The heat of early summer clung to Constantinople, pressing damp air against the gilded walls of the palace.
The gardens beyond the Boukoleon steamed after rain, their fountains trickling faintly while the court gathered in the Chrysotriklinos.
Candles guttered in their golden stands, filling the vaulted chamber with a smell of hot wax and smoke.
On the throne sat Romanos III Argyros, Emperor of the Romans, a tall man with fine features and soft hands that seemed more at ease on parchment than on the pommel of a sword.
His robes shimmered with woven silk, but his eyes were clouded with uncertainty.
He had succeeded Constantine VIII two years before, inheriting the empire's crown but not its strength.
Around him stood the council, eunuchs in rich brocade, generals in polished armor, priests in dark robes.
Their voices rose and fell in anxious rhythm, each man pressing his fear into the air like incense.
