What shall I say of the wonder of this hall and its renowned occupant? In the centre of the vast room sat a golden throne raised upon a tiered dais, and tented over with a cloth of gold. Three steps-carved from porphyry, I was told, and polished to the smoothness of glass-led up to the dais, and at the topmost step was the emperor's footstool. The royal seat itself-more couch than throne, double-backed and large enough for two big men to sit comfortably-was established directly beneath the great central dome. In the apse of the dome was the largest image I have ever seen, a mosaic of the Risen Christ, ablaze with glory, and beneath his feet the words "King of Kings" in Greek.
In clustered ranks about the throne stood a veritable crowd of people-courtiers of various kinds, I decided; nearly all were robed in green, or white, or black, save those closest to the throne who were Farghanese and, like the warriors standing guard at the door carried pole-axes and shields.
At our first steps the sound of a rushing wind commenced, and a moment later the most exquisite music filled the air. It was like the music of pipes and flute and every rushing wind that I had ever heard. And thunder, too, yes, and everything that sang under heaven. I had never heard anything to equal it, nor ever have again. It was, I think, the sound of heavenly majesty rendered audible to the earthly ear, and it seemed to come from a great golden casket a little behind and to one side of the throne.
I might have discovered more about the source of this glorious music, but I had eyes only for the throne and the man sitting in it. For, occupying one side of the wide throne and regarding us openly, was Emperor Basil, robed in deepest purple that glistened and shimmered in the light.
The splendour of the room and the opulence of all around me combined to make me suddenly conscious of my own appearance. Glancing down, I noticed to my embarrassment that my once-fine cloak was stained and torn; my mantle was filthy and ragged at the edges. Raising a hand to my head, I felt that my hair had grown and my tonsure needed renewing, and my beard was matted and unkempt; an iron collar hung about my throat. In short, I looked more like one of the beggars that swarmed the walls of the Great Palace, than an emissary of the Irish church. But I was not an emissary. In truth, I was what I appeared: a slave.
So this is how I came to the emperor: not dressed in the white robe and cloak of the peregrini, but in travel-worn rags and a slave collar; not surrounded by my brother monks, but in the company of rough barbarians; not led by the blessed Bishop Cadoc, but beside a pagan Danish king; not bearing a priceless gift, but bargaining for a hostage.
Ah, vanity! God, who has no use for pride, had seen to it that I remained humble before his Vice-Regent on Earth.
Raising my eyes once more, I found myself looking into the face of the most powerful man in all the world, and it was the face of a clever monkey. Before I could properly take in the sight, the magister sacrum raised his rod and cracked it down hard on the floor.
At the same instant, the golden throne began to rise in the air. So help me Michael Valiant, I tell the truth! The throne, which looked like a Roman camp chair, save larger and made of gold, simply lifted itself into the air to hover before us-as if raised by the superb melody issuing from that golden organ, as they called it.
Before I could grasp the contrivance of this wonder, the white-robed magister struck the floor with his rod again and made a flattening motion with the palm of his hand. Justin sank to his knees and stretched himself facedown, flat on the floor. I followed the guard's example, but the barbarians beside me remained standing, oblivious to the insult they provoked. The music swelled, and then stopped. I held my breath-I do not know why.
The next voice I heard was that of the emperor himself. "Who disturbs the serenity of these proceedings with such unseemly clatter?" he inquired; his voice was even and deep, and came from a place high above us.
To my alarm, Justin whispered, "Here is your chance, Aidan. Tell him who you are."
Climbing quickly to my feet, I squared my shoulders, swallowed hard and replied, "Lord and emperor, you see before you Jarl Harald Bull-Roar, King of the Danes of Skania, together with his slave and two of his many warriors."
A faint twitter of laughter greeted my salutation, but it quickly died when the emperor muttered, "Silence!"
"Basileus, they seem to have gained their way by guile," said the magister sacrum, anxious to absolve himself without seeming irresponsible.
"So it does appear." Scanning the barbarians, the emperor said, "The king may approach. We will speak to him face to face."
The official gave a crack of his rod and motioned for the king to answer the summons. I moved to Harald's side. "He would speak to you," I told him, and together we stepped forward.
