He hadn’t wasted the intervening hours. He spent them looking for a foothold – anything that might give him the leverage to bring the siege to a swifter end. And now, perhaps, he had found one.
The Bulgars.
Alexios had given them to him, so to speak. Since the crisis at the Karisios Gate, the commander of the emperor’s guard granted Erlan a certain grudging respect. He’d even decided to overlook the embarrassment Erlan had caused him in the Great Church. So when Erlan came seeking counsel, Alexios was terse as ever, but at least willing to talk.
There was nothing they could do but wait, he’d said at first. The garrison inside the walls was down to fifteen thousand spears. The host outside numbered close to eighty thousand still, and more with the remaining fleet and marines. There was no question of seeking battle. And no hope of relief from anywhere inside the empire. Asia Minor was a wasteland. Those towns that had not already fallen were beset on all sides by Arab forces. The countryside was awash with brigands and bands of raiders. Wild beasts roamed the borderlands. ‘Make no mistake. The empire is fighting for its life.’
‘There must be another ally somewhere,’ Erlan had countered. ‘Or an army, at least.’
‘Only the Bulgars.’
‘Who are they?’
‘They were our enemies not forty years ago. They’re nomads – well, they were. They settled to the north, on the plains west of the Friendly Sea, less than a hundred years ago if the chronicles don’t lie.’
‘How many can they muster?’
‘I’ve heard over a hundred and twenty thousand. But who knows? Maybe more.’
‘A hundred and twenty thousand!’
‘At full strength.’
‘Well then – there’s the answer.’
But Alexios was dismissive. ‘They can’t be trusted. They never could.’ On that point, he was adamant. Even so, he reluctantly agreed to bring Erlan’s post duty forward by a few days so that he could attend the emperor that night.
‘You won’t persuade him. That’s if he’ll speak to you at all. Just keep my name well out of it.’
It so happened that Alexios was wrong; Erlan found the emperor in a talkative mood. He was ensconced in his private solar – his work chamber set high on the western gallery of the Daphne wing of the palace – buried under a fur and digging his way through a pile of parchments on his desk, a half-empty wine-pitcher by his hand. By the time Erlan relieved the previous guard, the pale winter sun was close to setting, casting long, spectral shadows through the pillars of the Hippodrome to the west.
‘Ah, Northman,’ he said, swiping his glass from the desktop and leaning back in his chair. ‘Or Erlan, I should say. You have a name, after all.’
‘Your Majesty.’
‘And quite a name now, after your heroics in the breach. Well, potential breach,’ he corrected himself.
‘I’m only glad the crisis passed, Majesty.’
‘Yes, for now. Although one crisis succeeds another soon enough.’ He gestured at the parchments scattered across the table. ‘Drink?’
‘I’m on duty, sire.’
‘I won’t report you,’ he chuckled and rose to retrieve another glass. ‘Come, remove your sword. Make yourself comfortable. I need a rest from all this.’ Hesitantly Erlan unbuckled his sword and leaned it against a pillar, accepting the tall glass of wine the emperor offered, but he stopped short of taking a seat. ‘Life was considerably simpler when I was a soldier,’ mused Leo. ‘It wasn’t that long ago. But it seems like a lifetime.’
Erlan knew that Leo the Isaurian had worn the purple for not even a year. And what a year. . . ‘They say you rose through the ranks.’
‘Every rung,’ nodded Leo. ‘There’s always another to climb.’
‘Until now.’
Leo shot Erlan a glance, then smiled. ‘Indeed.’ He took another sip. ‘I cut my teeth in the east. Well, I learned my trade there anyhow. The Emperor Justinian sent me to Alania in northern Persia, I think mostly to get rid of me. But he did me a service. I learned strategy, and combat of course – but more importantly I learned diplomacy. How to weave and dissemble. The art of empire is not in strength but cunning.’
‘The Arabs have strength.’
‘Certainly. But are they a match for the other? I flatter myself that Maslama is not.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Leo gave a hesitant grunt, his eyes narrowed, perhaps considering whether to continue. ‘I’ve met the man. Face to face. A meeting he must regret now.’ He chuckled at some memory. ‘It’s thanks to him I now sit upon the throne.’
‘How so?’
‘Simple. We cut a deal. I commanded the most powerful army the empire possessed – which wasn’t saying much against the might of the Arab host. But I had sway within the empire at least. The emperor then was a dithering old sheep, put in the purple for the worst of reasons by men ambitious for their own good. I did what I had learned best. I lied. But for the good of the empire. I made a deal with Maslama, and persuaded him to let me have a moment of glory, to be hailed as the new defender of the empire’s lands, and he drew back. In return, I convinced him I would rule for him. For his master. They merely had to come and collect on the debt. He was deceived.’
‘And now he knows.’
‘One imagines. But many things can blind a man to the truth.’ A sudden passion filled his steady gaze. His fist fell hard upon the table. ‘Someone had to take control, damn it! The empire was on its knees! . . . Is on its knees.’ His temper cooled as quickly as it had flared. ‘But now, at least, we may get up. One day.’
‘The city is that strong?’
‘I believe so. But who can predict the hand of history? The Arab is a formidable enemy. The Muslim. . .’ he murmured, trailing to silence.
‘You mean their numbers?’
‘No.’ He turned, frowning, as if it should be obvious. ‘They have no fear,’ he said in a whisper. ‘For them – well, for the best of them – to die in the cause of their god is the highest honour. Not only honour in this life. They die fighting for the promise of extreme reward in the next.’
‘What kind of reward?’
‘Gardens of pleasure, splendid banquets, gold ornaments, silken garments, unending quantities of wine, voluptuous virgins to do their every bidding. . .’ He smiled.
‘Valhöll,’ murmured Erlan, half to himself.
‘What is that?’
‘It is the place of reward for my own people.’ He stared into the empty air, remembering the north. ‘A mighty hall for the chosen who die in battle. Its gates are guarded by wolves. Eagles fly above it. The heroes feast on the boar, Saehrimnir, who comes back to life every time he is butchered. They drink mead from the goat Heiðrunn, whose udders never run dry. The Valkyries – the All-Father’s beautiful maidens – serve them whatever they desire. And all the while the einherjar, the heroes, await the final battle. . .’
For a few moments, Leo said nothing, a subtle smile settled on his lips. ‘A beautiful dream for a warrior.’ He raised his cup to the setting sun where Maslama’s encampment lay. ‘Especially one freezing to death in a foreign land.’ He suddenly leaned forward in a flush of enthusiasm. ‘But can you see – if a man believes this, really believes. . .’ He squeezed his fist before his face. ‘What will he not do? What can he not achieve?’
Erlan nodded at Leo. ‘And what do you Christians believe? You speak of a life beyond this one.’
‘We do,’ Leo admitted, turning the stem of his glass in his fingers. ‘Ours is. . . less clear. One thing only we can be certain of. That Christ will be there.’
‘Who is this Christ that you worship? His face is everywhere.’ It was a question no one had yet answered him. One he had not been troubled enough to ask till now.
‘He is God.’
Erlan frowned. ‘How can a man be a god?
‘How can God be a man?’ Leo suddenly laughed. ‘You tell me! It’s a riddle that has kept the greatest minds of the empire busy – an
d at odds – for hundreds of years. Even now, I don’t know that the question is settled. Alas, I am no scholar. And yet. . . I believe it is true.’
‘Is that why you fight?’
‘Hah! I’m no fanatic, Erlan. No doubt the Christian faith would survive even if the city fell. But. . . I do feel in my heart that the empire must survive. It must. It’s given too much to the world to be wiped away like scratches in the sand when the wave falls. I believe it has still more to give.’
‘Then why do you hesitate?’
‘Eh?’ Leo looked at Erlan with curiosity. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you want this siege to end?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘So why hold back?’
‘What can we do but hold out till the Arabs grow tired of breaking themselves against our walls?’
‘Use your cunning like you said. Go on the attack. There is an army greater even than Maslama’s host yet you have not sought to harness its strength.’
‘Oh.’ The emperor nodded, now understanding. ‘You mean the Bulgars.’
‘Yes! If you sent word to them, you could form an alliance, you could pay them, you have enough gold, you could. . .’ His eagerness outran his tongue.
‘Listen, Erlan. It is not so simple. We have relations with the Bulgars. Or we have history, I should say. There was a treaty made with them. And not long ago.’
‘Then call on it,’ Erlan urged. ‘Why haven’t you already?’
Leo gave a wry chuckle. ‘It was not I who made the treaty but my predecessor. The man I deposed.’
Erlan’s enthusiasm wilted for a moment. ‘And so. . . the alliance was between tribes, wasn’t it? Between Byzantine and Bulgar?’
‘Yes. And no. The Bulgars are ruled by a king they call a khan. A man named Tervel. But it was his son the prince, Kormesy, who agreed this alliance with Theodosios. His son is the real power behind their host. His son has energy while Khan Tervel grows fat on horse-meat. Kormesy took it as a personal insult that the emperor, who was his ally, was kicked off the throne. To wound a Bulgar’s honour and then ask him for a favour. . . Phah! You would have more luck telling the tide to turn back.’ Erlan’s heart sank. ‘No,’ continued Leo. ‘The most we can hope for from them is what they are doing already. Their night raids serve us. They make the Arabs bleed.’
‘Wolves bite and bleed their prey to death,’ said Erlan. ‘The lion goes for the kill. Your name, Leo. It means lion, does it not? Which has the greater honour?’
‘And yet for the wolves, the prey does die,’ smiled Leo. ‘I’m sorry, my friend. Your service must go on a little longer. Here, another drink. And then I must get back to work.’
Erlan was still weighing his disappointment when the next guard came to relieve his watch. Night had long fallen. The oil-lamps burned low and steady in the hall. As they exchanged duty, Leo said he would rest a while on his couch before continuing with his work. ‘You can wait outside the door,’ he told the new sentry. Erlan, meanwhile, stalked away, ruminating on what he was going to tell Lilla. He had gone the full length of the hallway and down a flight of stairs before he noticed the lightness on his hip.
He cursed his absent-mindedness; Wrathling was still there, propped against the pillar by the emperor’s balcony. He hurried back, not wishing to be parted from his sword for even a night, and hoping the emperor would not mind the interruption.
He explained himself quickly to the other guard who hesitated, but Erlan went ahead and knocked on the latticed door. He listened for the emperor’s answer. Nothing came. Erlan cursed softly.
‘He must be asleep already,’ said the other. ‘I’ll bring it—’
‘No,’ insisted Erlan. ‘One second.’ He knocked again, lightly, and put his ear to the door. This time, he heard a muffled noise and something hollow and metal hitting stone. He had the door open in an instant and flung aside the silk drape. There, across the room, kneeling on the emperor’s couch, was a figure dressed in black. Leo was sprawled before him pulling at a rope around his neck, his mouth wide and tongue flailing helplessly, like a serpent tasting the air. Erlan shouted an alarm. The black-clad assassin glanced up then leaped backwards, dragging the emperor with him. Erlan sensed the other sentry behind him as he launched himself across the room. The attacker gave a last violent haul on the garrotte then swung Leo hard against a pillar. There was a thud as his skull hit the green marble and he went down like a sack of rocks.
The other guard yelled at the intruder to stop. The assassin drew a knife from his belt and flung it. Next instant, the guard was on his knees, clawing at the dagger embedded in his throat. He went crashing sideways into Erlan as the intruder made good his advantage. He was out on the balcony before Erlan could snatch a fistful of his tunic. For a second, the black silhouette peered over the edge, then sprang onto the balustrade and jumped.
Erlan was barely a second behind, snatching Wrathling from the pillar and slinging away the sheath in one motion a moment before he went over the edge after him.
It was a mad risk. Air whistled past his head and he saw an awning twenty feet below and the assassin tumbling into it. It held and at once he somersaulted out of it onto the balcony below. Erlan hit the canvas an instant later, felt his fall broken for a split second then the whole awning folded inwards, dumping him on his backside against hard stone. His spine jarred with the impact but there was no time to worry about broken bones – if he could move he must. He forced himself up, flinging aside the torn material and shifting his grip on Wrathling in time to see the assassin’s shadow leaping to the next balcony along the western facade of the palace.
‘Hel,’ he groaned and set off after him.
He cursed his ankle as he often had. Every surface was dusted with snow making seeing easier but the going treacherous. Still the balustrade was wide; the first gap only two or three strides across. He leaped and easily made the other side, taking the brunt of the stone parapet in his belly, knocking the wind out of him.
The assassin was already making the second jump. Beyond, Erlan could make out two more balconies, then a short distance below another roof ran perpendicular, the private wing connecting the emperor’s palace with the Hippodrome. Darting across the second balcony he shoved Wrathling into his belt, freeing both hands for the hazards ahead. Another giddy jump, a missed footing on the ice, his hand catching him, holding him against the balustrade. The shadow was disappearing ahead, nimble as a tree-rat. For a second, he saw the assassin hesitate atop the final balustrade, glance behind, take three quick steps and leap into the frosty void. A moment later there was a rattle of tiles, the sound of sliding, a muffled grunt, then he saw a shadow dangling off the edge of the roof. It was a drop of sixty feet or more to the pavings below. To fall meant death, but Erlan didn’t waste the time chance had bought him. He reached the last balcony, climbed up and stood tall; the assassin was pulling himself up, swinging one foot over the gutter. Erlan stole a breath and ran, launching himself off his good ankle as high and far as he could. He arced through the air, hovering like a hawk for a breathless moment, then came hurtling down onto the tiles with brutal force, the impact bludgeoning a crater into the broken shards and timber.
He pulled himself out of the hole, then slipped on the snow, slamming his jaw into the tiles. His face jarred with pain. He could hear the clatter of footsteps over the tiling to his right. He scrambled up to the roof ridge on all fours and gaining the summit he started running. The night was a brilliant velvet canopy, the stars burned in the black like beacon fires. Ahead was the silhouette of the assassin, sprinting for the massive looming shape that rose above the city like a titan. The Hippodrome. If the assassin reached there, Erlan was sure to lose him.
Ahead he could see a blank wall where the roof abutted the eastern side of the Hippodrome. Left and right there were darker shadows, apertures that let the daylight into the eastern stands of the stadium. Above them was a row of support beams projecting from the wall. The assassin reached the end of
the roof ridge. He hesitated, looked left and right, then skittered down the north slope of the roof. Erlan cut diagonally down the roof, sucking up the pain in his leg, feeling tiles cracking in his wake. The assassin leaped, swooping down onto the first beam, then leaped again, but Erlan had already launched himself off the roof.
They met mid-air, Erlan snatching desperately for a black-clad leg, and they fell together. By some miracle, the assassin caught the window ledge as it flashed by and clung on. The pair jarred to a halt. Erlan was still welded to the small feet that now kicked and writhed. He gave a desperate heave to throw himself upwards within reach of the ledge just as a kick caught his shoulder. The assassin slipped free. Erlan splayed his hand in blind terror and felt his fingers hook over the ledge before gravity took him.
He hung on, nails tearing, the breath heaving out of him in frantic gulps. He tried to swing up his right hand but missed. Then he felt his fingers crushed against the cold stone and smelled a familiar scent on the icy air.
‘Ágrios.’ A chuckle sounded smooth as velvet above him. ‘You don’t seem to do well with heights, do you?’
He looked up, feeling his knuckles crack. Almond eyes gazed down on him, bright with mischief.
‘You?’ was all he growled ‘Why?’
‘Arbasdos’s whip was cruel. Thanks to your stupidity.’
‘Help me up, damn you!’
‘I helped you once. Once was enough.’ She lifted her foot.
And Erlan fell.
He could have lived a dozen lives in those next three heartbeats. He fell without a cry, expecting many things – but never the sudden crash of fired clay and timber, the shower of dust, the jolt of pain and last of all a cloud of hay swallowing him up.
He lay quite still, stunned, his head numb. And through the shattered stable roof, he stared up into the evermore of night.
There was no alarm when he limped back into the Daphne palace. No outcry, no sign of a disturbance. He and Lucia seemed to have flown by like ghosts in the night. And she was long on her way by now.
He hobbled up the flights of marble doggedly, his head ringing. He needed to lie down. But first, he had to know. . .
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