by James Wilde
Hereward could barely hear the other man’s words. Only one thought burned in his mind. ‘The others,’ he demanded. ‘What of the others?’
‘Slaughtered, all of them. May God go with their souls,’ Salih murmured. He looked up, adding, ‘Except your friend. They took him too.’
Hereward felt a rush of relief, but it passed quickly. Why would the sea wolves kill all but Alric? That he could not understand.
The old man croaked more strange words to Salih, then held out his right hand and unfurled his fingers. In his palm nestled a small pouch made of hide. As the elder continued to speak, Salih’s eyes widened and he could not seem to tear his gaze away from that pouch.
‘What is amiss?’ the Mercian asked.
‘The man who took your friend, and al-Kahina, is known to you. He has a ruined face.’
The blood thundered in Hereward’s ears. Ragener?
Plucking up the pouch between thumb and forefinger, Salih held it out. ‘Mundir says this ruined man bade him seek you out in return for his life. He sent you this, as a message. It belonged to your friend.’
In his head, Hereward felt the blood hammer harder still, drowning out the sound of the wind. Taking the pouch, he weighed it for a moment. Too light to contain much of import. He tipped it up and emptied the contents on to the sand.
A finger lay there, Alric’s finger, the end ragged and bloody where the knife had sawn through the flesh and bone.
The blood surged through him in a torrent, pushing out the desert and the other men, closing in upon his vision. In that red world he could hear his devil whispering to him, demanding vengeance.
For the next few moments, he had no idea what he did. When his vision cleared and the pulsing subsided, he found Maximos and Sighard gripping his arms and wrestling to hold him back. Brainbiter lay on the ground beside the severed finger. The old man was sprawled on his back, his face contorted in terror.
Salih pressed his fingertips against the Mercian’s chest. ‘Calm yourself, my friend,’ he was urging. ‘There will be time enough for vengeance. Your enemy taunts you, but think, think … he could have sent your friend’s head.’
As Hereward calmed, his wits sharpened. ‘Ragener lures us on, but where? North, south, east or west? There must be more. Ask Mundir. Press him. That dog will want us on his trail.’
With a nod, Salih squatted beside the old man and once again questioned him. As the elder dredged up what fragments he could find in his aged memory, the wise man’s face fell.
‘The ruined man was aided by Normans,’ Salih said when he was done. ‘A seasoned war-band, so Mundir says, and well armed too.’
‘Normans? Here?’
‘In time, all who seek riches and power pass through the land of the Imazighen,’ the wise man replied with a cold smile.
Hereward cursed under his breath. Would he never be done with the bastard king’s bastard men?
‘They have taken the queen and your friend with them, to Sabta. Do you know this place?’
‘Aye,’ the Mercian replied, his brow wrinkling as he remembered, ‘I have heard tell of it, in Flanders, when I sold my right arm and axe for coin. But … what …’ He shook his head. ‘Tell me why it troubles you so.’
‘Sabta is a city of thieves and murderers. When the caliph fell in the year of my birth, God, too, abandoned that place, so it is said. There are no laws there except the law of the sword. No honour, only greed. No beauty, only decay. The traitorous dogs have gone to Sabta because they know they cannot be touched there. Walk through the city gates and you will never walk out.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CANDLES ON the altar guttered. Shadows flew across the body slumped on the marble steps leading to God’s table. In the dark pool around the corpse, stars glimmered. Though Constantinople slumbered under the blanket of a hot night, in that vast, dark church the sound of running feet rang out. Fearful whispers echoed and the wailing of the monks soared up to the vaulted roof.
Wulfrun strode along the nave to the edge of the wavering circle of candlelight. Surveying the twisted remains, he muttered, ‘A wild beast attacked him?’
‘You would think,’ Ricbert murmured at his side. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, as much to hide his uneasiness as to wipe the sweat from his upper lip. ‘Look closer. You will see he has been stabbed. Not once, but a hundred times. A thousand times. A frenzy …’ He choked back on the word. ‘Yes. A wild beast.’
Wrinkling his nose at the reek of the blood in the heat, Wulfrun prowled around the body. From the tunic, he could see it was a man, though it lay face down. But so much blood had matted the hair and stained the clothes, and the skin was so ragged from the fury of the attack, he could not guess at the age. He glanced around the dark belly of the church to ensure they could not be overheard. Gold gleamed everywhere, crosses and chalices and leaf. In the shadows of the far wall, the cowering monks knelt in supplication, their hands thrown up to the heavens. Turning slowly, Wulfrun surveyed the stone columns, the worn mosaics, the dark alcoves. As far as he could tell, no one observed them. But in that city he knew one was never far from spying eyes.
The monastery of St George of Mangana kept its secrets close among its whispered prayers. It was no accident that this gleaming seat of worship stood so near to the imperial palace. Power lay here. Those who claimed to speak for God could move the minds of men, great and small, Wulfrun knew.
‘He is the one you were supposed to meet?’ the commander asked.
Ricbert nodded. ‘John. He was my eyes and ears here among the godly. And the not so godly. He sent word that he wished to meet this even, as a matter of great urgency.’
‘He had heard some news of a plot? Against the emperor?’
Ricbert shrugged.
Crouching beside the body, Wulfrun watched the blood seep along the joints of the steps. ‘This was a desperate act, so soon before you were to meet. The murderer risked discovery.’
‘Aye, desperate. If his name was to be spoken here, he had no choice.’
‘One stab would have done the task. Silence. Stealth. The body could have been hidden, and none the wiser. Why this … this butchery?’ Pushing himself up, Wulfrun felt the weight of his office upon his shoulders. These days there was no rest. Plots were everywhere, always. Sometimes he yearned for the heat of battle, the blood pumping through his head, the juice of the toadstools singing in his veins.
His gaze fell upon spatters of blood leading away from the altar to a large door of dark wood. In the gloom, it was almost invisible.
‘Come,’ he said.
The two guardsmen followed the trail. Through the door, a corridor led past a maze of silent rooms to the cloister and a fragrant garden, where two spectral figures walked among the trees. Wulfrun felt a prickle of suspicion when he recognized them. Nathaniel was one of the senior monks, a tall, ascetic man with thin lips, sallow skin and a frame like a newly exhumed corpse. He was also Victor Verinus’ younger brother, and he commanded as much influence within the church as his sibling did in the profane world. But where Victor spoke loudly, Nathaniel whispered of sins and salvation and bent men to his will in this life with the seduction and threats of the next.
The one who walked beside him had seen perhaps fifteen summers. A thatch of russet hair topped a face as pale as the moon, and as still as a mill-pond. His eyes were dark and unnaturally large. Justin was Victor’s son, the product of a roll with a Frankish whore, so tongues whispered. Victor kept the lad away from public scrutiny as much as he could, and never took him near the court. But since news had surfaced of the death of his favoured son, Arcadius, Justin was all he had left to see his legacy grow down the years.
‘That boy unsettles me,’ Ricbert muttered. ‘I feel I should cross myself, or spit to ward off the evil eye.’
‘He is a boy, no more,’ the commander replied. He raised one arm and called out, ‘Hold.’
‘The Varangian Guard? Here, in our monastery?’ Nathaniel said, turning. The mon
k pressed the palms of his hands together as if in prayer. ‘To what do we owe this great honour?’
‘There has been murder, in the church. You have not heard?’
‘I heard someone had fallen and bashed out his brains upon the steps. But murder? No!’ A faint sibilance licked around his words. He pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips. ‘Who would kill in a house of God?’
‘In Constantinople?’ Ricbert laughed without humour. When the commander eyed him, he flashed an apologetic look, feigned though it was.
‘You have seen no one passing through here with a weapon? The killer would have been soaked in blood, so frenzied was the attack,’ Wulfrun said.
‘No one. There has been only peace in this garden as we discussed God’s plan for us all.’ Nathaniel looked around. ‘And I see no blood here. The murderer must have left by another path.’
‘You, boy. Did you hear cries? Running feet?’
Justin cast a blank look among the trees as if deep in thought. When he spoke, his voice was dreamy. ‘I heard an owl hoot. Perhaps this was the work of a witch.’
Nathaniel laughed and tousled the lad’s hair. Wulfrun thought the churchman let his fingers linger there for a moment too long. ‘When we speak of God, we are lost to his wonders. The ground could shake, and this monastery fall, and we would not know.’
A pale figure appeared among the shadows at the end of the garden; a girl, a year or two older than Justin. Her greasy hair hung limply around a gaunt face, and she wore a plain dress that was threadbare and smudged with ashes. She beckoned.
‘Ariadne,’ the boy exclaimed.
Nathaniel’s face darkened. ‘You should not be here,’ he snapped. ‘If the abbot sees you—’
‘My father wishes to speak to you.’
‘This is your sister?’ Wulfrun asked.
Justin nodded.
As she stepped out into a pool of silvery moonlight, Wulfrun saw that bruises dappled her face and her bottom lip was split. He had heard tell that, even more than Justin, Victor had kept the girl hidden away. She had little value to him. The Stallion valued no woman, perhaps no man either, only the power that could be earned through their devices.
‘I must go,’ Nathaniel said. ‘May God guide your hand and your heart, Wulfrun.’ He hurried away with Justin trailing at his heels. When he reached the girl, he clipped her cheek with the back of his hand and snarled some words under his breath.
Wulfrun watched them disappear into the dark. The Verini spun their web wide, and the strands seemed to reach into all parts of Constantinople.
‘The lad’s hair was wet. He has bathed,’ he mused.
‘To wash the blood off him?’
Wulfrun shrugged. He could not imagine a boy committing so frenzied a murder, but there were stranger things abroad. With plots circling like ravens over a battlefield, he could afford to rule out nothing.
‘You think the Verini have designs upon the crown?’
‘I would put nothing beyond Victor Verinus.’
‘Then we should speak to him.’ Ricbert smiled without humour. ‘Quietly, but backed with the sharpness of a blade.’
Wulfrun bowed his head, reflecting for a moment. He wished he was wiser, like his father. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not yet. Victor is a clever man. If we speak too soon, he will cover his path and we will never find where it leads.’
‘But if we leave it too late …’ the smaller man began. He let the words hang.
‘And Victor is a powerful man. He has chosen his allies well and placed them in positions where they can aid him. If we move too soon, it could be our heads that roll.’
Wulfrun tried to clear his head of all emotion. That was the way of the Varangian Guard. The only heat to be felt was in battle. And yet he could not push Juliana’s face out of his mind, not with the shadow of Victor Verinus looming over her. A pang of disgust rushed through him when he thought of Victor taking Juliana’s mother, Simonis, in front of her own husband. Was his loathing of the Stallion, and his fear of what that venomous man might do to the woman he loved, colouring his thoughts? His axe could fall with justice if he could hold Victor to blame for a plot against the emperor.
Reaching a decision, he commanded, ‘Come with me.’ They strode back across the cloister and made their way to the refectory. At the head of one of the long wooden tables, a mound of a man hunched over a sumptuous feast: a pile of apaki, the pork salted and smoked, a partridge, eggs, flat bread, olives, a dish of taricha reeking sharply of fish, and a jug of wine. His pale blue eyes shone in a face of such pendulous jowls that his hairless head resembled melted candle wax. A cream tunic as big as a soldier’s tent barely covered his rolls of fat. Stubby fingers plucked at the food, pushing it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, relentlessly.
The monk glanced up when the two men entered. Embarrassment coloured his face, and he wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You see before you a glutton,’ he said in a high-pitched voice. ‘But you will forgive me, I hope. It is the only pleasure I have left in this life.’
‘Eat your fill, Neophytos. You have earned your pleasure.’ Wulfrun sat on the bench beyond the array of dishes, and motioned to Ricbert to join him.
‘How is Juliana?’ The monk’s words sighed with a mournful tone. ‘How long it has been since I heard her sweet voice.’
‘Your cousin is well.’ The captain paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘As well as can be with Victor Verinus’ shadow falling across her.’
Neophytos bowed his head for a moment. ‘I fear for her,’ he said in a quiet, tremulous voice. ‘She escaped the Stallion’s vengeance. I would not wish her to suffer as we all have suffered.’
‘It is true that Victor gelded you himself?’
‘Yes,’ Neophytos said dispassionately. ‘He took my balls with his own knife. And he made me watch as he sawed them off.’
Ricbert winced.
The monk shrugged. ‘A brief moment of pain. These things pass.’
‘You are not bitter?’ the younger man asked, incredulous.
‘God teaches us to accept these things.’
When Neophytos reached out for a slice of apaki, Wulfrun pressed his fingers on the back of his hand to halt him. With his other hand, the commander plucked an egg from the bowl and held it up; a reminder of what had been lost. ‘I cannot believe you feel nothing, Neophytos. If not for yourself, then for all the Nepotes who have suffered.’
For a moment the monk stared at the egg, and then his gaze flickered away. Answer enough, Wulfrun thought.
‘Even here, in this great monastery, you have not been able to escape the watchful eye of the Verini,’ he continued. ‘A slave to their whims, is that it?’
The monk coloured. ‘I chose to enter this brotherhood. I …’ He choked back his words.
Wulfrun dropped the egg back in the bowl. ‘There has been murder committed in this monastery. Blood spilled on God’s table. I would know what part the Verini played in this crime. And what crimes are yet to come.’
Neophytos lowered his head as if a great weight had been placed on his neck. ‘How can I help?’ he squeaked.
‘You see all here. I would think you see Nathaniel the most. The brother of the man who cut off your balls would not go unseen, yes?’
The monk trembled as he struggled with himself, and then he heaved his huge bulk up from the bench. ‘Follow me,’ he said, glancing around with unease.
‘Nathaniel is not here,’ Ricbert said. ‘He has been summoned, by Victor. That does not bode well, I would think. The Verini are in conclave.’
Wheezing, Neophytos pushed his way through door after door until they came out into the warm night. He pointed to a filthy alley that ran behind the hall where the meat was prepared. The reek of rot hung in the air.
‘Since Victor learned of his son’s death, his plans have changed,’ the monk whispered. ‘Arcadius was being groomed for great things. I know not what—’
‘To steal the crow
n?’ Ricbert asked.
Neophytos held out his hands. ‘All I can say is that Arcadius lay at the heart of Victor’s plans, that was always clear. Arcadius wanted none of it. That was why he fled with Maximos. You know as well as I that here in Constantinople Victor would not brook any challenge. Escape was the only choice that poor fool had. And so he is dead.’ He glanced back towards the alley. ‘Now Justin spends all his days here being tutored by Nathaniel.’
Wulfrun frowned. ‘You believe Victor has decided to groom Justin for the greatest power in all Christendom?’
‘I know not. But I suspect. What other choice does he have to achieve his ambitions?’
‘That moon-faced boy?’ Ricbert said with incredulity. ‘Let a pig in a cap rule the empire, that would make more sense.’
The monk beckoned with two of his fat fingers. Wulfrun and Ricbert strode to the edge of the alley. The smaller man choked, clutching his hand to his mouth. In the shadows lay a fly-blown dog. The stomach had been torn open, the entrails scattered all around. The throat gaped ragged too. And as Wulfrun cast his eye over the carcass, he saw that the fur had been burned here and there. He glanced back at Neophytos.
‘Justin is not what he seems,’ the monk murmured. ‘He is not one of God’s children, that one.’
The commander looked back at the dead dog, trying to make sense of the eunuch’s words. He saw savagery, torment, cruelty. And he thought back to the tattered corpse upon the altar steps and began to understand.
‘This,’ Neophytos said in his high-pitched voice, ‘is the least of what that foul creature is capable of. Soon, Wulfrun, you may be swearing your axe, swearing to give up your very life, to one of the Devil’s own. One who will lead us all to the gates of hell.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
A THIN BAND of red edged the western sky. The wind had fallen across the desert and a stillness had settled under the sweep of glittering stars. In the last of the ruddy light, two men stood in silent contemplation. Daggers of shadow plunged into the body in front of them. The skull stared eyelessly into the heavens. Ropes hung loosely around the wrists and ankles, and the folds of the filthy tunic showed that little was left of what had once been a man. Fingers of wind-blown sand reached over the torso. Soon the desert would have consumed all that remained.