I was one of those who carried Michael senseless with wine to his chamber and laid him on his bed with the vermilion cushions. As I came out I saw the bolts of the door were broken, but I thought nothing of it, as it was Theodora’s house. On a low couch with silver and amber legs lay Basiliskian, with his red hair and his yellow robes tumbled about him; I lay in the outer chamber. Beautiful were those two rooms, tiled with blue, patterned with carnations and curtained with silks stiff with fruits and flowers of gold; above the couch were saints with long eyes and raised hands, the elders praying all in white on the daisied floor of Heaven, this in mosaic, glittering, and a lamp with square-cut green stones round the base, hanging before. Flat on his back lay Michael, with his head slipping from the pillows and the roses slipping from his black hair; his white silk robe flowed open on his coat of silver and the clusters of topaz shone in the crossings of his gilt sandals. The window was wide on the night; there was a moon above the tamarisk trees and a nightingale singing fitfully. It was very silent after all the noise and riot, and I was half asleep when the door was pushed open and some men entered. There was the third Emperor Basil, a head above them all, the Persian Apelates, Bardas the father of Basil, his brother Marinos, a cousin of his, all peasants these, Peter of Bulgaria and John of Chaldia. Now I rose up softly and got before them and stood in front of the bedchamber door; for I saw they were all sober. Basil put out his great hand and gripped my shoulder. “Basil or Michael?” he asked, and drew his scimitar. “Michael,” I answered him, for I hated him–the Greek groom! With that he lifted me out of the way, but I gave a great shout and beat my hand upon the bronze images and cast them against the tiles so that they cracked. Then they pulled me back, and I heard the nightingale grow louder, and I laughed with rage, for one struck me with a dagger. I turned round and saw the Emperor Michael staggering in the carved wood doorway, the roses still clinging to his disordered hair. Seeing them, his wits cleared. “Basil!” he shrieked. “I made you Emperor!” They left me and turned on him, driving him back into the bedroom, and I lay along the floor with a dagger through my wrist, listening to his shrieks that hushed the nightingale. Dragging myself to the door, I beheld Basiliskian struggling with the Persian, and saw him fall back across the couch with his scarlet-shod feet up and his mouth open, while the blood gurgled out and hid the wine-stains on his yellow robes. I did not care for this, but looked for Michael and called loudly, so that they rushed out, drawing the curtains behind them and fled into the corridor. Now none came, for tumults were such common things, and after a little Basil came back and looked about him; and after him followed Eudocia Ingerina in a green mantle with a lamp of bright enamel in her hand.