Regarding himself in the mirror, he observed, as a matter of fact, that he was beautiful. His fine straight nose, his brown eyes full of dark mystery, his pale northern complexion something refined and desirable, a face to seduce the most chaste woman in the city. Or man. And yet all he was and all he ever would be was an adornment to the emperor. Background decoration, like a mosaic or a gilded vase.

It was a warm summer’s evening. A pleasant hour for the greatest personages in the city to forget for a time the coming crisis, which rose ever higher like a black tide. Here they were, arrayed around a table of red marble cut into the shape of a crescent moon, the centrepiece of the airy dining hall in which Arbasdos had chosen to receive his old ally.

Emperor Leo lay on a plump couch, drinking wine flavoured with storax from a long-stemmed goblet, exchanging pleasantries with his wife, the Basílissa Maria, and private jokes with his host.

The scent of a dozen lamps filled Katāros’s nostrils. Cinnamon, aloeswood and ambergris mingled with the aroma of pine chips crushed with myrtle leaves. In large stone vases around the room were expansive arrangements of white lilies and narcissus flowers. Silanos had arranged everything to appeal to the senses: the young musician hidden behind a screen strumming at a lyre and humming a meandering melody; the heat from the braziers in each corner balanced the cool air stirring off the waters of the Golden Horn through silk veils as fine as spider’s webs. As the sun sank below the western hills, dusk came like a murmur.

Katāros himself hovered like another scent, in attendance should he be called upon for counsel. He did his best to avoid catching the eye of Silanos who was similarly concealed in the shadows and likely to come over and bore him in whispers if he thought Katāros was looking for conversation.

Instead his gaze returned to Leo, this Isaurian general who had risen so high in so short a time that he was said now to be the very vessel of God. Yet he was not prepossessing in any obvious way. He was not particularly handsome in looks, nor noble in demeanour, nor severe in aspect. His nose was broad-bridged and ended bluntly, his eyes were steady, his beard and moustache dark and oiled, his hair fell to his shoulders and was circled by a ruby-encrusted crown. He was altogether ordinary, yet something in him held a man’s gaze. Maybe the power of the imperial crown had a sort of enchantment all of its own. Or maybe it was his air of self-assurance, which seemed to surround him like a cloak. He knew himself and his capabilities exactly. He was a man without doubt.