by James Wilde
‘Victor Verinus,’ Wulfrun muttered.
‘Aye. The Stallion. The man with a horse’s cock, so they say. At least, I think that is where his name comes from. Victor is a cock, one way or another.’
‘He is the enemy of which you speak?’
An uneasy gaze flickered up towards Wulfrun. ‘I hear he has designs upon Juliana.’
The captain could not hide his distaste. ‘She is but a child to him.’
‘Victor conquers women as he conquers land. He takes what he sees. All is about power to him. I say this as a friend. Keep your eyes upon her.’
‘Has he not brought enough misery to the Nepotes?’ Wulfrun watched the tall man approach. Victor’s chin was raised, his stare supercilious as he surveyed the wall warriors, who would not meet his eye. His private guard kept close at his back. They were a pack of savage dogs, but they would die before they let an enemy reach their master.
‘He plunged the knife into the skull of Juliana’s father?’ Ricbert asked.
‘Aye. And that ended their struggle for power in one blow. Victor was victor, and he took the spoils, everything the Nepotes valued. All of Kalamdios’ kin paid a high price.’ But Juliana will not be one of them, he silently vowed.
Victor came to a halt in front of the two men. A sly smile danced on his lips. ‘Wulfrun. The wolf of the Varangian Guard,’ he said in a low, rich voice. ‘In all the Guard, they say you have the coldest heart.’
‘I have heard that.’
‘And does that woman of yours not warm your icy depths?’ His lips pulled back from his yellowing teeth. ‘I hear you have not yet fucked her, Wulfrun. Surely that cannot be. Women need to be broken, and a woman that fine needs to have a man’s mark put upon her.’
Wulfrun felt the heat grow, but he showed only a cold face. ‘Juliana is chaste, and will remain so until we wed.’
Victor threw back his head and laughed. Overhead, the gulls wheeled, shrieking. ‘You English are a strange breed. All the women want your meat inside them, you and your Viking brothers. So handsome! So brave! I have seen them waiting in their multitudes outside the homes of the Varangian Guard in the Vlanga, begging for your tokens. Begging to be bedded.’ He fluttered one hand, shaking his head incredulously. ‘And yet you do not have your fill of their delights. Is killing all that weighs upon your minds?’
‘Some say.’
‘You are a man of few words. That is wise.’ Victor’s flat tone suggested a contempt that was not evident in the words. Wulfrun cared little. ‘I am to pay a visit to the house of the Nepotes this even. I will pass your good wishes to the girl, if I should see her.’ Folding his huge hands behind his back, the tall man strode away.
Wulfrun watched him go. ‘You see and hear all, as always, Ricbert. I am in your debt.’
An outcry rose from the gate beneath them. The two men stepped to the edge and peered down the dizzying drop. The long column of refugees arriving from the conflicts in the west stretched into the hazy distance. Too many by far, and more arriving by the day, Wulfrun thought. The finances of Constantinople already creaked from having to accommodate them all.
‘There,’ Ricbert said, pointing.
His back to the Kharisios Gate, a warrior waved a sword in an arc to fend off an angry mob. A woman stood behind him, shouting. Wulfrun thought he heard the English tongue. ‘Come,’ he muttered. ‘Before we have a war upon our own doorstep.’
Wulfrun and Ricbert dashed down the steep steps to the hubbub at the gate. Leaning on their spears, the guards stood back. Better to let the rabble fight it out amongst themselves than risk a knife in the ribs. Wulfrun shouldered his way through the throng till he reached the front of the semicircle facing the man and the woman. Once they saw his scarlet cape and gilded helm, the raucous crowd fell silent. Some stared in awe, at the riches shown by the golden hilt of his sword, or because word of the fearsome Varangian Guard had spread far beyond Constantinople’s walls.
Though the cornered man lowered his sword in deference, Wulfrun could see no fear in those coal-black eyes. His hair was a mass of dark curls and he was taller than most, and slender, but strong, Wulfrun could see. His stance was that of a fighting man. A faint smile played on his lips. At ease, even when threatened by a mob.
Wulfrun hid his curiosity. ‘What is the meaning of this outcry?’ he demanded, one hand upon the haft of his axe.
‘He is Norman,’ someone spat.
The captain turned back to the stranger. ‘Is this true?’
The man bowed his head. ‘’Tis true. I am Deda, a knight.’ With a flamboyant swing of his hand, he indicated the woman at his back. ‘This is my wife, Rowena.’
The woman was not unattractive, her eyes large and dark and filled with intelligence. Wulfrun saw a defiance there that warmed him. ‘English?’ he asked.
Her eyes lit up in delight at hearing her own tongue. ‘And you,’ she said, beaming.
The captain nodded, a greeting of familiars in a strange land. Glancing back at the knight, he said, ‘You thought you could walk through the Kharisios Gate when your kind attack our lands in the west, and burn the villages, and drive the people out in their floods to us here?’
‘I see how that could be a problem,’ Deda said in a wry tone, ‘if I were not being driven out by my own kind.’
‘Listen to him,’ Rowena pleaded. ‘There is nothing William the Bastard would like more than to see my husband’s head upon a spike.’ She stepped closer to the knight, as ready to fight for his safety as to comfort him, Wulfrun could see.
‘And why would Normans hunt a Norman?’
‘Because I killed an ally of the king—’
‘Who would have harmed me!’ Rowena interjected, her eyes blazing. ‘He is an honourable man who saved a woman in need.’
‘I would expect no more from a knight,’ Wulfrun said.
‘And I aided the English rebels,’ Deda continued. ‘Not in battle against my own, never that, but when they were fleeing for their lives. The king could never forgive that, for they had wounded his pride, if not his body.’
Wulfrun stiffened, but he hid his emotions. ‘The English rebels?’
‘Aye, in Ely, in the east, where they made their stand.’
Choosing his words carefully, the captain enquired, ‘And their leader …’ He touched his forehead, pretending to have forgotten the name of the man he hated more than any other.
‘Hereward. He is the reason we are here.’
Wulfrun furrowed his brow. ‘How so?’
‘Hereward offered the hand of friendship to my husband,’ Rowena said. ‘He deserved better than to be exiled by the bastard king.’
Deda sheathed his double-edged sword. ‘Hereward and his men set sail for Constantinople. They are without a home, like us. We would join them here.’
‘When I was a child, I knew Hereward,’ Wulfrun said, forcing a smile. ‘We ran together in Barholme in the fenlands. I would see my old friend again.’
‘He is not yet arrived?’ Rowena asked.
‘If such a great war-leader had set foot in Constantinople, my eyes and ears would have told me,’ Wulfrun said. ‘But perhaps he follows a meandering path.’ He paused, weighing his words, then grinned. ‘You are friends of my friend. You must be treated well here in your new home.’ He turned to Ricbert. ‘Find them food, and wine. Their bellies shall not go empty. Somewhere …’ He let the word hang.
Ricbert held up a finger. ‘I know just the place.’
‘Good.’ Wulfrun turned back to the new arrivals. ‘I will find you work. I ask only one thing in return. That when Hereward arrives, you do not speak of me. Instead, come to me first. I would surprise him with stories of days long gone.’
‘You are kind,’ Rowena replied. ‘We are in your debt.’
Wulfrun turned to the crowd and bellowed, ‘Any enemy of the Normans is a friend of Constantinople. These two are under my protection. Harm them not, or feel the edge of my axe.’
Muttering, the mob stepped back
, cowed. Deda bowed and led his wife through the gate. They had few possessions, Wulfrun could see, but they held their heads high. He leaned in to Ricbert and whispered, ‘Keep a close eye on him. I would not put it past the Norman bastards to send a spy into our midst.’
Ricbert nodded and hurried after his two charges.
For the rest of the day, Wulfrun went about his duties. With fifteen men, he quelled a dispute among masons repairing the soaring aqueduct of Valens after they shouted threats against the emperor. At the Boukoleon palace, he met the army’s high command to discuss the threat from the east. He offered a gold coin in return for a blessing at the church of the Forty Martyrs. But the unease that had lain heavily upon him since his meeting with Victor Verinus never dissipated.
After he had eaten and washed at his home in the Vlanga, he wandered out into the warm night. The breeze had wafted away some of the city’s stink, and all he could smell was the fragrance of roasting lamb, and the herbs in the pots of the gardens he passed.
The house of Nepos stood in the wealthy district not far from the forum of Constantine, where many of the city’s richest merchants made their homes. From the outside, it looked a testament to the fortunes of Juliana’s kin: towering, whitestone, surrounding a courtyard with a pool and trees that offered shade from the day’s heat. But Wulfrun knew the truth. The slave admitted him without question and soon his footsteps were ringing as he walked through the empty, echoing halls. The house was a mausoleum, a memento mori to the once great Nepotes. Every piece of gold, every possession of any value, had been looted by the Verini, the day Victor had sealed the defeat of his rival.
For a moment, he thought the house deserted. But then he caught a glimpse of flickering candlelight. Turning a corner, he stiffened. Wreathed in shadow, a figure sat silently near to the wall to his left.
After a moment, Wulfrun realized it was Kalamdios. The head of the Nepotes sat upon his chair, alone. Not even the slaves who carried him everywhere were with him. Wulfrun felt a pang of pity. How terrible it must be to fall from such great heights to this.
The captain bowed his head in deference. ‘Forgive me. I did not realize you were here. I have come to visit your daughter, but I cannot find …’ He clamped down on his words, realizing he was babbling because he knew the other man was not able to fill the gaps in the conversation. ‘Forgive me,’ he repeated.
A long trail of drool glistened from Kalamdios’ lower lip. Wulfrun wondered what thoughts flickered in that frozen body. Bitterness? Regret? Hatred? Surely there could be no joy or hope. Yet there must have been a great fire burning in his heart for him to survive such a grievous wound. The commander had seen men die from less upon the battlefield. As the notion crossed his mind, his gaze fell upon Kalamdios’ hands, the one part of his body where there was some semblance of life. They twitched and turned, the fingers flexing as if he were distressed. As Wulfrun watched, puzzled, the ringing silence of the room was broken by a reedy mewling, whining higher by the moment. Kalamdios was trying to communicate with him.
‘What is amiss?’ he asked, concerned. When he took a step forward, he saw that the man’s swivelling eyes were snapping towards a door to his right. He wishes me gone, Wulfrun thought. Bowing, he muttered a farewell and walked in the direction the crippled man had indicated. Barely had he passed into a small chamber when he heard the slam of the great door, and voices. The captain gritted his teeth. One of them rang with Victor’s deep, mocking tones. The other, he guessed, was Juliana’s mother, Simonis, who must have allowed their tormentor into the house. Wulfrun felt a slow-burning anger. How could the Nepotes live that way, with the man who had destroyed their lives coming and going as if he were king?
Now he understood. Kalamdios did not want his humiliation witnessed. And who could blame him?
Wulfrun eased across the marble floor, taking care that his boots did not even whisper. But before he reached the other side of the chamber, he paused. Victor was booming, ‘Kalamdios! Your graven face fills my heart with joy. How is life within your prison? Do you yearn to feel the grass beneath your toes, or swim in the warm sea? Alas, that it will never be!’
The captain stiffened at Victor’s cruelty. He took a step towards the door, then stopped, his breath catching in his throat.
‘Where is your daughter?’ Victor was asking.
‘She walks in the forum with her brother, Leo, enjoying the night air,’ Simonis replied. Her voice had a sing-song quality. Wulfrun knew she was trying to placate their visitor.
‘A pity. I would have seen her fair face this even.’ Victor’s words rumbled with a sickening slyness.
His fingers closing around his sword hilt, Wulfrun fought to contain his anger. But he felt all his deepest fears stirred by the mention of Juliana. After a moment’s hesitation, he crept back across the chamber. He decided it would be wise to spy on Victor. Here, where he felt in control, his tongue would be looser.
Standing in the shadows at the edge of the door, he peeked out into the candlelit hall. He could see Kalamdios, his face like stone, but his eyes filled with hate. Victor towered over him, caring little. His jewelled dalmatica sparkled in the flickering light. Wulfrun saw he had worn his finest clothes, the best to show off his power over the plainly dressed Nepotes. But Simonis still took pride in her appearance, he noted. Though she wore no headcloth, her hair had been combed and tied back with a blue bow. And she had on a dress the colour of a summer sky, sleeveless, with a belt designed to emphasize her heavy breasts. She held her face up with a defiance that Kalamdios could no longer muster. Wulfrun could still see the beauty that had drawn him to her daughter.
For a long moment, Victor peered into Kalamdios’ eyes and then he smiled and nodded. ‘I always take such joy from our talks,’ he mocked, ‘but time is short. Let us get down to it.’
Without looking back, he reached behind him and crooked a finger towards Simonis. After a moment’s hesitation she strode forward and stood in front of the man who now ruled them all. Victor grinned. With a slow, deliberate movement, he cupped the woman’s face in his hands and admired it, turning it this way and that so it caught the flickering light. Now Simonis’ face was as fixed as her husband’s. But she did not resist.
Wulfrun stifled a gasp at Victor’s audacity. To touch another man’s wife, and to do so in front of her husband! What power he felt he had over them. And that was not the end of it.
He tugged on the woman’s belt and it fell away. Hooking his thumbs under the silk at her shoulders, he eased it down her arms. The dress slid over her curves and crumpled around her feet. Underneath, she was naked. Wulfrun wrenched away from the sight, appalled by what he was seeing. Instead, his gaze fell upon Victor’s smile, and his twinkling eyes. Here was a man who believed he could do anything, anything, without redress. It was the smile of a man who thought himself a god.
In his prison-chair, Kalamdios’ hands twitched and jerked. The captain could not bear to look at him either. He imagined the hatred building inside, the frustration, until the pressure seemed so great Kalamdios thought he would die. Pity welled up in Wulfrun. He wanted to step out there and cut Victor down with his axe, but he knew he could not. He had sworn an oath to his emperor and that prevented him from raising his weapon to a man who, for now, was in Michael’s favour. He had to let this remain between the Nepotes and the Verini.
With his fingers at her bare shoulders, Victor spun Simonis round and then pressed her down until she was on all fours. Her breasts swung low, scraping the cold marble. She braced herself on her forearms as he hooked his fingers under her hips and raised them. Pulling aside his tunic, Victor exposed his erect cock. The Stallion. Ricbert had been correct. The tormentor spat upon his thumb and rubbed it between Simonis’ legs, then eased his member inside her and began to thrust. He did not look at the woman before him. Instead, with a cruel smile, he stared deep into Kalamdios’ eyes. And Kalamdios held that stare, for what else could he do?
Simonis made no sound. If she felt any
thing, Wulfrun could not tell. And yet somehow that was even worse. This was not a woman being taken by force, it was submission. It was about giving up the very last part of oneself. After this, there was nothing. Nothing.
Sickened, Wulfrun stepped away from the door and hurried across the room, no longer caring if his footsteps echoed. In any case, the noise would be lost beneath the sound of Victor’s grunts. His thoughts rattled through his head as he imagined the private hell that existed in the house of Nepos, and finally only one notion burned bright: he would not … could not … let Juliana suffer so. If Victor laid one finger upon her, Wulfrun would slaughter him, even though it would cost him everything.
When he heard voices at the outer door, his heart thundered and he ran to intercept Juliana and her brother. Leo was a strange child, quiet and introspective, with dark eyes that seemed to look right through a man. When Juliana saw him, her face lit up. Afraid she would cry out and alert Victor, Wulfrun caught her arm and gently urged her, and Leo, out and across the courtyard to the deep shadows under the trees.
‘You are hard to fathom, but you bring me such joy,’ Juliana exclaimed. She sat, leaning back against a tree trunk. Her face was dappled by moon shadows. At that moment Wulfrun felt a yearning that shocked him.
‘Is it true that if you unsheathe your sword, it must drink blood?’ Leo asked. His sister tried to hush him. The boy looked up at the captain with wide eyes. Wulfrun remembered feeling that same sense of awe when he was a boy in England, watching the earl’s men hunting in the wildwood.
‘It does not hurt if our enemies believe that,’ he replied with a smile. Glancing over his shoulder, he searched the doors to the house for any sign of movement. All was still. That was good, but he would not leave that night until Victor had gone.
‘We went to the Hagia Sophia, to pray for the safe return of my brother,’ Juliana said.
‘Still no word?’ Wulfrun asked.
Glancing down, she shook her head. But then she looked up at him, beaming. ‘He yet lives, I know he does. As we knelt before the altar, Leo heard this truth. God spoke to him.’