Chapter 371 - 262: Blacherna Palace
Brinyos smiled. "That, my friend, is the arena. Had we arrived a little earlier today, you might have seen some horse races there. As I said, the Emperor loves horses, and he loves horse racing."
The arrangement of these exquisite buildings and gardens was dazzling. The inner courtyard itself was far larger than the entire expanse of London City, and faced with so many walls and buildings, the men quickly lost their bearings.
The party continued on, passing through one gate after another—too many to count.
Eric, however, noticed subtle details; the Grand Palace, beneath its resplendent surface, was in decay.
Despite its magnificence, the palace complex carried an air of fatigue—as if beneath the luxurious facade, the buildings themselves seemed old, weary, and sad; their original glory was now but a fading glimmer.
The path at Eric’s feet was paved with white marble, but the expensive stone was faded and cracked, with grass sprouting from the fissures. The bronze Cross atop the Church was a dull green rather than gold, and many tiles were missing from the colorful exterior walls.
Several trees along the path had died.
Here and there, as if to conceal the dilapidated state of things, stonemasons were busy on wooden scaffolding, repairing damaged sections of some buildings and renovating the facades and roofs of others.
When Eric listened, the dominant sound was the striking of hammers on chisels.
At the end of the marble walkway stood a large, square building of pale yellow stone, crowned with a massive dome and flanked by two smaller ones.
A tree stood on either side of the arched doorway, casting pale blue shadows across the paved forecourt in the faint torchlight.
Eric stopped before a bowl-shaped stone basin that stood directly in front of the door.
A guard extended a bronze baton. "Behind this door lies the heart of the Empire. My Lords, please leave your retinues here. Your party is too large. It is best not to exceed fifty men. Only those who are essential..."
"These men before you are not our vassals. They are independent Lords from England and Normandy, from the Rhineland and the lands of the Franks. Responding to the will of the Lord of Heaven, they have set aside their personal conflicts and disputes to assemble here for a common Holy War, temporarily united under the banner of my king, Robert.
"My king, Robert, is unwell and could not come in person. As a sign of his apology and his respect for your nation, he has commanded us to accompany them to seek an audience with the Emperor of Romania, His Majesty Alexios," Eric said.
The guard looked troubled and glanced at Brinyos, but Brinyos did not respond.
This made the guard anxious.
"They’re afraid a few more men means a few more loaves of bread to hand out! That’s why I say an empire like this has no future.
"And yet, the appearance of this Empire is quite deceptive, isn’t it? Look at this great Constantinople... resplendent marble palaces, gilded roofs, shockingly large markets, and all those nobles in their finery. Everything looks so bright and beautiful.
"But I’m telling you, not all that glitters is gold. Sometimes, it’s just a turd sprinkled with gold dust.
"The Greeks are masters of window dressing. And beneath that gorgeous facade? It’s far more disgusting than our filthy homelands. They are generous and stingy, cunning and weak. They want to seem boundlessly wealthy and all-powerful, yet they’re terrified of giving us so much as a single good mouthful of wine.
"In short, I hope you’ve learned your first lesson on how to survive in this rotten Empire, my dear fellow Normans."
Suddenly, a jeering voice rang out. The sound came from the tower above the gate, where a middle-aged man stood with his arms crossed, smiling down at the men below.
He wore a Cloak of northern midnight blue over a Greek-style robe. Standing in the torchlight, he seemed to shimmer with gold and silver. He wore gold ornaments on his chest and both wrists, seven silver rings adorned his arms, and his Cloak was fastened with seven silver brooches.
He was a tall, broad-chested man with well-muscled arms and long, powerful legs. Standing in the tower, he cut an imposing figure, his expression sharp and alert.
This was none other than the Imperial General, Russel de Bayle.