Queen of Lies Read online

  Queen of Lies

  Achilleas Mavrellis

  To Amalia-Eleni and Nicholas,

  To the Erasmias of my life,

  To David, my very own Parakoimomenos …

  … whenever they might read this

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Empire Forever Unlimited (EFU), London, www.empireforever.co.uk

  Copyright © Achilleas Mavrellis 2012

  The right of Achilleas Mavrellis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988

  This book is a work of fiction constructed around historical fact. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  A catalog record for the paperback is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-0-9575046-0-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, lent, resold, or stored in any form other than that in which it was purchased, without permission of EFU or the author

  Available in paperback on Amazon and at booksellers across the world

  Main cover image adapted from a 9th century wall mosaic of the Archangel Michael at the Hosias Loukas monastery, Greece. Embedded image of Claire-Monique Martin, Kaveh Beyk and Gioele Silvestri as Ingerina, Vassilis and Michael from Discover Byzantium YouTube clip

  Esdras is witness that the race of women, together with truth, prevails over all

  Contents

  To the Reader

  Major characters

  Part I. Iconoduly: Chapters 1–9 (842–850 AD)

  Part II. Ignominy: Chapters 10–19 (853–856 AD)

  Part III Imperium: Chapters 20–29 (856–865 AD)

  Part IV. Infinitum: Chapters 30–40 (865–867 AD)

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Glossary of other characters and special terms

  Table of contents by chapter – see contents tab on your eReader

  To the Reader

  This is an untold tale of love, loss and the quest for power that took place during a major turning point in world history, in what was once called New Rome, later Constantinople. Although much of what I describe here is unsettling, and the way of things quite alien, the story is based on recorded events and occurrences.

  The historical sources of the period complement yet contradict each other, much like disparate tesserae of a mosaic that need reworking before they can be placed together to create a single, recognizable whole. Rather than being a window into another world, the stories and people of this time – like the religious Icons at the heart of events – project out relentlessly from that world into ours, demanding some kind of response. To inform that response I offer the following context, and have provided some explanatory notes at the end, along with lists of most of the characters and terms mentioned.

  You may still come across people referring to the place and time of this story as “Byzantium”. This rather unfortunate label is the product of an outdated, eighteenth century paradigm that tried to distance New Rome from its more “noble” predecessor. While Rome may have collapsed, the Roman Empire never died; in the fourth century the Emperor Constantine moved the capital of Empire east, to the ancient port city of Vyzantion, in what is now north-west Turkey. The inhabitants of New Rome spoke Latin for several centuries, before becoming completely Greek-speaking. They also drew on and evolved many ancient Roman traditions, often by placing them in a Hellenized Christian context. But they never stopped thinking of themselves as Romans.

  That the New Roman Empire lasted for just over thirteen centuries is a testament to its robust self-identity and extraordinary level of political administration and largely due to a very old Roman sense of order in the face of adversity. While the Empire’s goal – to preserve its classical heritage and Christian values until the Second Coming – was ostensibly not fulfilled, it is worth noting that Constantinople was one of the most successful cities of its time. “The City”, as it became known, was a strong draw for outsiders from China to Scandinavia for almost a millennium, much as it is today in its modern form – Istanbul.

  Today the Empire lives on in invisible ways, through the ancient literature it preserved and re-interpreted, through its evolution of Roman law and through the gifts of art and written language it bequeathed to the maturing cultures of Europe. Perhaps most significantly, it was the first medieval sovereign entity in which women not only had occasion to govern, but were recognized as rulers in their own right, an ancient world view which, apart from this largely forgotten period in late antiquity, took until well into the last millennium to re-emerge fully into global consciousness.

  For a growing body of additional background information and a variety of clips, animations and documentaries on the subject, please visit my website and YouTube channels:

  www.empireforever.co.uk

  Discover Byzantium

  Achilleas Mavrellis, London, 2013

  Major characters

  Eudokia Ingerina – daughter of a Viking emissary to the Romans, lady in waiting to the Regent, then Empress herself. She writes in the winter of late 879 AD.

  Vassilis – Macedonian teenage peasant, groom, bodyguard, later Companion to the Emperor, and then some!

  Michael – the only surviving son of Theodora and the last Iconoclast Emperor Theophilos, he became the sixty-fifth Emperor of New Rome.

  Photios – Chief Imperial Secretary, scholar, diplomat, commander, later patriarch; he is partly responsible for what later became known as the Great Schism of the Eastern and Western Churches.

  Theoktistos the Eunuch – Michael’s appointed guardian and the Logothete, the most senior civil servant.

  Theodora the Regent – Empress Regent and Michael’s mother, also known as the final restorer of Icon worship.

  Vardas – older brother of Theodora, soldier, patron of the arts; after his return from exile he becomes Demestikos, then Caesar.

  Petronas – younger brother of Theodora and Vardas, and a seasoned soldier; later a General of Thrace.

  Ignatios – Archbishop and later Patriarch of Constantinople, a devoted Iconodule.

  Cyril and Methodios – Greek orphan brothers from Thessaloniki; they are largely to thank for spearheading the conversion of the Slavs to Christianity.

  Symvatios – Vardas’ ex-son-in-law and the second Logothete in this tale, with his heart set on becoming Caesar one day.

  Part I: Iconoduly. 842–850 AD

  Chapter 1. The end, and a beginning

  Late fall, 842 AD

  When did this river of opportunity start, and how did it spring up and take us, especially me, by such welcome surprise?

  Perhaps as a small trickle of happenstance, on a plain somewhere between the villages and hills of Macedonia. Nearly forty years ago for me now, perhaps just as the Eunuch had completed his campaign to free the Macedonians from the wild Bulgar.

  I imagine my young Peasant and his older brother, Marianos, grinning in anticipation as they stalk a wild mare, its nostrils steaming in the icy wind. She stands transfixed, as we all did, by these village bumpkins.

  Marianos nods to his younger brother. “Now! Take her!”

  The boy hesitates. After all, he is still just a lad.

  “She’s yours, come on, boy, she’s waiting!” chides Marianos.

  The boy springs on eager heels, slides onto the mare’s back, grapples, then nearly slips off as the mare bucks.

  “That’s it!”

  The wild creature rears up, casting a hopeful eye on the open fields. Marianos is also on her now. He squeezes her to stillness with thick legs, a broad hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder, arms surrounding him as he holds on to her mane. Marianos tries the old trick
, to pull her over, to blind her with the glaring sun.

  “She’s a good one – show her who’s in charge right now – and she’ll be yours forever.”

  Young shoulders lean forward, eagerly embracing the mare. But she bucks and throws both of them off. The boys collapse into laughing limbs, oblivious now to the retreating snorts.

  “Don’t worry, there will be more,” Marianos says.

  My Peasant rolls onto his elbows and gazes into his brother’s eyes. “Yes, but will I ever get one?” he asks.

  Marianos gently takes him by the ears, taps forehead to forehead. “Every young prince deserves his own horse. For someone already twelve years out of his mother’s womb, I expected more! Next time we will tie you on.”

  Then abruptly, mock roughly, “Now get going before I give you a good beating for doubting yourself. Next time I’ll tell Father about it too.”

  Marianos leaps up, pretending to be a ferocious predator. Hands and feet everywhere as my little Peasant scatters toward a nearby clump of trees. He is fast – Marianos reaches him late but manages to grab him by the ankle. He scoops him down onto a waist-high branch and throws open a bag, revealing some bread. The bleating of goats in the distance echoes off gray mountains and snowy peaks. A lone eagle hangs in the air.

  “Why do you say every young prince needs a horse? Am I a young prince?” His eyebrows rise quizzically.

  “You are – and more besides!” Munching. “Father’s father is from a land far away. Across the mountains. Across the Black Sea. The land of Hayk, or, as they say in Greek, Armenia. Great-grandfather was a king.”

  “Is the sea that place where there is so much water? Like a stream, but much more? How do people go over it?”

  “They have boats – like big huts – that float on the water.”

  “Mother says there are people who live in nice places by the sea and are very happy. She is not happy because she wants to live there too.”

  Marianos snorts. “I think Mother says many things just to annoy Father. Wives often do that. She loves him so she always expects more of him.” He casts an eye in the direction of hooves thundering nearby. He wants to try for another one.

  “One day you will see such places. All you need is to be strong and brave, and have a good horse. Enough talk.”

  The boy yelps and drops his bread as Marianos plucks him from the tree and sets him on broad shoulders. He bucks and rides his older brother’s chestnut curls before Marianos sets him down again on their own mare.

  “Silence!” Marianos commands in a whisper.

  They creep up to within twenty paces of the herd. Marianos slips some rope out of his sack. The herd ignores them, especially the largest, a dark stallion.

  This will be the catch of the month, Marianos knows it. Many meals could be earned today if he could just get this handsome creature to the Adrianopolis market. He crosses himself, kissing the Virgin in his mind’s eye, all the while hoping that Father won’t want to hold on to the catch for too long.

  † † †

  Do you see, my darling Leo? You must not let Photios get away with telling this tale the way he has, now that I have found this myth he so cunningly thought to weave into my Peasant’s past. Where did he hide this tale, I hear you ask? Deep in the bare-stripped gloom of the Virgin of the Lighthouse chapel, but not deep enough to escape the probings of inquisitive fingers.

  As Eudokia, the daughter of Inger, envoy of Thule to the Holy Realm of Vyzantion, I did not always understand how important it is to speak simply; but now, as Empress, I know it more than ever. For those who control the understanding of the people control the people themselves. Photios, with all his erudition, has never understood this.

  So, my son, mark well the tears in the binding of this volume. I have removed Photios’ tedious droning and inserted my pages in their place. I want you to know what happened from me, not from some old soldier turned troublemaker like Photios.

  I know things he could never have known, or would be too afraid to speak about. Where was he when I held the hands and heads of both my Emperors, listened to their childlike yearnings, and kissed their eyes, when their bodies enclosed mine in a hot cocoon of love on many a lamp lit evening?

  My earliest memory, perhaps when I was five or so, is that of a late autumn dawn in the Palace gardens, fresh after a night of rain. The morning service is over. Mother, Father and I walk home from the Ayia Eirene past the labyrinthine hedges, where I love to play whenever possible. The dew on the carnations sparkles in the morning light. Beads of water cling to rain-tattered spider webs like pearls poised on strands of silk. The sun rises and the hedges flash in the light. I have always found this remarkable.

  Mother and Father are at each other’s throats. Mother grabs me as I run between them and a hedge. Her fingers pinch me fiercely, as if I am about to vanish, and she hugs me to her. Father seems to be serious but I can see his eyes twinkling at me.

  “All I ask is that you let her go for a few days. Is that so much to ask?” says Father. “She is already old enough to be with the other girls.”

  “She is still far too young. I will not have her become a slave,” says Mother, “not even to the Emperor himself. And certainly not to a filthy Icon worshiper like the Augusta.”

  I slip out of her arms, and run to grab the head scarf that she had let drop to the ground, enjoying its silky feel around my shoulders as I climb onto the base of an eagle statue. The broad plinth cuts into my knees but I can just about balance on its edge when I grab hold of one of the eagle’s claws.

  Father slips me a sly wink. I try to wink in return, but I haven’t mastered this skill yet, and shut both my eyes for trying, nearly slipping as well. Instead, I grin back.

  “It’s just for her to play and make friends. There is no guarantee she will enter the Augusta’s retinue,” says Father. “But it might help me at court if she were invited one day to the Gynaeconitis. The Emperor holds me in high regard but … who knows what might happen in future.”

  I launch myself at him knowing that he will catch me, then perch snugly on a broad arm, tickling my forehead on his beard, letting his long hair, gleaming red in the morning sun, fall on my cheek. “Papa, when will we go to live in the snow castle again? I want to slide on the ice and roll in the snow.” I have vague recollections of eating hot soup by a fiery hearth, and being wrapped in reindeer skins when put to sleep.

  “You remember that!” Father’s amazement pleases me. “You were just a selurinn ungviði then, how do you say in Greek … a seal pup. No, not for a while, my sweet. I think mother has had her fill of the cold.”

  The Norse words fall like welcome snowflakes on my hot ears. But Mother glowers in silence.

  “In a way, so have I,” he continues. “Of this cold, that is. I will be going back soon. Alone.”

  Tears sting my eyes. I hate it when Father leaves us. And it breaks my heart to see Mother ignoring us now, in one of her usual fits, so I run over and throw my arms around her knees.

  Then I am back in Father’s arms, where I want to spend every second. He is the only one who dares throw me up and swirl me around him without any effort. I imagine I am a seagull, coasting behind him as he takes his boat away to the delicious cold and thrilling ice. Real birds must feel less dizzy though.

  “Come on,” he cries. “I’ll race you to the pig statue, the one in the market.”

  He is already racing away as my feet land on the ground, and I tumble after him, my head spinning. That is what I remember. Along with the memories, later acquired, that we all share as the proud descendants of the first Constantine, the one who mounted old Rome and made it buck under him, more than six hundred years ago. So in these pages is my story, written by a mere woman who knows her letters as well as her stitches, no better, no worse. Know this, and you will know all you need to know.

  How marvelous it was when Constantine left old Rome and took us Romans to this most womanly of towns, old Vyzantion. Here, washed in golden sunshine an
d adorned in marble and granite, Europa laid her bosom around a natural harbor into which the docile Aegean laps, stretching a lazy arm across the sparkling Bosporus, but never quite reaching our motherland, Anatolia.

  Theodosius was among the earliest to adorn that bosom, by building the walls of our great City. Much later came Justinian – the sleepless one – whose Ayia Sofia gave us the means to worship her. That all of us survive and live well, even the oldest peasant still breaking his back at the olive tree in the early morning chill, we owe to these and other great Romans.

  But where would these great men have been without us women to knock some sense into their heads, eh? Where would Constantine have been without Helen, his mother? Or Justinian without his whore-empress, Theodora? Need I remind you of Theodosius’ sister, Pulcheria? Not to mention your own grandmother, another Theodora, who strode rough-shod through our lives long after her Theophilos died.

  Like any beautiful woman, our City was desired. But desire brings both fortune and bad luck. Perhaps we didn’t take enough care of her. Surrounded by enemies on all sides our men fought bravely and well, but lost often. In our despair, we gave in too easily to an empty idea born of vanity. Remember this always, little Leo. Ideas are far more dangerous than devils or demons. And men are obsessed with them.

  They said that God had deserted the Romans, that he sided with our Abbasid foes who knelt to Allah and shunned all images. Our men struck at Icon-loving ways, claiming that these harmless images – which offered the poor a taste of heaven beyond the daily misery of life – corrupted the natural order. Women were especially to blame because they held the Icons closest to their hearts, by their bedsides, and over their hearths.

  This is how ideas can turn the minds of men to the study of hate, and what lies in their hearts into the objects of that hate. Learn this well, my wise little Leo, as you embark on your own studies. We women set our City on a straight path when it stumbled along the wayside. We have been more than just mothers or wives or sisters. Some might even say that we have ruled with the wisdom of Emperors ourselves.