The Throne Room of Troy was a space carefully designed to inspire awe. As far as Brother Diaz was concerned, it worked.

First, there was its position. Supposedly, the throne had once been in a far larger audience chamber on the ground floor of the palace, but some canny councillor had recommended it be moved upwards, as upwards as possible, indeed, to the very highest floor of the Pharos, directly beneath Saint Natalia’s Flame. Even the most arrogant ambassador could not but be impressed by the majestic view through the great windows. Even the most overweening magnate would be wordlessly reminded of the dizzying drop that awaited any that might incur their liege’s displeasure. Even the most athletic supplicant would arrive cowed by the merciless stairs, their knees wanting nothing more than to bend.

Then there was the crushing display of wealth. Pillars of many-coloured marble, amber vases tall as a man, tapestries of cloth-of-gold, treasures given in tribute from the length of the Mediterranean competed to dazzle the eye. There were arms and armour, too, bracketed to the walls, enough to equip a legion. Slim-hafted spears from Afrique, gold-hilted sabres from the steppe, axes of the savage north, swords of the stubborn west, pointed reminders of centuries of Trojan victories over all comers. Even, in pride of place, barbed spears, jagged daggers, and cruel arrows whose alien design could not but produce a shiver of fear. Relics of the crusades against the elves, and testament to the possibility of victory.

Finally, there was the Serpent Throne itself: a towering edifice of coiled snakes carved from variously coloured translucent stones, glowing with the light through the vast windows behind so they seemed to writhe, fangs bared. A chair fit for a giant of legend. Which did rather render the idea of Alex sitting in it, even Brother Diaz had to admit, faintly ridiculous.

No one seemed more aware of that fact than the would-be Empress herself, sitting pale and worried in a far smaller seat at the foot of the throne’s agate steps, at the head of a highly polished table, picking nervously at her fingernails.

On her left was Lady Severa, impeccable Warden of the Imperial Chamber, on her right Michael, celebrated Duke of Nicaea. Beside him the immortal crusader Jakob of Thorn sat stiffly, an oasis of grimacing grey in this desert of dazzling colour. Opposite him sat Brother Diaz. An assistant librarian from a monastery no one in Leon, let alone Troy, had ever heard of. He adjusted the heaps of ledgers, deeds, and documents he’d brought with him – as though success could only be ensured by lining them up perfectly parallel with the edge of the table – then after sending up a silent prayer to Saint Beatrix, he nodded to Alex.

Like an actor in the wings preparing to take the stage she rolled back her shoulders, slapped her own cheeks, stretched out her neck, flashed on a generous smile, and became a confident, comfortable, even a faintly regal presence.

‘We’re ready,’ she said.

The major-domo, a man who looked like he’d spent most of his life bent at the waist, bowed low. ‘Then may I present the assembled representatives … of the aristocracy … of the Empire of Troy!’ And he scuttled sideways like a crab as a pair of armoured guards swung open the towering doors. ‘Duke Kostas Phrantzes Dukos of Aeolis and Ionia!’ he boomed, as if announcing final victory over the elves rather than a small man with an enormous forehead. ‘Warden of the Isles of Lesbos and Pylos, Protector of Plomari, Admiral of the Imperial Fifth Fleet, Knight of the Rose in the third degree.’

Duke Kostas, evidently less awestruck by the throne room than Brother Diaz, delivered the smallest nod to Alex that decorum would allow, and sauntered to a chair, nose in the air.

‘Duchess Helen Tzamplakon Arsenios Guilland of Thrace …’ An ancient woman with an immense wig shuffled over the threshold, angrily refusing the help of a concerned servant.

So it went on, a barrage of ponderous names followed by an assault of honorifics, titles, and distinctions. The chairs filled with painstaking slowness until the beaming Princess Alexia and her four retainers were outnumbered five to one by a disapproving throng of bejewelled noblemen and -women, and Brother Diaz was forced to wonder whether the moment they were all announced it would be time to break for lunch. Or possibly dinner.

‘And finally …’ called the major-domo.

‘Oh yes,’ whispered Alex, hoisting her smile a little higher.

‘… Duke Arcadius …’

‘Oh no,’ breathed Alex, her smile almost slipping off entirely.

‘… eldest son of Her Imperial Resplendence the Empress Eudoxia, Grand Admiral of—’

‘They know who I am.’ Arcadius patted the major-domo on the shoulder and gave him a conspiratorial wink. He was tall, slender, handsome, and carried himself with the lazy confidence of a man who has rarely been confronted by the word ‘no.’ He considered Alex with a heavy-lidded smile quite unlike his brothers’ sneers of scornful hatred. Brother Diaz instantly trusted him even less. Their murderous intentions had been stated plainly from the start. What game Arcadius was playing had yet to be revealed.

‘You must be my cousin Alexia.’ He snapped his heels together and delivered a bow far more respectful than most of the other visitors had.

She glared back at him. ‘Do I disappoint?’

‘What, me? Not a bit!’ He flopped into the chair at the foot of the table, tilted it back on two legs, dropped one boot on the polished top, and grinned around the room. ‘But I’m easily pleased, ask anyone.’

‘I speak for the whole gathering … I am sure …’ A duke whose face was almost invisible behind immense moustaches clambered up. ‘When I say we are delighted … to have the daughter of Irene … among us once more.’ Though no one looked much delighted, not even him. ‘But before we can consider … Your Highness’s ascension to the throne, there are certain … inequities … grievances … debts … that must be settled.’

‘The first in line is the first in line,’ said Duke Michael, stonily, ‘regardless of your grievances or anyone else’s. She is Alexia Pyrogennetos!’ And at the name, as though conscious she might not quite measure up to it, Alex cranked herself even a fraction more proudly erect in her chair. ‘Born of Irene in the Pharos of Troy, proclaimed the one legitimate heir to the Serpent Throne by both Patriarch and Pope. Are there not still such things as deference, loyalty, duty in the Empire of the East?’

‘Of course. Duke Michael,’ said a countess whose lengthy neck and pecking sentences put Brother Diaz in mind of a stately wading bird, ‘but. They are double-edged swords. And cut both ways. An Empress has a duty. To her subjects.’

‘A duty of care,’ croaked the ancient duchess, weak eyes staring off somewhere to Alex’s right, ‘a duty of justice.’

‘Eudoxia’s reign. Was not easy on anyone—’

‘Harder for some than others,’ grunted Michael.

‘But we all,’ said an emollient count with a cloth-of-gold hat, ‘desire a new era of stability and prosperity, and that the path to the Serpent Throne be smooth—’

‘Rather than an endless legal slog through a thicket of objections.’ Arcadius picked a speck of dust from the front of his uniform and rubbed it away between thumb and fingers. ‘Now, who’s first to grumble?’

The ancient duchess pushed her chin forward, wattles wobbling beneath. ‘Perhaps … we go by seniority?’

‘Or by size of holdings?’ boomed a rotund count.

‘Or number of titles?’ From a duke whose grey hair exploded from his head at all angles.

Alex reapplied her smile and directed it towards the chair furthest left. ‘Why don’t we just work around the table?’

‘Very well, Your Highness,’ said the man with all the forehead. ‘I, as you are likely aware, am Duke Kostas Phrantzes Dukos. My family have, for centuries, held Aeolis and Ionia on behalf of your forebears. For much of that time, however, the crown has operated a naval base on the Isle of Lesbos. An ever-growing array of barracks, stores, and defences have prevented my family from exercising its rights to graze the land and fish the waters …’

As he droned on, Brother Diaz ran a fingertip down the list of demands, cross-referenced with his own notes, flipped through the appropriate ledgers to the appropriate markers, arranging his paperwork as a knight might prepare his harness for a tourney.

‘Let me understand this,’ cut in Duke Michael. ‘You want my niece to pay for the privilege of protecting you?’

‘I ask for fair recompense, no more! My steward has made an estimate of what my family is owed …’

Brother Diaz’s heart was pounding now, as the knight’s might on entering the lists. He’d never engaged in legal jousting against such eminent opponents, but he had far more relevant experience than when he flung himself from a burning galley, and he’d washed up after that alive. With stained drawers, admittedly. He gave the vial of Saint Beatrix one last squeeze, then lurched to his feet before he could think better of it.

‘My Lords and Ladies!’ he called, a little too loud. ‘If I may interject?’

There was a deeply uncomfortable silence in which all eyes turned towards him, apart from those of the ancient duchess, which peered over his left shoulder. ‘Who is this … person?’ The way she pronounced the word person implied she had yet to be convinced that he qualified. ‘A monk?’

‘Selected by Her Holiness,’ said Lady Severa, ‘to convey Her Highness safely to Troy.’

‘Ah!’ boomed the rotund count. ‘A warrior monk!’

‘Honestly, more of …’ Brother Diaz cleared his throat. ‘A librarian.’

‘A bookworm?’ Laughter.

‘An incurable bookworm.’ He gave his most ingratiating smile. The one he always used before presenting an argument. ‘So you can imagine my delight to have been granted access by the gracious Lady Severa to the stacks in your astonishing Athenaeum.’ He set a loving hand on the books and papers he had collected. ‘I thought we knew a thing or two in the monasteries of the west, but I’ve learned more about filing in the last few days than in ten years as a monk!’

‘What’s he saying?’ snapped an elderly count with an ear trumpet. ‘What are you saying?’

‘No idea.’ The ancient duchess flopped back despairingly in her chair. ‘He’s a blatherer.’

‘You’re not the first to say so!’ Brother Diaz chuckled as he spread his treasures across the polished tabletop. ‘I will come to the point—’

‘If … you have one,’ grunted the duke with the moustaches to more laughter.

‘These deeds, and corresponding entries in this ledger of holdings in the Duchy of Ionia, confirm the lands in question were always imperial property, only leased to the family of Phrantzes. You will see from the dates on the seals that the lease ran out two centuries ago.’

‘What?’ Duke Kostas’s immense forehead crinkled as he frowned at the documents.

‘And I fear … not only those lands.’ Brother Diaz winced like a doctor delivering bad news. ‘You have been grazing on, even building on, considerable tracts of Crown property for some decades.’ He slid his fourth paper across the table, adjusted it so it sat straight. ‘Here is my estimate of what you owe.’

That forehead turned terribly pale as the duke examined it. ‘Can this figure be correct?’

Brother Diaz held up his hands. ‘Prepared in haste. It could easily go up.’ There was muttering as he dipped quill in ink, carefully drained the nib, and crossed out the first entry on his list. But the laughter had dried up. ‘Now then, Duke Eulogius of Paphlagonia?’ He looked to the next man in line, a remarkably red-faced fellow. ‘You say the Crown owes you several galleys? I fear there may have been a misreading of the original contract …’

Now legal battle was joined Brother Diaz felt no fear, the splendour of the venue only spurring him to greater prowess. He flipped pages in a blur, cross-indexed like lightning. The sums might have been far greater – at one point he took ownership of an entire city for the Serpent Throne – but the principles were much the same as arguing over monastic brewing rights back in Asturias.

He gave ground on repairs to a bridge then countered with a bill for road maintenance ten times the size. He struck with rebates and compound interest and excavated the finer points of mining law. The long-necked countess thought she’d caught him out on fisheries, then visibly wilted as she realised her own argument denied her a share in lucrative sea lanes.

One could almost feel the balance of power shift. Alex sat straighter and straighter in her gilded chair. Duke Michael went from baleful to smug. Did even Lady Severa allow an infinitesimal smile to trouble the corner of her mouth? He crossed the complaints from his list one by one, and the sun reached its apogee and began to fall. Brother Diaz did not break for lunch. He did not need to eat. He was fuelled by pure administration.

The last of the aristocrats, one Count Julian, was not at all pleased when Brother Diaz revealed his deeds to be forgeries, and not even good ones. He planted his clenched fists to either side of the doctored documents and administered a furious glare. ‘I swear to God, were you not a man of the cloth, I would demand satisfaction on the field of arms!’

The powerful often resort to threats when frustrated by those they think weak. Brother Diaz had been cowed that way, in the past. But the Saviour said, One cannot grow without being tested, and he realised then how much he had grown since he left the Holy City. He had witnessed the unimaginable and looked into the eyes of true monsters. Beside that, threats from these perfumed fools seemed almost laughable.

But humility is the first of the Twelve Virtues, the one from which all others flow, so Brother Diaz only spread his hands. ‘I am a mere man of letters. In a duel I could give you no worse than a paper cut. If you insist on making a challenge on the field of arms—’

‘You can talk to me,’ growled Jakob of Thorn, ‘and my associates. When Her Holiness has a problem the righteous cannot solve … we’re the ones she sends. The ones who stopped Duke Marcian, and Duke Constans, and Duke Sabbas from attending this meeting. Believe me when I say—’

‘—you’d much rather deal with the monk,’ finished Alex.

There was an uncomfortable silence in which, notably, no one took up recourse to violence. It was Jakob’s first contribution to the meeting, and the last he needed to make.

‘I’m sure this comes as a disappointment.’ Brother Diaz smiled at the gathering. ‘I’ve been disappointing people all my life and can only apologise, but I’ve merely scratched the surface. If Her Highness wishes me to continue my work in the Athenaeum … I can only imagine what further inequities, grievances, and debts I might uncover.’

Duke Michael turned to his niece. ‘Does Your Highness wish Brother Diaz to continue his work in the Athenaeum?’

Alex sat back, thoughtfully pushed out her lips, and slowly tapped the arm of her chair with one fingernail, letting the discomfort of her covetous nobles stretch.

‘I am sure those who were willing …’ offered Brother Diaz, ‘to promise the princess their full-throated support … could, in further negotiations, rely on her generosity and regal forbearance?’

Alex’s smile seemed somehow more earnest than before. ‘The very things I’ve always been known for.’

‘Then may I be the first!’ Duke Kostas sprang to his feet. ‘To swear loyalty to our future Empress!’

‘And I the second!’ shouted the Duke of Paphlagonia.

‘I cannot wait to see Your Highness upon the Serpent Throne!’

A third of the gathering rose to acclaim as their overlord a girl who a few months before had been begging on the streets of the Holy City. Another third muttered and glanced about and hedged their bets. The remainder grumbled and scowled. The duke with all the moustaches turned towards the bottom of the table. ‘Have you anything to say … Duke Arcadius?’

‘I do indeed, and it is this.’ Eudoxia’s eldest son swept his feet from the table and stood, propping his clenched fists before him and glaring balefully towards the Serpent Throne. ‘Never fuck with a librarian.’ He burst out laughing, then chuckled, then sighed, and wiped both eyes with a knuckle. ‘Now, there is a matter I must settle with Her Highness that may place all of this in a different light. Something best discussed without the representatives of the Empire’s aristocracy present, and please could we spend less time leaving the room than we spent getting in?’

Arcadius need not have worried on that score. As with contestants at a prize fight, there is much strutting about on the way to the ring, but the losers waste little time skulking away.

The moment the doors clicked shut Arcadius slapped the table, grinning over at Brother Diaz. ‘Cousin, I simply love your smiling assassin! I took the knight with the face like an antique anvil for the killer, but it’s your monk who committed the murders this morning!’ He waved a dismissive hand towards the doors. ‘Don’t mind those idiots, they’re like all little dogs, they need a big dog to rally around. The nobles will grind their teeth but, in the end … they’ll be satisfied if I am.’

Alex narrowed her eyes. ‘I used to buy and sell a little. Mostly sell. You get a sense for when someone has a deal already in mind.’

‘Well, you know I do.’ Arcadius looked a little puzzled. ‘We all have a duty to compromise, and so forth? Meeting you halfway, for the good of the Empire? I mean, it wasn’t my suggestion …’ He glanced towards Duke Michael, who was looking suddenly uncomfortable, and back to Alex, who was looking nonplussed, then back to Michael. ‘You didn’t tell her?’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I know you’re my uncle, too, but that’s a little embarrassing.’

Alex looked suddenly pale. ‘What’s he talking about?’

But Brother Diaz had worked out what game Arcadius was playing. Or perhaps it had been Duke Michael’s game all along. ‘He’s talking about marriage,’ he said, softly.

Alex’s shoulders were starting to hunch again. ‘Marriage … to who?’

‘Well, not to me,’ muttered Jakob.

‘I’m sorry, Alex,’ said Duke Michael.

‘Me?’ she squeaked, staring down the table at Arcadius. ‘And him? And me?’

‘Well, this has been lovely, but I can see you have a very great deal to think about.’ Arcadius slapped his thighs and sharply stood. ‘I keenly await your answer to my proposal, I suppose? I mean … I could go down on one knee … if that might help? No? No.’

The moment the guards swung the doors shut on him, the last of Alex’s imperial dignity evaporated. ‘What the fuck?’ she snarled, rounding on her uncle.

Duke Michael had the look of a captain steering his ship into a storm. ‘Please, Your Highness, I worried if I told you, you might refuse—’

‘Oh, you think? I should have you beheaded! Can I have him beheaded?’

‘Now?’ Lady Severa calmly considered the question. ‘I would advise against. After you’re crowned? Absolutely.’

‘Alex!’ Duke Michael wrung his hands. ‘You have to see the sense in this. At a stroke you could turn your worst enemy into your best ally! Without Arcadius your grip on the throne will be tenuous at best. You’ll be fighting day and night to stay in power. With him as your consort none of those fools will dare oppose you. You can actually govern! You can do some good!’

Alex pressed a hand to her stomach. ‘I think I’m going to be sick. Lady Severa, tell him!’

The Warden of the Imperial Chamber paused, then laid a gentle hand on the tabletop. ‘Arcadius is not like his brothers. He is thoughtful, subtle, an effective politician … popular with nobles and commoners alike.’

Alex clutched her head. ‘Don’t tell me you’re for this!’

‘Then there is the delicate question of issue. To be secure on the throne you must offer not only a reign but a dynasty. There must be the promise of heirs.’

‘Heirs?’ Alex’s eyes went wider, her voice higher. ‘Jakob!’

The old knight gave a sour grunt. ‘Your bed’s your business—’

She looked triumphant. ‘Exactly!’

‘But.’

Her face fell.

‘From a military standpoint … Arcadius controls the fleet. Holds key fortresses. He has revenue and resources. You’re surrounded by enemies, Your Highness. This one move could take you from weakness to strength.’

‘But …’ Alex was looking more hunched and forlorn than before the nobles arrived. ‘I promised Cardinal Zizka—’

‘It was Zizka’s idea!’ blurted Duke Michael. ‘Before I left the Holy City!’

Brother Diaz grimaced. He’d been rather looking forward to harvesting some praise for once, but now it seemed as if everyone would have bigger things to think about. Alex glanced helplessly over at him. He’d given up a decade of his life wedded to the Church, so he could readily sympathise.

But the thing about sympathy is that it won’t save an Empress from an expedient political marriage.

‘Well …’ For about the hundredth time that day, he spread his hands in apology. ‘It would solve a great many problems …’