Chapter XXXII: Clytemnestra

A storm more fierce than any in that winter of storms was raging over the city and the Sacred Palace. Furious gusts from the north swept over the Euxine and coursed down the Bosphorus laden with sleet and snow; the waters round the Golden Horn were lashed into foam and dashed in showers of spray against the battlements of the city. Amid the roar of the wind against the casements and the creaking of doors and shutters there were confused noises, hoarse whispers, and strange cries along the corridors and antechambers of the palace. The empress herself was seen from time to time gliding from chamber to chamber, her tigress eyes agleam with anxiety and eagerness, her lovely face more marble-like in its pallor than was usual, and her lips moving from time to time with uncontrolled emotion. She bent low and conferred in hurried whispers, first with one, then with another of her women.

The private apartments of the empress consisted of an antechamber opening into a gorgeous bedchamber, in the centre of which stood a royal couch with purple hangings and surmounted by a golden eagle. Around it were vast chests and wardrobes filled with the robes and adornments of the empress. Within the principal chamber, shut off by small doors, were two inner recesses, one a tiny chapel with a life-size painting of the Man-God upon the cross standing high above the altar, which was covered with rare mountings and cloth; the other a bath and attiring recess, hung with the instruments for the royal ablutions.

A low but distinct knock was heard without, and at a nod from Theophano her aged nurse stealthily advanced to the door and led in a figure completely enveloped in one of the immense mourning cloaks that had been used in the funeral of that day. "Enter and approach, master of the eunuchs," said the sovereign. "I have a charge for thee this night." She motioned to the women to withdraw into the antechamber, as the old nurse, who alone had remained, led the veiled figure to the royal presence and unbuckled the mantle which concealed both face and figure. "It is no work to-night for a eunuch," she hissed, "but for a man, a soldier, a hero! Michael Bourtzes, glorious victor of Antioch, art thou ready to do the deed which shall avenge thee on thy persecutor and place thee at the head of Rome? Art thou ready, as I am ready, and these true men here?"

Michael Bourtzes, for it was indeed that illustrious chief in full armor who had been disguised and introduced as master of the eunuchs, flung back the sable mantle, and, drawing from its sheath his dagger, with a look of fierce passion and proud disdain kissed the white hand of his mistress and murmured, "Royal lady, I am come to slay or to be slain." She glowed on him with cruel joy in her gleaming eyes, and led him smiling into the chapel. Then, raising the embroidered cloth over the altar, with the pathetic image of the Divine Mother worked on it in gold, "Here is your comrade," she said, and showed him, concealed beneath the altar-cloth, Balantes, the taxiarch, who had been hidden in his coat of mail within the very altar itself. The iron nerves of Bourtzes, who had faced death on a hundred bloody fields, did not quail at so strange a device, and he silently obeyed the empress when she bade him stand upon the altar and conceal himself behind the picture of the Redeemer that hung above it.

In a lull of the storm the low knock was heard again at the door, and again the aged nurse hastened to unloose the bolts. "Bring in my tiring-women for the night!" called the empress; and four maids in loose robes and of somewhat unusual stature and masculine air advanced into the centre of the bedchamber. "Welcome, stout friends," fawned the empress; "all goes well, and the hour of deliverance is at hand!" as one by one the maids slipped off their woman's attire and stood forth stalwart men-at-arms, in full array for work and combat. "We want now but John Tzimisces himself; but the watchers expect him minute by minute."

The empress had hardly uttered these words when the unmistakable tramp of armed heels was heard along the corridor without. The four disguised bravos looked around with rage and fear, under a sudden impulse that they had been caught in a trap and were about to be slain. Each man fingered his weapon uneasily; and had Theophano at that moment showed signs of conscious treachery, more than one dagger would have been planted in her heart. The crone rushed to the chamber-door to secure the bolts. "Hold them in parley while you may!" hissed the empress; "I will secure our friends!" "Stand close, and fear not," she whispered to the two chiefs in the chapel. "Follow me, my men," she said to the four bravos, as she dragged them within the bath-room and closed the door from inside.

In the mean time, loud knocking and high words were heard in the antechamber, and voices of command rang through the private apartments. "Open at once in the name of our sovereign lord Nicephorus, Augustus ever-victorious! Here is the order to search every corner of this palace for concealed traitors, countersigned by the master of the household! Open, or we force these doors!"

"Not the private chambers of her August Majesty!" screamed the crone, "and her sacred person now within her couch!"

"Yea! Her Majesty's chamber, above all, and her bed if we choose," shouted the angry voice of the captain of the guard, striking the door with the hilt of his sword.

The noise without grew so loud that the terrified women opened the doors and crouched aside like vixens caught in a trap. "A mysterious warning has just reached the emperor that traitors lie this night concealed within the palace, and our orders are peremptory to search every corner of it even to the imperial bed and closet." Nor was this a vain threat. The captain of the guard, a man devoted to his master, whose life he had saved in the siege of Crete, ordered his men to ransack the anteroom, and then the chamber of the empress. They were no novices at the work; every corner was probed; their daggers struck through every tapestry and curtain; each recess and chest, closet and niche, was tried and pierced through and through by sharp eyes and sharper knives. The coverlets of the imperial couch were flung aside; and it being evident that her Majesty was not within it, the hangings, curtains, and ornaments were separately examined by sight and by steel.

Nothing had been found. "Now open these two inner recesses, unless we are to break into them with our halberds," said the captain to the crone. "What! the shrine of Christ and his Mother?" shrieked the old woman, partially opening the door of the chapel and standing across it fiercely herself; "are you sacrilegious infidels about to profane the holy retreat of the Mother of God? Look, ye miscreant sons of Ishmael and Hagar, do ye see aught but our blessed Redeemer and the Holy Virgin who bore Him?" The rude soldier and his men shrank from the sacrilege of disturbing the Christ and the Mother of Christ in their consecrated shrine. And they hesitated to pull aside the miraculous picture of the Crucified One behind which Bourtzes held his breath, nor did they venture to raise the altar-cloth that concealed the mailed form and blanched face of Balantes, the taxiarch.

"Then open this!" shouted the captain, planting himself firmly before the closed door of the remaining recess. "What!" shrieked the crone, "you shameless brigand and foul dog, would you thrust your brutal limbs into the very bath of her Sacred Majesty, and she at this moment within it, in the very act of bathing her inviolate person? Our august lord, the autocrator, will know how to punish such brutality and insolence to his adored consort!"

"I know my duty," said the captain, "If we have any empress here," he added, with a rude sneer, "she wears a beard and carries steel. Open, I say, or, by St. Michael, this door comes down with a crash!"

But here, to the unbounded astonishment of the captain of the guard, as he stood close against the entrance ready to force his way, the door was flung open from within; and there, in front of the bath, facing the soldier, stood the empress herself in all her majesty of port and imperious pride. She stood there like Aphrodite as she rose out of the Paphian waves, as naked and as lovely as the queen of Cyprus, the water of her bath still dripping from her rosy limbs, and the masses of her hyacinthine tresses curling around that form of Parian marble. She stood there, smiling a deadly smile of scorn and triumph, a vision as it were, of the Cnidian statue of Praxiteles, or Phryne when she stepped forth from the billows on the shore of Eleusis.

"Back!" she called aloud. "Back! brutal hound, who would violate the sanctity of thy sovereign's bed! He shall rebuke the outrage which you have offered to my person; the very eyes which have polluted my purity shall be burned out with red-hot irons, and your manhood torn off and thrown to the dogs. Begone! till I can have thee made one who can never see woman more." And she closed the door of the bath-room, which she had held half open, so as to conceal the four bravos behind it, having hastily covered them with the cloths and carpets with which the bath was provided.

Aghast at so terrible a threat, and struck dumb with so extraordinary an apparition, the captain of the guard withdrew with a sense of unpardonable crime, to which, in his innocence, he supposed that his duty had exposed him. He staggered down the corridor like a man who had seen the dead rise from a grave, perplexed and bewildered, pondering if his best chance lay in seeking the emperor in person or in making his own flight secure. If the Mother of God had spoken to him directly from her image he could not have been more amazed. And soon the tramp of the guards was heard to resound in the distance, and at last died away in the corridors, echoing only with the moanings of the storm.

The imperial chamber was hardly free from its intruding visitors when the empress burst into it from the bath in a loose wrapper which she had flung over her limbs, radiant with the success of her stratagem and on fire to begin the work of the night. She ordered the four bravos to keep close in the bath-room, and, rushing to the chapel, she called to Balantes to come forth from the altar, and to Bourtzes to descend from behind the miracle-working picture of the Redeemer. The veteran thrust forth his huge form from behind the panel, but in so doing he burst it from its fastenings, and in his struggle to save himself from falling he tore the sacred image from the wall, and it fell to the marble floor with a resounding crash. At the sound all started in dread--the women, the attendants, the soldiers in hiding, and the two generals--and dismay made the blood of the stoutest run chill. The Christ was broken in fragments--the embossed ornaments upon it and its heavy setting lay on the marble in confusion, and the head of the Saviour, bleeding in its crown of thorns, rolled at the feet of Theophano herself.

Even the stout Bourtzes was aghast at the sight of the sacrilege of which he had been guilty, and the rest were cowering, as if the avenging God were about to consume them with His thunderbolt. Men who had never quailed before the sons of Ishmael were struck dumb with horror at the destruction of the miraculous ikon. The women screamed and sobbed, and the bravos quivered like whipped hounds. Theophano sprang forward, and, seizing a dagger from the trembling hand of a soldier, shouted to them: "What! Must a woman teach men to be firm? Are you scared like children by the noise of fallen furniture? Shall I reveal the plot this very instant to his Majesty, now sleeping behind this panel, and have you all blinded and mutilated by to-morrow's sun? Are you all priests or monks, to be frightened by a few broken bits of painted wood and stone. This is nothing but old lumber!" she shrieked, as she crushed with her heel the fragment at her feet, and stamped in derision on the face of the Saviour. "Go on," she cried, "if ye are men and warriors, and care to live another day! But where is the leader himself?--where is Tzimisces? Every instant may bring death to him--to us all--death and torture of the sharpest that can be devised by his Sacred Majesty, the vicegerent of Christ on earth!"

With these words, in an agony of eagerness and excitement, she rushed to the anteroom, where the narrow window of a tower looked out upon the sea below. The storm was still howling along the Bosphorus, and the watchers, livid with anxiety, were straining their eyes through the darkness, if they could see any sign of a boat in the waters. "Nothing can float this night in such a gale," said Bourtzes; "it is idle to wait for John. Let us work this instant, for delay will cost us our lives!"

"Wait, I bid you!" cried Theophano, in fury; "wait for Tzimisces to lead, or I pass to the emperor myself and denounce you as his murderers here!" Bourtzes looked doubtfully at Balantes, and Balantes looked at Bourtzes, but neither dared brave the woman at bay. Each hesitated, and submitted to her will.

At this time a suppressed cry broke out from the watchers that a small ship could be descried battling with the billows and nearing the quay, where a tiny port admitted a boat to the very foot of the turret. The empress flung herself into the embrasure, and, with the gesture of a mænad, shouted a hoarse note of triumph, "It is he, my hero, my own John, my savior!"

With wonderful skill and good fortune, the stout ship was driven into the small dock, and in the shelter of its quay was able to discharge its three passengers. The basket and tackle, with its windlass, that was often used for such ends, was swiftly lowered from the window, and soon was drawn up swaying in the gale but deftly guided from below. And at length, with hairbreadth escapes and astonishing feats of strength and adroitness, John Tzimisces crept from the basket and was dragged into the narrow embrasure. He leaped into the room, and, as he was, all dripping with salt foam, chilled with the snow and in his coat of mail, he flung himself desperately into the open arms of the empress. "My hero, my avenger, my lord, my sovereign that is to be!" fawned Theophano, pressing her lips to his in a torrent of wild kisses. "The hour is come, and the man!" she cried. "Draw your weapons and follow me!"

The private bedchamber of the emperor was silent and dark, dimly lit in one corner by the ceremonial lamp which ever burned with a dull, veiled flame before the altar and image of Christ. The double doors and heavy tapestries which covered the exits to the corridor on one side and to the public hall of audience on the other side, effectually shut out the sound of the guards who still kept watch without. The chamber seemed empty and completely closed. Stealthily and without a breath of sound the small and secret panel in the recess through which the empress had entered and retreated some hours before was gradually opened inch by inch, and an exquisite white hand, covered with rubies and pearls, could be seen to be holding it ajar. Silence followed, broken only by the moaning of the surf below, and then the lovely face of Theophano was stealthily thrust in the opening. She was pale as marble; but the transparence of her skin and the absolute perfection of her features made her the very image of Here as figured by the hand of Scopas, but a Here about to strike some profane intruder. The wonderful eyes of Theophano, with their deep sapphire glow, had never been seen so full of fire and life. It was no marble head of woman that men saw that night, but the head of some lovely Gorgon, with the flashing eyes of the tigress calculating her spring. Assured at last that the weary Nicephorus was buried in sleep, she opened the narrow panel till it admitted the traitors one by one into the sombre chamber.

Bourtzes and Balantes passed in first, closely followed by John Tzimisces, and behind him stole into the darkness the four men-at-arms. All had their weapons drawn. At a sign from Tzimisces they surrounded the royal bed on all sides at once, and as the dim light seemed to betray the person of the emperor beneath the coverlets, Bourtzes. Balantes, and John, at a sign from the latter, struck their daggers heavily into the pile of clothes. Thrice they struck in the dim light, but not a thing moved, nor did they feel the stir of living being. The dagger of John had inflicted a flesh wound in the arm of Bourtzes, whose passion was fired at the sight of his own blood. They tore the coverlets aside and flung them on the floor. The bed was empty, and no sign of the emperor's presence could be perceived.

The three traitors stared at one another with wild eyes; and, brave as they all were, they felt their hearts beat loud. "We are betrayed by this fiend!" cried Bourtzes, in a hoarse whisper. "She has lured us here for her own evil purpose. Let us slay her in her sin, even if it cost us our lives." And Bourtzes and Balantes glared upon Tzimisces, as if they would accuse him of being an accomplice of the woman in the plot to entrap them. Tzimisces himself was at a loss, and the four bravos stood livid with confusion, as furtive as rats in a trap. It seemed to all that they were on the verge of a desperate combat among themselves or headlong flight by flinging themselves out into the sea and terrace below.

Then the panel door, behind which Theophano had been listening breathless, opened again, and the empress passed in, moving swiftly and noiselessly in her bare feet, wrapped in a loose, red mantle and dishevelled tresses, her eyes gleaming like coals of fire beneath her marble brow. She looked like some mænad leading a mad rout of furious satyrs. She spoke no word, but she waved her bare arm and pointed across the chamber to the corner where, on the panther's skin, and concealed under the shaggy mantle of the hermit, Nicephorus lay motionless in sleep.

Bourtzes and Balantes advanced with drawn swords and death in their eyes, followed by the men-at-arms, while John Tzimisces stood by the couch to give the word of command. "Strike the tyrant!" he hissed, in a hoarse whisper. Balantes, with a savage kick of his cavalry boot, struck the sleeping emperor in the side. He started convulsively from the floor, and struggled on to his elbow, gazing fiercely at the assassins, as his cap fell from his head and disclosed in the dim light his white locks and beard. At that moment, with a horrid curse, the sword of Bourtzes descended on the brow of the veteran, gashing his nose and cheek and lips, and horribly mangling his face. He sank down, blinded with the blood and agonized with the wound, gasping out, "Mother of God!--help!--help!" The bravos seized him by the legs and sought to force the fainting body to kneel before the Armenian, who sat on the couch in an attitude of mock judgment. But the mutilated hero sank prone on the floor, which he bathed in his blood--faintly gasping out the words, "Help! Mother of God!--help!"

Tzimisces spurned him with his mailed foot, and all his pent-up rage and hatred burst forth in one cry of triumph: "Tyrant! traitor! miscreant! Why didst thou play me false? Thou owest to me thy glory, thy victories, thy throne! Without me thou wouldst be nothing. It is I who beat thy enemies, it is I who placed thee here, and set thee on the throne which thou hast disgraced. And all my services have been repaid by injuries and my benefits answered by insults. Envy of a braver man, jealousy, and suspicion have turned thee into a monster of ingratitude and a by-word of falseness and cruelty." With these words, John, in his rage, trampled on his fallen chief, and, hoarse with passion, he tore handfuls from his beard, screaming aloud: "All loathe thee--thy people, thy comrades, thy servants--ay, and thy wife," he added, with a savage grin, stamping on the mangled and bloody face.

"Mother!--Mother of God!" groaned the dying man with his last gasp.

Maddened with rage and pent-up vengeance, the conspirators beat the unconscious body on the floor. They smashed his jaw and broke in his teeth with the pommel of their swords, and hacked him limb by limb. Then John, sweeping once more aloft his dripping sword, smote him through the skull so that the brains poured forth.

The noise of the murder and the hoarse cries of the murderers at last penetrated to the guard in the corridors outside. They, not daring to break in without command, sent for help and orders to the main corps on guard in the outer court. These Varangians, wholly consisting of northern soldiers, devoted to the person of the emperor _de facto_, rushed forth to break into the palace by the bronze portal, which they found barred by the conspirators. The rumor of a palace intrigue ran through the city. Wild mobs, mixed with soldiers and priests, gathered round the palace walls, and fierce cries were raised by the surging multitudes below. Leo, the brother of Nicephorus, was hastening to the gates with a band of Varangians and followed by his partisans.

All at once a powerful light, cast by many torches, is seen by the mob below at the window of the palace. John Tzimisces, already in the imperial purple, and fully robed, appears before the crowd beneath; and as he withdraws from the confused shouts they send forth, Theodorus, his lieutenant, leaps into the window, and there brandishes in sight of all the mangled, bloody head of him who, but an hour before, was emperor of the Roman world. The mob below uttered hoarse yells of different import--joy mingled with horror; but amazement and fear prevailed. The Varangian guardsmen stood to arms, impassive, waiting for orders from the emperor. Neither politics nor rights nor dynasties troubled them. They were ready to die in defence of a living autocrat; they would not avenge a dead one. Wulf, the son of Sigurd, their chief, cried out aloud: "When an emperor is crowned and gives the word, we will march and fight. We take no orders from a corpse!"

Seeing the Varangians stubbornly impassive and the chief nobles bewildered, the vast crowd of the city became paralyzed with fear and gradually melted away. Black clouds laden with sleet from the Euxine swept across the turbid sky, and the storm howled round the gloomy battlements of the Sacred Palace. Snow now lay thick on the ground and covered the terraces below. The headless corpse of the mighty lord of Rome, maimed, bloody, and crushed out of all resemblance to man, was flung from the palace window in a heap, and lay all day a ghastly sight on the ground, staining the snow with its gore. And above it at the window dangled on a chain in the wind the mutilated head of Nicephorus Ever-victorious, that head of which the sight had so often struck terror into the ranks of the Saracens, and had so often, on many a wavering field, given new life to the warriors of Rome and of Christ.