Chapter 372 - 263: Audience
"Nothing is simple here, my countrymen. Behind every deal lies betrayal, and every act of kindness is a disguise for cunning. Every virtue is carefully calculated and exchanged for the best possible interest. Be careful! In the Empire of the Greeks, nothing is as it seems." Russell laughed, mocking the Empire with abandon. He then noticed Eric. "Hey, you Outville brat, remember me? I served your uncle Roger for a time. You’ve made quite a name for yourself lately.
Giscard was cunning his whole life. I bet he never imagined the two sons most like him would be his two bastards. It’s ironic. Spending all his days cavorting with Lombards, doting on that little lamb born of his Lombard wife... I think his story is about to come to an end."
Before Eric could respond, Russell turned to the guard and, with a mocking laugh, continued, "Let them all in. Do you think everyone is a Norman upstart like me? Standing before you are the lords of Normandy and the Northern Franks.
They possess privilege and honor by birthright. What right do you, an Armenian farmer from Anatolia, have to stand in their way?
The lineage of their blood is older than your Emperor’s. Their rule was built entirely on bloodlines, not conspiracy and cunning. When their ancestors ruled their lands, the Komnenos were probably still scraping for food in the barren soil of Trabzon."
"But..." The guard looked troubled.
"If there’s a problem, just have Alexios come find me." Russell then looked at Brinyos. "Isn’t that right, Lord Brinyos? It’s been a long time. The little brat from a few years ago is looking so sharp now.
Give my regards to your father. I hear it’s been surprisingly hot in Adrianople lately. I hope it’s not too hard on your father’s eyes."
Brinyos averted his gaze and didn’t respond. Russell, for his part, was quite pleased with Brinyos’s reaction.
The two guards stepped aside, pulled on the bronze rings, and the great doors swung open.
Brinyos led the group onward.
Belem looked at Eric. "What, you know him?"
"That’s not important. What’s important is that we know him now."
Whether Eric remembered such a faint connection was completely unimportant.
What mattered was that this Norman was showing him that he had no loyalty to this Empire and was more than willing to pursue greater gain.
"The most notorious swindler in the Empire, the most shameless traitor, the most despicable adventurer, a venomous snake full of lies, the most foul-mouthed Barbarian in the entire Empire. To the Greeks, his name is synonymous with betrayal and cunning." Brinyos, unusually agitated, cursed under his breath.
"What did he do to you? Kill your whole family?" Belem asked, looking at Brinyos with some curiosity.
He had always thought the little guy was very good-tempered.
"He gouged out my father’s eyes," Brinyos said.
"Damn it, why are you Greeks always into this disgusting stuff? But I thought you said your father was a General? How could a nobleman suffer such a punishment?" Belem looked at Brinyos, somewhat surprised.
"His father probably tried to usurp the throne. Many Emperors of the Greek Empire were originally Generals who became Emperor through rebellion," Eric explained to Belem.
"What does that have to do with gouging out his father’s eyes? If his father was a contender for the throne, just banish him. Even the Danish wouldn’t do something so horrifying," Belem continued to ask.
"I’ve heard things about the Greek throne," Stephen said suddenly. "A Greek Minstrel told me that if someone gouges out the Greek Emperor’s eyes, that person becomes the Byzantine Emperor. Everyone agrees, and even the Bishop of Constantinople has to obey the Byzantine Emperor’s orders, or the Byzantine Emperor will gouge out his eyes too..."
"Being a Bishop in Greece isn’t a good job," a Frankish Priest said, shaking his head.
"The Holy See’s decision twenty years ago was truly wise beyond measure," another Frankish Priest added.
"The Greeks believe that a man who has been blinded is a complete loser. It’s assumed they have lost all honor and authority, with almost no possibility of ever gaining enough support to take the throne again. This has gradually become a custom among the Greeks over the last two hundred years," Eric continued.
"It’s a humiliation. I’d rather fight the victor to the death, even if it means a blade to the neck. To die in battle is an honor," Belem said, shaking his head.
"At least my father survived." Brinyos instinctively defended his country, lifting his chin to Belem. "This way spills the least blood. The mark of civilization is to reduce death, to respect life, not to take pleasure in death or find honor in it."
"If you people think it’s fitting, then our opinions don’t matter." For once, Belem didn’t argue back. Instead, he clapped Brinyos on the shoulder.
"Thank you," Brinyos said involuntarily. But after thanking him, he felt his own action was a bit unnecessary.
Brinyos led Eric and his party into a small, screen-partitioned room—an antechamber.
A man in a long white robe, holding a slender silver staff, came up to greet them—he was the court’s Ceremonial Officer.
He was tall and gaunt, with gray hair and a scarred, sunken face. He stared sternly at Eric and his party, then looked at the large group of ’strangely dressed’ Normans behind Brinyos and said, "What is this improper intrusion, Brinyos?"
His gaze then fell on Belem, specifically on the headband embroidered with a Cross on his head. "Christ above, what am I seeing? A Norman dressed like a Heretic?
Brinyos, you should have had them change into proper attire before coming. Look at what they’re wearing! This is a high-level audience, not an audition for a circus!"
The Ceremonial Officer was speaking Greek. Although most of the Knights didn’t understand Greek, they could tell from his tone that he wasn’t saying anything complimentary.
Belem walked up to the Ceremonial Officer, broke into a wide grin, and cheerfully shouted, "HEYA!" while slapping the unsuspecting officer on the back with his huge palm.
The Ceremonial Officer staggered forward and fell face-first onto the floor.
The Norman Knights roared with laughter. Humiliated, the Ceremonial Officer scrambled to his feet. He was about to curse them, but before the words could leave his mouth, he saw a dozen or so Knights walking toward him.
He saw more Norman Knights continuously streaming in from the main hall. A few Normans, curious about the gold thread on the hall’s curtains, accidentally tore the whole thing down. A few others knocked over an exquisite vase. Another Norman spat a thick wad of phlegm onto the floor, while some Knight’s filthy boot soles made a complete mess of the rug.
He was so angry he nearly choked, backing away uncontrollably as he looked at Brinyos. "Brinyos, why did you bring so many Barbarians in here!"
"Lord Anthony, before they get completely out of control, it’s best to let them see the Emperor as soon as possible." Brinyos stepped in front of the Ceremonial Officer, his back to the Norman Knights, and spoke to him in the Thracian dialect.
"So many Normans, having an audience with the Emperor, and at night! According to court etiquette, it is already an exception for the Emperor to receive guests at night. This is the highest honor and privilege, one reserved only for the Chief Swordsman, the Protospatharios, and the Imperial Minister, the Magistros. A nighttime audience is limited to no more than ten people at a time, but there are at least a hundred here."
(Protospatharios, or Chief Swordsman, and Magistros, or Imperial Minister, are both honorary titles. The former is bestowed upon generals who have distinguished themselves on the battlefield, marking them as a close attendant and key military advisor to the Emperor. The latter is granted to high-ranking civil officials, signifying an extremely high position within the Empire’s governing structure.)
"It will be fine, Lord Anthony. The Emperor has his guard, remember? Those Saxons utterly despise the Normans who invaded their country. They will protect the Emperor, even if it costs them their lives.
There’s no need for you to make trouble for yourself here. What’s done is done. Let the Emperor deal with the headache." Brinyos said, then whispered into the Ceremonial Officer’s ear, "Russell let them in. Do you expect him to bring in guards to throw out the very people he just admitted?"
"Isn’t one Russell enough? This Empire is on the verge of becoming a nation of Barbarians." The Ceremonial Officer’s face twisted into an expression as if he had smelled something foul, and he stamped his foot hard on the floor.
Nevertheless, he agreed to Brinyos’s request.
He addressed the boorish visitors, "You are not to speak unless addressed by the Emperor, and when you do answer, be as brief as possible.
When you speak to the Emperor, you may call him ’Basileus’ or ’Master.’ Both titles are acceptable.
When not speaking to him, you are to avert your eyes from him. Do you understand?"
A Frankish Monk who knew Greek translated the Ceremonial Officer’s words into French for the Norman Knights, which once again drew a roar of laughter.
"So sorry, but we’re free men. We don’t talk like slaves or watch our words like slaves."
"We couldn’t care less about some Greek Emperor."
"People act like that toward me, not the other way around. The Greek Emperor can go eat shit."
"..."
The Norman Knights roared chaotically in French.
This caused the Ceremonial Officer to feel humiliated once more. Although he didn’t understand French, the officer cursed under his breath in the Thracian dialect.
The Ceremonial Officer led the Norman Knights from the antechamber into a room of unparalleled splendor: tall and spacious, the vast area beneath its dome was filled with the light of ten thousand candles.
The walls, floor, and pillars were all of dark marble, polished so smooth that their surfaces reflected like mirrored pools.
Golden light glinted from every side: gold thread was woven into the fabric of vestments and in the mosaics covering the walls; all the decorations and furniture in the room were made of gold—candlesticks, chests, chairs, tables, bowls, ewers, and urns—and even the throne itself.
The entire room was bathed in the honey-colored glow of this most precious of metals.
How to describe the miracle of this hall and its famous master?
In the center of this magnificent room stood a golden throne, set upon a tiered dais and covered with cloth of gold thread.
Three steps—said to be carved from purple marble and polished as smooth as glass—led up to the platform, and on the topmost step rested the Emperor’s footstool.
The royal seat itself was more like a bench than a throne, with a double back, wide enough for two large men to sit comfortably—and it was situated directly beneath the great central dome.
In the recess of the dome was a mosaic of the resurrected Christ in all his glory, and beneath his feet were the words "King of Kings" written in Greek.
Surrounding the throne was a large crowd of people—all manner of court personnel; almost all of them were dressed in green, white, or black robes.
Those closest to the throne were a group of Saxons in Byzantine-style armor, carrying long-handled axes and shields, looking quite magnificent and grand.
They were the most familiar sight to the Normans in this splendid hall.