The great palace of Constantinople was shrouded in unease. Emperor Alexios Komnenos had summoned his council to weigh the perils closing in on Byzantium. The empire faced a double threat: from the east, the relentless advance of the Turks; from the west, the looming shadow of Bohemond of Taranto, whose hunger for power knew no bounds.
Among the emperor's retainers stood Richard Whiteard — a young but sharp-witted man who served as translator and envoy at court. His dark eyes burned with determination. He was the son of a noble Northumbrian family, exiled from England after the Norman Conquest. His father, Lord Alfred, had perished two years earlier on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Since then, Richard had nursed a bitter hatred of the Turks and of all Islam — something the emperor had not failed to notice.
"Your Majesty," Richard began, his voice steady, "my family has ever served you faithfully. And now I bring you a plan that may yet save the empire."
Alexios regarded the youth with measured attention. He was about to speak when his brother Isaac — the sebastokrator, "co-ruler in honor" — cut in with a wry smile.
"Again this Saxon boy with fire in his eyes," Isaac scoffed. "Let us hope he is not here to propose marrying off our Theodora to Bohemond."
Laughter rippled through the chamber, but Richard ignored the mockery.
"Your Majesty," he pressed on, "the Turks have taken Nicaea. Within a month, their cavalry may stand before these very walls. But I know what can stop them."
"And what is that?" Alexios asked, his tone soft but intent. The emperor had once counted Alfred, Richard's father, as a friend — and for his son he felt something like paternal care.
Richard's gaze drifted to the windows, where the lights of the city flickered against the night.
"Your allies betray you. Your mercenaries plunder you. But there is an army that will fight unto death without pay… if promised not only an earthly kingdom, but a heavenly one."
At this, Isaac sprang to his feet.
"Again with his Pope!" he barked. "The Latins will burn us before they ever reach Jerusalem!"
"You would have the Western counts and their hosts fight on our behalf?" asked the caesar and imperial son-in-law, Nikephoros Bryennios. Many in the hall smirked, recalling how often the Latins turned from allies to enemies of Byzantium.
Richard allowed himself a faint smile, but when silence fell, he pressed on:
"The Lord has often delivered His people by setting their enemies against one another. And when the righteous emerged from their city, they beheld not a mighty army, but corpses rotting in the sun."
A hush fell over the chamber. Nikephoros fixed him with a stern look.
"Are you saying that we pray too poorly, since the Lord has not delivered us from the barbarians?"
"On the contrary, noble Caesar," Richard replied calmly. "Our sovereign is devout, and the Lord grants him victory. Perhaps my counsel is but the instrument of another such triumph."
The emperor narrowed his eyes.
"And what is your counsel?"
Richard looked around at the assembled lords.
"We ask their Pope to convince the Latins that the true enemies of Christ are the Saracens — and that their treasures lie not in Constantinople, but in the Holy Land."
Laughter broke out once more. Michael, the logothete of secrets, smirked.
"Well, that much will be easy. The Saracens hold far more gold than we."
"And do you truly believe Urban will aid us, mired as he is in quarrels with the Germans?" Alexios asked, his brow furrowed.
Richard nodded firmly.
"Just so, Majesty. Pope Urban stands in need of allies and coin. If we support him, he will proclaim a Holy War against the Muslims — in alliance with us."
Isaac shook his head.
"The Latins see us not as allies but as prey. Even if Urban calls them to fight the Saracens, their knights will trample our streets long before they reach Jerusalem."
Richard answered without hesitation:
"Without our dromons they will run aground like corpses on the shore. To reach us they must first pass the teeth of the Alpine peaks. They will come: Franks and Spaniards whose swords have never drunk Byzantine blood. And each will swear before the icon of the Theotokos in Hagia Sophia to serve the emperor. Who would dare raise a blade against Constantinople, if his very soul were sealed by the wax of holy candles?"
Alexios tapped his fingers against the cedar of the kiot.
"We shall consider your words," he said at last.
The emperor's gaze swept across the chamber. Silence reigned, broken only by the crackle of torches.
"If need be, you shall go with the embassy," he added. "For now, leave us."
Richard stepped back, his hand brushing the mail beneath his flowing burnous. His fingers lingered on the hilt of a dagger — his father's gift: a golden pommel set with rubies.
The senators and generals began to withdraw, their steps echoing against the marble floor like distant thunder. By "us," the emperor had meant only his brother and his son-in-law.
When the room was empty, Alexios turned to Isaac and Nikephoros, absentmindedly rolling his rosary beads between his fingers.
"Speak," he commanded.
Isaac snorted.
"I have spoken enough! The boy is blinded by vengeance. The Turks slew his father, and he would set the world aflame to strike them down. His scheme is madness."
Nikephoros shrugged.
"Madness, perhaps. But if the Latins draw the Turks' gaze away, we may breathe again. I would take the risk."
Alexios walked to the window. Beyond the palace rose the mighty city — Constantinople, its domes and towers glowing faintly in the torchlight. The emperor clenched his jaw.
"Two voices. Two paths. Which shall I choose?" he whispered.
He took a slow step forward, gazing into the night, and at last spoke:
"Let God decide…"
The Omen at the Altar
Byzantine emperors often sought divine guidance through sacred signs. Emperor Alexios chose the ritual of the Drawing of the Arrows.
That evening, Alexios stood before the altar of Hagia Sophia, his fingers clutching the rim of an onyx chalice. Inside lay two wooden tablets, carved in the shape of arrows:
— A serpent, lacquered in black with runic inscriptions along the edge — the symbol of war.
— A dove, carved from cypress with gilded wings — the sign of peace.
The priest lifted his hands toward the dome, where the face of Christ shimmered in the lamplight, as if watching their choice.
"Lord, grant Thy servant Alexios the wisdom of Solomon…"
The emperor closed his eyes. In his ears echoed the voice of his father, who had died on just such a stifling night:
"Rome is an empire of shadows… He who grasps power here loses it in the blink of an eye…"
As if to drive away the vision, Alexios shook the chalice. A dull sound rang out.
The tablets struck the marble floor and bounced like living things. The Serpent landed atop the Dove, its point aimed directly at a crack in the stone — the very fissure that had appeared after the earthquake on the year of his coronation.
"An omen!" whispered Nikephoros.
Isaac snorted, adjusting his cloak. "The serpent always strikes first."
Alexios bent to lift the lower tablet. On the back of the Dove he saw drops of wax, as though someone had held it over a burning candle before the rite. He traced the molten edge with his finger — and suddenly cried out.
"Your Majesty?" the priest rushed to him.
"Nothing…" Alexios clenched his palm. A splinter of cypress had pierced his skin — as though the very symbol of peace had wounded him.
From the shadows of the columns, Richard watched. His face was hidden by gloom, but his eyes — black as pitch — followed the emperor's every move.
"The will of God is revealed," declared Nikephoros, raising the Serpent high before the crowd.
Alexios nodded, concealing his wounded hand within the folds of his imperial mantle. His gaze fell upon Richard.
The young man slowly made the sign of the cross…
"Sacred" Relics
The next day, Richard was summoned to the palace. But instead of the emperor's chambers, a nondescript messenger led him to the office of the sebastokrator.
"The co-ruler awaits you!" the servant announced with affected ceremony before the door. Richard betrayed no surprise—though in truth, he was far from pleased.
Isaac turned slowly toward him, his gaze drifting to the cracked mosaic eye of Emperor Justinian upon the wall.
In his hand, he clutched a golden cord once used for imperial decrees—now cut in half.
"Your words smell of quicksilver," the sebastokrator muttered. "Poisonous, yes… but they may yet save a life. Or so my brother thinks."
He tossed the broken cord into a pool where golden fish darted, tearing greedily at the threads of gold.
"Take this instead of a seal. If Urban begins to drool over the dream of 'one united Church'…" His nail scratched a cross into the wax of the imperial charter. "Do not agree. Try to buy the old man with gold, and with the gifts we are sending."
He waved toward the window, where ships bearing Latin crosses loomed against the setting sun.
"You will sail with them. Mavros will provide you with what you need."
Richard slipped into the alabaster portico, where Mavros awaited him—a corpulent eunuch with a bronze key hanging from his belt. In his hands he held a leather sack that jingled with the weight of sacred vessels.
"His Lordship ordered me to hand this over," the eunuch hissed, dropping the sack at Richard's feet. "If the mob learns that the relics of Hagia Sophia are being given… to Latin jackals, they will tear me apart at the Golden Gate."
Richard drew out a fragment of the Virgin's girdle, wrapped in waxen threads.
"Tell the emperor this will lie at Urban's feet when he proclaims war on the infidels."
Within an hour, Richard—cloaked in a burnous embroidered with papal emblems—watched as stevedores loaded crates of "holy relics" onto the ship. Suddenly, a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"You sure their Pope will swallow this lie, boy?"
It was Michael, the captain of the guard, whose right arm ended in a steel spike shaped like a dagger. He jabbed it toward a crate containing a false coffin of Joseph of Arimathea.
"If he finds out it's nothing but the bones of some Armenian monk…" Michael's grin was wolfish. "Clermont will become your grave.."
"The Pope will learn nothing—unless you and your men wag your tongues," Richard cut him off coldly. "In which case, they will impale you long before me."
"Easy, young lord," Michael chuckled. "I only meant to remind you of the game you've set in motion. And dragged us into as well."
From the crew came a chorus of laughter.
"Oh yes! That's true enough!"
Richard replied evenly:
"The decision was not mine, but the emperor's. And he acts according to the will of God."
"Oh, indeed. Even when he goes to the privy, it is only by God's will," one of the soldiers—nicknamed Glyph, for his serpent's tongue—snickered.
Michael barked a laugh, his jagged blade flashing in the torchlight.
"One day, they'll cut your tongue out, Glyph—mark my words!"
Later that night, Richard vanished into the dark alleys of Constantinople.
Where he went, and with whom he met—none of his companions ever learned...