Vallon turned the cup in both hands. Caitlin rose and sat beside him. ‘If anyone can make the journey and return home safe, it’s you.’

Vallon lifted the cup to his lips and knocked it back in one, aware that Caitlin had made only a token stand against what was effectively a death sentence delivered against her husband.

‘How long until you leave?’ she asked.

‘Three months.’

‘Then there’s hope. The emperor might change his mind before then. Every week brings news of fresh alarms on the frontier. They won’t send you on such a far-flung expedition if there’s fighting to be done closer to home.’

Vallon summoned a smile. He squeezed Caitlin’s hand. ‘You’re right.’

Her expression became pensive. ‘If you do go, will you ask Hero to join you?’

Vallon swung round. ‘Of course not. It didn’t even occur to me. As for summoning him… He’s a distinguished physician in Italy. He wouldn’t throw up his career to tag along on some reckless adventure. Heaven forbid.’

Caitlin leaned towards the fire. ‘And Aiken?’

Vallon studied her face in profile, the firelight gilding her skin. He stroked a hand down her cheek. ‘No. The challenge is too severe. The lad will stay here and continue his studies.’

Caitlin closed her eyes in relief and kissed Vallon on the lips. ‘Thank you, husband.’ She rose in one graceful movement and extended her hand. ‘I think it’s time we retired.’

Vallon pressed her hand to his lips. ‘I fear my thoughts are too wrenched about to give you the consideration you deserve.’

Caitlin brushed her hand over Vallon’s head and withdrew.

He watched her glide out of the room, his thoughts dark and rancid. Much later his servant found him staring into the fire, studying the pulsing embers as if they were a prefigurement of his destiny, open to any interpretation.