by James Wilde
‘Words she learned from the men who captured her and tormented her,’ Salih said, finishing Meghigda’s sentence. ‘From those who came here, offering trade, but thinking we were barbarians who could be tricked. Men who offered an open hand while hiding a knife behind their backs. We have all learned that our trust must be earned.’
Hereward nodded, understanding. ‘You are wise. But there is more here than meets the eye. It seems there are many who are prepared to go to great lengths to take you prisoner,’ he added, directing the implicit question to the queen.
Meghigda looked past him. Now he could not tell if she was feigning her lack of understanding. Salih held out both hands. ‘We have many enemies. We will not bow our heads to the great powers who lay claim to the world. Beyond the sea, battles rage. Games are played for the thrones of emperors. Plots are made, blood is spilled. And there are some who feel we have a part in that.’
Hereward narrowed his eyes. Once again a smile danced on the man’s lips, and the words tumbled from him as if he were speaking openly. But the Mercian felt he was in the presence of one of the tricksters who performed wordplay in the halls of kings and earls on a winter’s night.
Salih ibn Ziyad must have seen the suspicion flicker in the warrior’s eyes for he said, ‘Let me tell you of my people, Hereward of the English, and of Meghigda, al-Kahina, that you may more easily understand.’
Pressing his palms together as if in prayer, he leaned forward and said, ‘We are the Imazighen. The Free. Some of my people are farmers in the valleys and the mountains. But the ones you see here …’ Smiling, he held out his hands once more. ‘No city will hold us. No warlord will press us to his service. We go where our hearts take us. Here one day …’ he raised his left hand and snapped his fingers, ‘gone the next, like shadows at dusk.’
Hereward nodded. ‘Earth-walkers. I have been called that too.’
‘We are traders. We know the secret paths across the hot desert that has claimed the lives of so many pale-skinned men. And the wares we take to the souks across this land are much in demand. But we are warriors too. We will fight unto death for our freedom. And there are many who would take that, and everything, from us. We are at war, even as we speak, a war with many players.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘In Kemet, the Fatimids have decided we must be destroyed, and they have set our brothers, the Banu Hilal, against us. And in Constantinople too …’ He caught himself, and smiled. ‘We have many enemies. We can trust no one. And if we are to see out our days we must be prepared to fight with every weapon we can find.’
Hereward still could not see what part the sea wolves played, but he kept his mouth closed, waiting for his moment.
‘But we are blessed by God,’ Salih continued, raising one hand towards Meghigda, ‘for we have been sent al-Kahina.’
A faint smile ghosted the queen’s lips as if she knew this was all a game at the Englishman’s expense. ‘And you are more than you seem?’ he asked.
‘The spirit of Dihya burns in her breast,’ Salih said, standing. From a silver pot, he poured a hot brown liquid into three goblets and handed them round. Small leaves floated on the surface. Hereward sniffed the contents. It was perfumed, and when he touched it to his lips he tasted the sweetness of honey. ‘Drink,’ Salih urged. ‘The nights here grow cold. This will put a fire into your bones.’
Once Meghigda had sipped her own drink, she said in faltering English, ‘Here there is the sun and the sand and the rocks and the Imazighen, all eternal. And one other. Blood.’
‘Blood has drenched the dust of this place since God first made the world.’ Salih retook his seat, cupping his hands around his goblet. ‘The history of the world is blood and war, my friend, and that will never change.’
‘My mother told me of Dihya, as her mother told her, and all the mothers before her,’ Meghigda said. ‘It is said that there came a man whose hands were stained in blood. His name was Hasan ibn-al Nu’man.’ Her eyes flashed as she recollected the story she had been told. Hereward thought how well she spoke the English tongue when her thoughts were elsewhere. Games everywhere, and nothing as it seemed. ‘With his vast army, he marched from Kemet, to crush all before him. All the peoples of the world. Cities burned.’ She clenched her fists in passion, and then seemed to sense that she had let her mask slip, for she added, ‘The words … so hard …’ She looked to Salih. Hereward thought he saw tears in her eyes, but he could not tell if this too was a trick.
‘Hasan ibn-al Nu’man was the devil,’ Salih said, picking up the tale. His voice rustled out through the tent, dark and low. ‘He could not rest until he had made every man and woman his slave. In Carthage, he asked the fallen, “Who is the greatest monarch? Who are the proudest people? Who would dare defy me?” And every man and woman there told him, the Imazighen. And their queen – malikat al-barbar – was the bravest, the strongest, the most loved, the most feared. Her name was Dihya. Hasan ibn-al Nu’man could not let this stand. He marched his army to Numidia. But Dihya had her spies, and she was ready for him. In Meskiana, they met.’ Salih smiled and sipped his warm liquor. Over the rim of his goblet, his eyes connected with Meghigda’s and she smiled too.
‘Dihya, filled with God’s fire,’ the queen breathed. ‘How those invaders must have felt when they saw her army bearing down upon them with malikat al-barbar at their head.’
‘The desert turned red as far as the eye could see,’ Salih continued, ‘and the army of Hasan ibn-al Nu’man was torn asunder. He fled like a whipped cur, back to Cyrenaica, and Dihya followed, slaying any of his men who fell behind, until the invaders had been driven off the land of the Imazighen.’
‘And God’s fire is in you now,’ Hereward said to Meghigda.
The queen raised her chin. ‘We will not be defeated by the Banu Hilal. That is my vow.’
‘And they are the rival tribe who are in the pay of your enemies?’ Hereward said, probing the twists and turns of the power struggles in this strange corner of the world. Meghigda nodded, and he understood the passions that raged inside her. Whatever deception she played, the two of them were alike, he knew. Was her war against the rival tribe and their foreign lords any different from the one he had waged in the fens against the Norman dogs? Was this Hasan ibn-al Nu’man any different from William the Bastard who had stolen the English crown?
‘Then I am proud I have brought you back to your home to defend your people,’ he said.
‘God will smile on you for your good works,’ Salih replied, pressing his palms together once more.
‘And yet there are still some things that make little sense to me,’ the Mercian mused, draining his goblet. He could feel the eyes of the other two upon him. He did not meet them. ‘In the desert, the body of a man, staked out to die under the cruel sun …’
‘The desert is filled with those who would prey upon a lone traveller,’ Salih said quickly, ‘who would take a life in exchange for little more than a ring, or a knife. This is not your home, Hereward of the English. The rules you know do not apply here, and there is danger everywhere, in a glance, in an unguarded word, in a step off a familiar path. It would be wise to remember that.’
‘You have been to England?’
‘I have been to England.’ Salih’s face gave nothing away. Hereward set his goblet aside. Though the other man’s words were measured, he sensed a deeper warning in them. He eyed Meghigda, who was watching him like a hawk.
‘I see a queen, whether or not that is the title you give her. A leader of men. But who are you, Salih ibn Ziyad? What part do you play in these matters?’
‘I am a humble servant of al-Kahina,’ he said with a faint bow of his head.
‘A priest?’
‘I am a guide. A calm voice in the storm.’
‘You have had some learning.’
The adviser pursed his lips, nodding slowly. ‘Salih ibn Ziyad knows the patterns the stars make and how they guide the ways of men,’ Meghigda said. ‘He knows the secrets of the trees and the water
and the shifting of the sands. He can see days yet to come in a still pool, and hear the whispers in the wind.’
‘In the wild woods of England, there are women who do the same,’ Hereward replied. ‘We call them witches.’
‘To know these hidden things is to see the hand of God at work. I am blessed,’ Salih replied. Moistening his lips, he eyed his guest. ‘You English, from your cold, wet land. You are not traders, any man can see that. What pulls you from the comfort of your home?’
‘England is not what it was, not now the Norman bastard wears the crown. We seek a new home, and peace. Gold. Glory.’
‘Gold and glory,’ Salih repeated. ‘And where will you find these riches?’
‘In Constantinople.’
‘Ah. The city of gold.’ Salih nodded. ‘It is also known as the city of shadows. Like all things, it has two faces. The one it shows to the world, and the one it keeps to itself. And there you will …?’ He raised his hands in a questioning manner.
‘Join the Varangian Guard.’
‘The emperor’s feared war-band.’
‘You know of them?’ Hereward asked.
Salih nodded.
‘Strong arms and sharp blades, that is what we have to offer. And that, so we are told, is what they need. Good fighting men can always earn coin.’
‘You are wise, but you would do well to take care. Constantinople is not England. There are worse weapons than axe and spear, and a shield may not be able to protect you from them.’
Hereward’s eyes narrowed. ‘What say you?’
Salih shrugged. ‘No matter. You speak truly. The emperor needs warriors and he will pay well to get them. War is coming to Constantinople, as it comes to all places in these times. But you are no stranger to killing, I can see that.’ He fluttered a hand in the air as if dismissing his words, and continued, ‘But now we have found common ground among us, and we are all friends here. Come – it is time to fill your belly. The feast in honour of your men is about to begin.’ He rose, gesturing towards the wall of cloth and the tent entrance beyond. ‘You will find the Imazighen are warm hosts. We will not soon forget this great thing you have done in bringing al-Kahina back to us.’
Salih pulled aside the curtain to let the guest out. Meghigda remained sitting on her cushion. Hereward could feel her eyes upon him as he stepped out of the private quarter. She remained a mystery to him.
Outside the night had grown as cool as late autumn in the fens. Constellations glittered in the sable sky and the full moon had turned the desert landscape into a sweep of silver and shadow. Through the trees, a great fire blazed. The succulent aromas of the roasting lamb were even stronger now and his stomach growled in response. Voices rose up in jubilation, cheers and laughter. And music too. Someone was plucking out a tune on a stringed instrument, the notes swirling fast. Others pounded upon drums. He puzzled over the curious noises of unfamiliar instruments, one that sounded like the lowing of cattle, and another that groaned, deep and resonant, like a whale heaving itself out of deep water. Though he and his men were a world away from all they knew, and the wind was filled with the reek of strange spices, and though his throat was as dry as the desert sand, he felt comforted. This could have been the feast at Ely, on the day when they thought victory over King William was assured.
Hereward felt a shadow fall over him. That day had proved that they must always be on their guard. Even when all seemed well, their enemies never rested. Plans were laid away in the dark and doom could strike in an instant.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE NIGHT WAS filled with music and laughter. Soon the feast would begin. But Hereward could not settle. Restless, he prowled around the camp, watching the featureless landscape in case more sea wolves had picked up their trail. As he completed yet another circuit, he heard a woman’s voice in the trees. Though she spoke in the lilting Imazighen tongue, he thought it might be the queen.
He found Meghigda sitting in the middle of a circle of young girls. Their faces were rapt as they hung on her every word. He furrowed his brow. Here was a side of the Imazighen leader that he had not seen before. There was a softness in her face as she looked with fondness around the group, and she was quick to laugh. The girls would laugh too, at ease in the presence of this woman who could kill a man in an instant and was prepared to lead an army to war.
Once the circle had broken up and the girls had drifted away to the feast, Hereward caught the queen’s eye. ‘What did you tell them?’ he asked.
‘That they should laugh and play and love every moment.’ She narrowed her eyes as if she expected this warrior to mock her.
But Hereward understood. Like him, she had had her childhood stolen from her and that only made her value it more.
‘And that they have as much fire in their breast as any man,’ she added. ‘No Imazighen woman will ever walk with her head bowed while I lead.’
‘You are a good teacher.’
Nodding, she lowered her eyes. ‘These girls are strong and clever and spirited. I would have them grow up into a world where blood is never spilled. I would have them be happy.’
Hereward thought of his own son, so far away across the whale road. He wished he had had the strength to be a good father for the lad. But he was afraid he would turn out no better than old Asketil, his own father. The boy deserved better. ‘These are the burdens of a leader,’ he replied.
‘You understand. That is good.’ She seemed relieved, he thought. Looking up to the stars, she continued in a reflective voice, ‘I know there can never be any peace for me. My life will be one of fighting, always. And then death will come and I will be snatched away before my work is complete.’
‘You do not know this.’
‘I do. I have seen it,’ she said, fixing an eye on him. ‘And I am not afraid. As long as I have changed the course of one life, my own life will be complete. Change one heart, and they can go on to change another, and another, and another, and all the days to come. That is good work. Small things, English. Victory does not always come in winning the war.’
Before he could answer, a cry rang out, then another, and a shout in the Imazighen tongue. On the edge of the trees, Hereward and Meghigda found Salih ibn Ziyad huddled with the guards. He turned at their approach. ‘Strangers are coming.’
Hereward peered out into the stark waste. In the distance, he could just make out a trail of shadows moving across the silvery landscape.
As they neared, he felt his heart leap. Afraid to believe the evidence of his eyes, he raced out across the sand. But it was true. Against all the odds, the missing spear-brothers had made their way through the wilderness to find him. Guthrinc led the way, with Kraki a step behind. Some of the men staggered on shaking legs, but Hereward thought they looked in better health than they had any right to.
Guthrinc laughed and flung his great arms around his friend.
‘Is this a miracle?’ Hereward demanded.
‘I could say the same,’ the tall man replied, ‘for you did not have Herrig the Rat to save your neck.’
The scout was the best the Mercian had ever known. A disturbed leaf, a hint of a footprint in wet grass, no sign had ever escaped his eyes when he had scouted for the rebels in England. He could live for weeks at a time upon the berries and roots of the forest. ‘Even here, in the desert?’
‘Aye. God or the Devil has touched him, that I know.’
Herrig bounded up. He was more beast than man, lithe and lean and fierce, hair lank and greasy, tunic stained with mud and mould. His front teeth had been knocked out by the hilt of a sword, so that when he grinned he seemed to have fangs at the sides of his mouth. And on a thong round his neck rattled the finger bones of the Normans he had slain, too many to count.
‘Sand and stone, or water and tree, it is all the same if you have eyes to see,’ he snickered.
‘He found us rats to eat and led us to water,’ Guthrinc said. ‘And somehow he found your trail. Without Herrig, we would have been dead in no time.’
Relief flooded Hereward. But as he looked along the line of weary men, his heart fell. They were fewer than he had hoped. ‘How many?’ he whispered.
Guthrinc lowered his eyes. ‘Three, dead in the sea. Higbald, Cerdic and Waegmund. Good men.’
The Mercian nodded. ‘Good men.’ He remembered them all, the jokes they had shared, the battles they had fought, the lives they had lived, and he mourned them. ‘Eight gone since we left England. Too many.’ Each life lost was his burden.
As they walked across the sand towards the trees, the dark mood ebbed and Hereward felt the joy of their reunion rush back in. Salih ibn Ziyad welcomed the new arrivals like long-lost brothers and ushered them towards the feast. With whoops and cries, the exhausted warriors raced to their brothers, drawing on the last of their reserves.
Hereward watched them go, relieved that he had not been responsible for even more deaths. But as he stepped towards the fire, he sensed someone approaching under the swaying palms. A low voice hissed his name.
Sighard waited in the shadows, glancing around.
‘You are not at the feast?’ the Mercian asked.
‘Trust comes hard to me these days,’ the young warrior whispered, ‘and that grates on all who travel with me, I know that. But sometimes I am right.’
Hereward stepped closer so they could not be overheard. ‘What have you found?’
‘When we parted, I saw a guard carrying a water-skin out into the desert. This seemed strange to me. I followed him.’ He paused, one hand falling to the hilt of the axe hanging at his hip. ‘You must come with me. There are lies here that may mean all our lives are in danger.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BEYOND THE CIRCLE of palms, the wild dogs fought over bones. Their snapping and snarling echoed across the lonely desert. The night was bright and the wind was chill as Hereward and Sighard crept to the tree-line. The Mercian glanced back. The feast was in full flow. The women lashed their hair as they danced around the fire to the swirl of the wild music. Men tore at chunks of meat, the grease dripping from their chins, and swilled back bowls of the thick, spicy stew. Though there was no beer or wine to dull the wits and fire the heart, Hereward saw his men grinning with relief after the hardships they had endured.