Reaching the Mese, we continued west a short way, arriving at a crossroads. Justin turned onto the right hand street, which was steep and dark and quiet, and led me a few dozen paces to a small house with a low door and a high step. As we approached, I heard laughter from within. On the doorframe hung a wooden placard painted with the image of a roast fowl and an amphora of wine.

He thumped on the door with the flat of his hand. "I am from Cyprus," Justin told me, pausing in his assault on the door. "The man who owns this house is from Cyprus, too. All the best food comes from there. It is true. Ask anyone."

At that instant the door opened to reveal a man with a black beard and gold ring in his ear. "Justin!" he cried at once. "So! You have not forgotten us! You wish a meal, yes? You shall have one." Justin then showed the bearded man the coin given him by the prefect. The man grinned widely. "What am I saying? A meal? You shall have a feast! A feast I shall give you." Turning to me, the man said, "Welcome to my house. I do not know you, my friend, but already I can see that you are twice blessed."

"How so?" I wondered, as charmed by his effusive greeting as by the exquisite aromas washing over us from the warm rooms inside.

"It is simple. You have chosen to visit the finest taberna in all Constantinople, and this in the company of the most excellent soldier in all the empire. Oh, the night is cold. Come in, my friends!" he cried, almost pulling us over the threshold.

Closing the door quickly behind us, he said to me, "I am Theodorou Zakis, and I am honoured to have you in my house. The worries of the day cannot reach you here. Please, follow me."

He led us up a narrow way of stairs to a large room with a handsome bronze brazier glowing in the centre, like a hearth, around which were scattered a number of low couches. Several of these were occupied by men reclining in groups of two or three over large platters filled with various dishes. There were also a few small tables set into alcoves formed by wooden screens. One table was placed in that part of the room which overhung the street below and it was to this table Theo brought us.

"You see, Justin, I have saved this for you. I know you prefer it." Turning to me, he added, as if in secret: "Soldiers always prefer tables. I do not know why." He pulled out the table then, and positioned the two low, three-legged stools. "Sit! Sit you down. I will bring the wine."

"And bread, Theo. Lots of bread," Justin said. "We have had nothing to eat all day."

Our arrival occasioned but little interest in our fellow diners. They carried on with their meal as if we did not exist. I thought this most unusual until Justin explained that it was customary and no one thought it rude. "Have you no tabernas in Ierne?" he inquired.

"No. It is a new thing to me-but then, everything in this city is new to me."

"When I first came to Constantinople four years ago, I had no friends so I came here often, even though I could not afford it so easily. I was only a legionary then."

"Do you have family?"

"A mother and sister only," he replied. "They live in Cyprus still. I have not seen them for seven years. But I know they are well. We write to one another often. It is one of the blessings of life in the emperor's army-a soldier can send letters anywhere in the world and be certain they will arrive."

Theo returned with a double-handled jar shaped like a small amphora, but with a flat bottom. "For you, my friends, I have saved the best. From Chios!" he announced, producing two wooden cups which he placed on the table beside the jar. "Drink this, and forget you ever tasted wine before."

"If we drink all this," laughed Justin, "we will forget everything."

"Would that be so terrible?" Laughing, Theo retreated-only to return a moment later with four loaves of bread in a woven basket. The bread was still warm.

"Tell me, Aidan," Justin said, pouring wine into the two wooden cups, "what did you think of the emperor?"

"He is a very great man," I answered, taking up one of the loaves and handing it to Justin.

"Indeed, indeed," he agreed good-naturedly, breaking the loaf in half. "That goes without saying. He has done much to benefit the city and the empire."

In the manner of Constantinopolitans, Justin said a prayer over the meal. It was not unlike one which might have been heard over a meal at the monastery. The prayer finished, I took up another loaf and broke it in half, releasing a yeasty gush that brought the water to my mouth. We ate and drank for a time, savouring the bread, warming to the wine.

After a while, Justin observed, "This may be a Roman city, but it has a Byzantine heart, and a Byzantine heart is, above all, suspicious."

"Why suspicious?"

"Need you ask?" Justin said, his smile becoming secretive and sly. "Nothing is simple, my friend. Every bargain masks betrayal, and every kindness is cunning in disguise. Every virtue is calculated to the smallest grain, and bartered to its best advantage. Beware! Nothing is as it seems in Byzantium."

This seemed to me unlikely, and I told him so. But Justin grew insistent.

"Look around you, priest. Where great wealth and power reside, there suspicion runs rampant. Even Rome in its greatest glory could not surpass the wealth and power Constantinople possesses now. Suspicion is a necessity in this city: it is the knife in your sleeve and the shield at your back."

"But we are Christians," I pointed out. "We have dispensed with such worldly conceits."

"You are right, of course," Justin conceded, emptying his cup for the second or third time. "No doubt I have lived too long in this city. Still, even Christians hear the rumours." Leaning forward over the table he lowered his voice. "It is said that our former emperor, Basileus Michael, died from a fall. But does a man lose both hands at the wrist by slipping in the bath? Even the emperor's friends say Basil the Macedonian's ascension owes less to divine appointment, than to the skillful application of the blade." Justin silently drew a line across his throat with his forefinger.

The King of Kings, Elect of Christ, God's Vice-Regent on Earth entangled in murder? How could anyone say such a thing aloud, let alone think it? Was this how the citizens of Constantinople spent their days-in vicious speculations and wicked calumny? Ah, but he had already drunk a fair amount of strong wine, so I forgave him his slander and paid no heed to what he said.

The taberna owner returned and placed before us two clay bowls of milky broth and two wooden spoons. He left again without a word, drifting to another party of three reclining on couches. In a moment all four were laughing out loud. I raised my bowl to my lips to drink, but Justin stirred his soup with a spoon and I was reminded how I had slipped into the ways of the barbarians.

"Any sorrow at Michael's passing was buried along with his blood-sodden corpse, I should think," Justin said lightly, raising his spoon to his lips and blowing on the hot broth. "He was a profligate and a drunkard, bringing the city to ruin with his extravagance and dissipation. It was well known he seduced and bedded Basil's wife-and not once only, but many times, and that Basil knew. Indeed, some claim that one of our emperor's sons is not his own, and that only because the cuckold's wife had produced a royal bastard was the hapless Basil allowed to take the purple and become co-ruler."

Glancing around quickly to see if anyone had heard him, I saw to my relief that the other diners appeared oblivious to our talk. "How can you say such things?" I demanded, my voice a hoarse, offended whisper.

Justin shrugged and swallowed down the broth. "I do not say Basileus Michael was an evil man, only that he was a weak one."

"Weak!" I gasped.