Chapter 78

  Once Upon a Time in a Dungeon IV

  The post Triumphal banquet was a tedious hours-long affair, a repeat of the prior evening’s preTriumph banquet. The impalings at the Hippodrome had the intended effect. The guests kept quiet whispering among themselves and the only conversation directed to Andronikos was to compliment his military acumen as they picked at the food. No one dared try the mushrooms. Glad to be gone, satiated by their fear, his guards escorted him back to his apartments in the Blachernae Palace.

  Despite the aphrodisiac flesh of the lesser skink dragon - dressed with herbs and lemon - which he had consumed with his dinner, and the passionate (desperate? fearful?) attention of his favorite concubine, Andronikos was unable to achieve gratification. His mind would not be still.

  “I am vexed,” he sighed aloud.

  Fearfully the girl retreated to the far side of the bed, her eyes looked to the doorway.

  “Oh no, not with you sweetling, you tried your best. Come cuddle. No, I am vexed with one who would depose me and steal my right to rule.” Reassured, the girl slid into the crook between his elbow and his shoulder. Tenderly she stroked her fingers through his opulent forked beard which flowed almost half a meter from his chin to below his navel.

  “Did you see the way the lion looked at him?”

  “Most Noble One?”

  “He has no right to rule. Signed his own mother’s death warrant. The Master of the Inkstand said he did it with ‘a flourish of the alpha and a smile as he applied the wax seal.’ His own mother.”

  Steps would have to be taken.

  Under his beard Mariapitkee felt a thin metallic object the length of her hand span - sharp - on a pendant secured by a leather cord about his neck. “What is this my Lord, may I see?”

  “Mm. Oh that. That is my good luck charm.”

  “It is a nail. Oh my! Is it a nail from the True Cross?”

  “Goodness no, little bird. Such a relic would be in a great church. This is a simple iron nail I have had for a long time.”

  The nail had remained in his possession since a night long ago when he used it to pry up the drain cover in the floor of his cell on his first escape from the Anemas dungeon.

  “Why do you wear a nail?”

  “Sometimes it is nice to have a nail. I have used it as a stylus when one was not ready to hand. I have used it to save candle wicks when they were in danger of curling and extinguishing themselves. I have used it to clean under my fingernails when I have had no servant. Before I took Constantinople I used it as a pointer on the strategy map in my command tent.”

  “I thought it was a small cross nestled behind your beard. You do not wear a crucifix?”

  “No. I wear a nail.”

  It had also been useful, secreted in his hand by his overly long fingers, in slowly, covertly, painstakingly picking apart the fibers of the ropes which bound his wrists. This was after his second escape.

  When Andronikos returned from his first brief sojourn as a fugitive, the same cell awaited him. The grate covering the drain remained in the floor, only now welded shut with a mixture of molten iron, combined with solder and flux powder on all four sides. Manacles chafed at his wrists and ankles. Not that he had anywhere to walk. He was no longer allowed guarded access to the baths. A page was sent to scrub and barber him each morning. He was still permitted books. The lucky nail remained in its accustomed place hidden in the binding of his father’s Iliad. However, written correspondence was forbidden lest he contact a co-conspirator.

  He was permitted only two visitors. On Sundays a priest would come by to kneel with him in prayer and deliver the sacrament. His wife was also permitted regular access, despite having previously been his co-conspirator. A perfectly normal Byzantine contradiction.

  Was this Emperor Manuel’s clemency?

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  Hardly.

  Helena had gained stature as a dutiful wife in the eyes of the palace poultry. The titillating story, clucked over by court gossips, of how she, obedient to her husband, aided in pulling the wool over the Emperor’s eyes (and conceived a son in the bargain) added to both of their reputations. Emperor Manuel, a good sport at heart, permitted her visits due to pressure from the ladies’ court.

  Mariapitkee’s hand continued stroking his beard and continued down to his penis.

  “Ah Helena,” Andronikos lay back on his cushion. Fatigue, memory, lust, emptiness, vexation. Why can I not sleep? Six years apart.

  Each year, before service at the Hagia Sophia on Easter Sunday, he was also permitted a brief family visit. In the dungeon, on the far side of the gated door which grilled his cell off from the passageway, his three children were allowed, by the grace of Emperor Manuel, to witness him - in his cage. The boy was growing up at court. Andronikos could not bear to think of his son by that now detested name. He knew that despite the brave face he must suffer the constant sneers and jest of his peers. Manuel and his sister Maria wore hand me down finery from friends sympathetic to the plight of their mother, Helena, who held the babe Ioannes.

  “Your father languishes here, falsely accused by rumor mongers, of intending the Basileus harm. You must pray that the Emperor comes to his senses and cooler councilors prevail.” The lie came as easily as if it had sprang from the lips of his own father regarding the same accusation some thirty years earlier. “Be good. Listen to your mother.”

  Helena. For six more years she was kept from him by Manuel, while he lay chained and penned alone in the dark like a dangerous animal.

  The girl’s stroking was soothing, but not arousing. She was adequate, but she lacked a certain… something.

  Even now, though he was Emperor, the love of his life, Theodora, was denied to him by Patriarch Theodosius. He could not marry her.

  Oh but he would remarry.

  Steps would have to be taken.

  The next escape was to take place on the night before the dark of the moon, Andronikos’ reasoning being that, should something go awry on the first night, this would leave a second, or even a third night of darkness available. Any excuse could be found for the ship to remain in port for an extra day or two. That was the least of his worries. Getting onboard unseen and out of the harbour before the alarm was raised. That was the trick of it.

  When Andronikos hid under the drain, before the pain of his uncomfortable position became too much for him to endure and he lost consciousness, he learned a few things. He knew that the gates and ports would immediately be sealed once news of his escape became known.

  And he learned the papias, keeper of the palace, stored a key to the door of his cell in his desk.

  Over the course of six years cracks and inconsistencies appeared in the rules regarding Andronikos’ captivity.

  A crack: at some point, after three years of good behavior, he was allowed an amphora of wine each month which he could keep in his cell and drink at his leisure. The last amphora, before the dark of the moon, had not contained wine. Within was a coil of fine hemp rope.

  An inconsistency: he was not allowed merely two visitors - his wife and a priest. There was also the page boy.

  At the palace most of the servants were not merely servants. They were someone. Someone important if the position was important. Today in 1183, The master of the inkstand serving Andronikos was Gregory Styppeiotes - a magnate of great standing - easily the third or fourth wealthiest man in the Empire. A less dignified post would be held by a person of lesser standing. The strator who removed his chamber pot in the morning was the heir of Nikephoros Vatazes, a provincial aristocrat who hated the Latins, backed Andronikos, and wanted to place a son in the capital at court - in any capacity. For a suitable gift, the Vatazes lad was given the privilege of carrying turds and his family climbed the ladder.

  In 1164, the youth serving the dungeons came from an even lesser station, but he was of loyal family, good disposition, hardworking, respectful, and eager to please. Andronikos responded with compliments, kindness, feigned affection, vague promises, whispered confidences, and gradual recruitment.

  Creeping unseen into the office of the papias to make an impression of the master key in a hard paraffin mold was presented as a challenge, a dare, a wager. Once the youth had stealthily completed his task, Andronikos passed the wax forgery to his wife. An alchemist, paid for skill and silence, cunningly fashioned a key from an alloy of lead and false-silver. Helena smuggled the duplicate back to him with news the ship was arranged.

  So much could go wrong. The forged key could snap, or more likely bend - the metal being soft. It could fail to work entirely. He could be discovered at any point. Almost as an afterthought Andronikos slipped the nail out of his father’s book and with his soot darkened hands threaded it through the tangles of his long beard.

  Fortune favored the bold. The key worked. For the first time in six years he exited the cell. For fun he relocked it behind himself. Leave them guessing. Just like the last time. The page unbarred the tower door when he rapped on the heavy wood and closed it again after. He had told Andronikos of the timing of the varangian guards' patrols of the walls. A purse of gold hyperpyron, each with Manuel’s smug pious face was his reward. Rope coil in hand, he moved quietly for a man manacled at wrists and ankles. An impediment he would have to dispose of once on the ship.

  All dark. No moon. Slipping from shadow to shadow. Up out.

  Andronikos’ concubine drifted off to slumber, but insomnia continued to plague him. Come dawn steps would have to be taken.