The Emperor Michael III

How shall I care that I am blind when I have seen enough colour in my days to fill the rest of meagre time?

Here in the Monastery in Armenia I have a little boy to read to me–sometimes Photias, sometimes John Damascenus the Syrian, sometimes the Fathers of the Church.

This I buy with the much money saved when I was in the train of the Emperor Michael now wailing in Hell.

I am very old and repentant, and soon I shall swing censers in Heaven, and my eyes shall be replaced with rubies from God’s own throne; the scent of crushed roses and ambergris shall soothe my nostrils and I shall sit close to the gate that I may look from the gold bars on to the flames of Hell and see the Emperors there, Michaels, Constantines, and Leos and presently the Emperor Basil the Macedonian, being thrust into the deepest pit of all.

It is Christmas eve, and I hear them singing in the choir … such patient men, these monks, but then very few of them have seen Constantinople. I am richer than they, though blind, for I have memories.

I do not miss my sight, for what is there to see here? They have no gold nor silver nor mosaic in their church nor painted curtains or curious robes.

I shall be glad to gain Heaven that I may see the shoes of God, crystal, gilt and pointed and His girdle of great blue stones and the attire of the angels, fine cambric worked with silks from Persia, purple of a live blood colour and green like a split jade.

So I talk and the little boy writes while they sing in the chapel; they humour me because I am so very old and I despise them all.

To-night I have a loosened tongue; I could tell secrets now.…

Write, write, write the last scene I saw before I was blind–how the Sclaronion gained the throne and how the Amorian died.

Come nearer, for my voice is very weak. What if this was the last night of all for me and I should wake to see the banners of God blowing about His throne?

So write, for I know more than I have ever told.

It was the year 866 that the Emperor Michael surnamed the Drunkard, took for his fellow Emperor Basil the Macedonian groom. This was reward for what Basil had done at Kepos, where he had stabbed the CÆsar through the back. This CÆsar Bardas was a clever man, but Basil was more cunning; this Bardas the CÆsar was uncle to the Emperor, and had in his time slain Theoktistos, so he, too, is in Hell, for he died without a prayer. But I have prayed before the images and given them robes of silk pleasant to handle. Basil the groom had come to Constantinople on foot with a wallet on his back and become a stable boy to an officer of the court, and once when the Emperor was driving his own white horses in the Hippodrome, he saw this Basil wrestle with a Bulgarian and overthrow him; the Macedonian had great credit for this, and Michael took him into his service, for he was a man of wonderful strength.

I never saw one taller; his hair was very thick bright brown and curling, his face had a look of hideous power and his neck was massive as the trunk of a young tree.

He had a great gift with horses, for there was never one whom he could not subdue with a touch and a whisper; soon, it seemed, he had this power with the Emperor, too, for Michael made him Chamberlain and cast money into his lap as gifts are cast before the Images.

Who knew what went on outside the mighty palace? I tell you none could guess.… But you have heard of Eudocia Ingerina; she was a daughter of the Martinakes, and the Emperor would have married her, but because her family was so mighty his mother, Theodora, prevented this, and he married Eudocia, the daughter of Dekapolitas.…

Then there was Thekla, the sister of Michael, and she loved Basil, but the Emperor married him to Eudocia, who would be Empress some way; she never forgave it, for he had resigned her for fear of his mother, vanished now to Gastria, afterwards to Anthimos.

It was their women behind it all.… Those were great golden days. Eudocia Ingerina, with the Emperor for her lover and the groom for her husband, kept the splendid revels gorgeously, but in her heart she waited for vengeance on Michael and his mother, on all of them who had debarred her from the throne–I knew it always.

At one time I was her chamberlain. She was a woman beautiful and vain; in my perpetual darkness I can see her features, her black hair clinging to her white shoulders, the plates of gold and clanging metal, of wine-red and serpent-green stones about her brow, her long, long eyes and small mouth, expressionless–her perfumed linen and her mantles of furs and silver.…

It was worth living then; it is worth living now to think of it. Write, write the colour, the glitter, the glory and the power of it, the days burning into the nights with the lights of a thousand jewelled lamps glowing behind screens of silk, the marble halls strewn with flowers, the slaves with bands of scarlet on their foreheads, the chariot races, the shouting crowds, the taste of wine and fruit, the perfect women with heavy hair, the churches shining with burnished bronze and gold.… Sometimes I dread that Heaven cannot be so delicious.…

In May, then, Michael made Basil Emperor with him, joint ruler of the Eastern Empire, sharer of the throne of the CÆsars, and in the winter of that year he gave the imperial title to a third, Basiliskian.

Now there were glorious orgies and splendid riotings of feasts and games; and each wondered which Emperor would first slay the other; and Michael was grown to be afraid of Basil, who was changed from a drunken groom into an Emperor and a graver man.

With this terror on him, he came to Eudocia Ingerina.…

Do you think I hear the monks chanting and see darkness?

No, I hear the trumpets; I see the Emperor Michael with his black hair unbound and his whip in his hand as he has returned from the Hippodrome standing against the leopard cat couch, while the sun embraces the snakes on his buskins. And she, Eudocia Ingerina, seated on a stool inset with opal holding lilies in her hand.

“So,” he said, “I am afraid of this Basil whom I took from the kennels; he must go swiftly as he came, Eudocia.”

“You made him my husband,” she answered, and threw the lilies down.

The fine silk curtains were lifting in an Eastern wind; the sun slipped under them and gilded the sloping orange walls of Numidian marble and the girdle of turkis round her waist.

“I am afraid of him,” repeated the Emperor, and he shook.

She looked away and he went on his knees and laid his head on her lap, dropping the whip stained with the blood and foam of his horses. Neither of them had any heed of me standing in the outer peristyle where the bronze pots of roses were, nor of the two slaves in tiger skins.

“Do you weep?” she asked, and lifted his thick hair in her small round fingers.

He looked up with red eyes.

“Basil is dangerous,” he muttered.

She leant towards him delicately.

“Why did you not make me Empress?” she questioned, and rose up, repulsing him.

He got to his feet and went swaying down the corridors with clattering African slaves and Persian guards after him.

That night at the feast one of his madnesses came upon the Emperor; the dÆmons got hold of him and he fought them off, howling; then he and Basil and Basiliskian gave commands that the bodies of the Ikonoclast Emperors be taken from their tombs, for they were the dÆmons who haunted us. And this was wonderful, for by the light of torches of pine the body of Constantine, fifth of that name, was dragged from his sarcophagus and thrown out on to the sand of the circus; and there was he, ninety years dead, white as shredded ivory, clad in cerecloths of tarnished gold and heavy violet that gave out a thick, sweet scent of spices; and there was John the Grammarian beside him, with a little crown on his head and hair falling into dust across his eye-sockets–aha! we beat them with rods in the vile quarter of the Amaskianon where the dÆmons gather and the people were glad because they were image worshippers: these two Emperors could not see, for they were blind, as I am now. Then we burnt them where the common thiefs were executed, and the tomb of Constantine Copronymus was split into fragments to decorate a church the Emperor built at Pharos.

It was all of green Thessalian marble, here clear as water, there thick as sap, carved with grapes, genii, cupids and goats, and in the middle Christ raised on the Cross with a gilt halo; it was so rich and finely carved I think God forgave Michael much to get it back in His church. Look for it when you go to Pharos–green marble, a hand’s length thick.

Behold now I ramble on and come not to what I would say about that evening in the palace of Anthimos on the coast–the Empress Theodora’s house where she had bid us all … Eudocia Ingerina, Basil, Basiliskian, Thekla and all the court.

Listen to me, I was faithful to Michael, therefore am I blinded.… I can tell you everything.

The three Emperors had been hunting that day, and afterwards there was a mighty feast; Eudocia sat by Basil at the table and often whispered to him.

I was one of those who carried Michael senseless with wine to his chamber and laid him on his bed with the vermilion cushions. As I came out I saw the bolts of the door were broken, but I thought nothing of it, as it was Theodora’s house. On a low couch with silver and amber legs lay Basiliskian, with his red hair and his yellow robes tumbled about him; I lay in the outer chamber.

Beautiful were those two rooms, tiled with blue, patterned with carnations and curtained with silks stiff with fruits and flowers of gold; above the couch were saints with long eyes and raised hands, the elders praying all in white on the daisied floor of Heaven, this in mosaic, glittering, and a lamp with square-cut green stones round the base, hanging before.

Flat on his back lay Michael, with his head slipping from the pillows and the roses slipping from his black hair; his white silk robe flowed open on his coat of silver and the clusters of topaz shone in the crossings of his gilt sandals.

The window was wide on the night; there was a moon above the tamarisk trees and a nightingale singing fitfully.

It was very silent after all the noise and riot, and I was half asleep when the door was pushed open and some men entered. There was the third Emperor Basil, a head above them all, the Persian Apelates, Bardas the father of Basil, his brother Marinos, a cousin of his, all peasants these, Peter of Bulgaria and John of Chaldia.

Now I rose up softly and got before them and stood in front of the bedchamber door; for I saw they were all sober.

Basil put out his great hand and gripped my shoulder.

“Basil or Michael?” he asked, and drew his scimitar.

“Michael,” I answered him, for I hated him–the Greek groom!

With that he lifted me out of the way, but I gave a great shout and beat my hand upon the bronze images and cast them against the tiles so that they cracked.

Then they pulled me back, and I heard the nightingale grow louder, and I laughed with rage, for one struck me with a dagger.

I turned round and saw the Emperor Michael staggering in the carved wood doorway, the roses still clinging to his disordered hair. Seeing them, his wits cleared.

“Basil!” he shrieked. “I made you Emperor!”

They left me and turned on him, driving him back into the bedroom, and I lay along the floor with a dagger through my wrist, listening to his shrieks that hushed the nightingale.

Dragging myself to the door, I beheld Basiliskian struggling with the Persian, and saw him fall back across the couch with his scarlet-shod feet up and his mouth open, while the blood gurgled out and hid the wine-stains on his yellow robes.

I did not care for this, but looked for Michael and called loudly, so that they rushed out, drawing the curtains behind them and fled into the corridor.

Now none came, for tumults were such common things, and after a little Basil came back and looked about him; and after him followed Eudocia Ingerina in a green mantle with a lamp of bright enamel in her hand.

“Have you done it?” she asked, and I knew she had set Basil on, though the Emperor Michael had loved her. “Quick! Have you done it?”

“Yes,” he said, and the others came back.

“What if he is not dead?” said John of Chaldia, and shifted his ivory and silver sabre in his grasp.

Then she, flashing emerald colours in her robe, turned on them, and I saw there is more in a woman than her beauty.

“You are not sure?” she cried, and held up the thousand coloured lamp.

“Basiliskian is dead,” answered Apelates.

“Is Michael dead?” she gave back.

As she stepped towards the door I heard the soft sound her cambric garments made on the floor, and saw her eyes fixed before her with an expression of expectancy and pleasure–eyes like the black jade they prize in China. But Basil held her back with his swarthy hand on the edge of her mantle.

On the smooth walls of opal-tinted tiles moonlight flushed into lamplight that fell tinted with trembling colour; I saw the dark trees through the window and the great space of clear sky. I pulled at the dagger in my wrist, and I heard the Emperor Michael lamenting within.

At the sound of it all save the woman drew back.

“I struck his hands off,” said John of Chaldia, “and he fell on the ground.”

Eudocia Ingerina looked at Basil.

“Will you be Emperor or no?” she asked. “If that man in there is not dead–what are you?”

His flushed blue eyes rolled towards her; she twitched her robe from his grasp and lifted the thin silk curtains from the carved door.

I, forgotten, caught hold of the ribbings of scented sandal wood and looked in … you may believe what I saw, what I was blinded for seeing.

The Emperor Michael, Lord of the East, Vice-regent of God, the last of the Amorian CÆsars, sat on the floor by the gilt and glorious brocades of his bed.

His hands were smitten off and his garments trailed with sticky blood; his head was bowed on his chest and he uttered bitter complaints. In his black hair some crimson roses still hung; the great rubies and topaz glittered on his breast. Behind him in the rich murk light I could see the other Emperor, a huddled heap of red and yellow, and in the middle of the marble floor (green as the tomb of Copronymus) the two hands of Michael, twisted into a clutching shape, with huge and wonderful rings on the fingers.

With a soft movement like the dappled Persian deer Eudocia Ingerina stole into the chamber; Basil and John of Chaldia were behind her; she stopped before Michael; her lamp showed his creeping blood.

“Well,” she said. “Well, shall I not be an Empress after all?”

And she touched him with her foot that was covered with a shoe of green and violet leather, so that he looked up from his incoherent lamentations.

He tried to rise at that, could not, but gave a shudder and raised his arms.

“Eudocia,” he said, very loudly, and she stepped back a little, for he was a hideous sight.

“Come kill this man,” she cried; and then to Michael: “Who will say masses for you?” and “I would Theodora was here.”

Basil drew a little sword with a snake for a handle and Michael shrieked, whereon the woman caught him by his long hair and held him so while the Macedonian plunged the weapon past the topaz Gorgon into his heart; then they both cast him down and struck at him with their feet, even while his breast heaved and his eyes moved, and fled together into the outer chamber.

“To Constantinople,” said Basil, and he embraced Eudocia and kissed her, after which she veiled her face with violet and left them. The blood on her feet was almost the last thing I saw.

For Basil found me crawling by the wall; and they took me out and blinded me and sent me here.…

Michael is buried in Chrysopolis, and his soul is in Hell; and Eudocia was an Empress and mother of the Leo who rules now, and no one but I knows that she was there that night … therefore set these things down, for I, who am an old blind monk, shall soon be in Paradise clad warmly in starred brocade and cambric fine enough to go through a reed-joint, lying on a couch covered with soft-coloured woollens, and under my feet a carpet like was woven in the Peloponnesus to cover the mosaic in the church Basil built to assuage God’s wrath at the murder of Michael. Did you ever hear of it?

It was one great peacock with a spread tail.… I spoke to a man who had seen it.…

So I in Paradise, near, as I said to the gate (stately as the Adrianople Gate with the church of St. Diomed near by), shall peep down and see the Emperors, Leos, Constantines, Michaels, howling in Hell, and in the midst Basil and the woman Eudocia, while fiends swing before them censers of dull earth filled with sulphurs.…

So on Christmas Eve I take this down from an ancient monk who was chamberlain once at the court of Michael III. and sometimes wanders in his mind.

Now he is fallen asleep, and the chants are over, and I will write no more.

God guard us all from evil. Amen.

Signed by Theophilus, a little scribe in the Monastery of St. John, Armenia, Christmas Eve, 899.