by James Wilde
Hereward wrinkled his nose but he could now smell no rot on the dry, cooling air. Death worked differently out here under the hot sun. Beside him, his head bowed, Maximos Nepos’ dark hair fell across his face, but the Mercian could sense the grief etched into every part of him. ‘Your friend?’
The Roman nodded slowly. ‘As you said … the ring … the tunic …’ The words were little more than a croak.
Hereward understood the man’s feelings. The blade Maximos was feeling deep in his heart was only the start of long weeks of suffering. And though the initial pain would diminish it would continue to cut his thoughts until one day it did not. It could not be hurried. This was the burden of the fighting man. For every mead-cup raised in celebration of victory, there would be days like this. Two sides locked together in the dance until some axe or spear or sword brought it to a juddering halt. Warriors were filled with the joys of a life lived deeply. And they were the saddest men in the world.
When the other man had had time to sift through his memories, Hereward murmured, ‘Who did this thing?’ When Maximos did not answer immediately, he continued, ‘Did Meghigda end your friend’s days?’
The Roman shrugged. ‘I cannot say.’
‘She has it within her.’
‘Aye, she does. A fire burns in her heart. Sometimes it threatens to consume her. If she thought Arcadius a threat to her or her people—’
‘Was he a threat?’ Hereward hid his irritation at his companion’s secrecy. Since Maximos had been freed, every question had been met with a grin and a glib tongue. This time, however, whether from grief or some other cause, the other man’s guard was down.
‘Arcadius was a threat to no one. He had a pure heart, unlike many of his kin.’ Maximos gritted his teeth. ‘His father had plans for him in Constantinople. Riches … power … all of it waited for Arcadius, but he wanted none of it. And so, with a few good men, we fled the plots and the whispering and the lies and the guarded tongues, and went in search of our own destiny. We drank, we wenched, we fought any who stood in our way, and then we came here, to this cursed land …’ He choked back the words.
‘And here Arcadius was killed—’
‘Murdered!’ Maximos’ eyes flashed.
‘The men you brought with you …?’
‘Fled, back to Constantinople when Arcadius and I were taken, so I am told. For all I know, they are dead too, but …’ His chest swelled as he sucked in a deep breath and looked up to the sweep of stars. ‘There is a price upon Meghigda’s head, you told me, and it seems it is known far and wide. That tells me our men returned to Constantinople and Arcadius’ father demanded retribution for his son’s death.’
Hereward prowled around the body. A single stroke from a blade had laid this man low. It would not have been beyond the queen. Or Salih ibn Ziyad. He chose his words carefully, knowing that anything he said would sting. ‘Would Meghigda have killed your friend to punish you?’
The other man fell silent for a long moment. ‘God knows, I have wronged her. But I never wished her harm … would never wish it. Yet if she did this …’ His voice drained away.
Hereward did not know what had passed between Maximos and Meghigda, but he could guess. He had met the Roman’s kind before, men of standing who saw women as another victory to be earned on the great battlefield of life. It never ended well.
‘I will help you bury your friend,’ he said. ‘He should not be left here like this.’
Maximos nodded, seemingly touched by this show of fellowship. ‘Let us do this thing, and then I can say farewell,’ he replied.
As they collected stones to pile over the body, Maximos drifted into a reverie of remembrance. ‘We bury the bodies, but the past lives on. However much we run, and hide, we can never escape it. In Constantinople, your days yet to come are mapped out for you.’ He was almost talking to himself as he loaded the rocks on his friend’s remains. ‘Blood cries out to blood. We owe allegiance to family above all. Plans are made, paths are mapped, and whether we like it or not we do what we must for the greater good. It is a burden we shoulder for the sake of our kin, but sometimes … sometimes … I would give all of it up for a clear road ahead of me, one of my own choosing.’
Hereward’s thoughts flew away to his own father, bitter old Asketil, who had killed his mother and tried to end the Mercian’s own life. ‘Choose your own path,’ he growled. ‘You will be better for it.’
Maximos jerked round, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. ‘And you think you can walk away from all that shaped you?’
Hereward could not answer.
‘By rights, I should be dead,’ the Roman continued, his gaze drifting across the grave of his friend. ‘Our families were at war. Mine … the Nepotes. Arcadius’ … the Verini.’ He laughed without humour. ‘The Verini. Arcadius’ father, Victor, the Stallion, a man who would choke the life from a child without a second thought. And Nathaniel, a man of God, who sits in his monastery and dreams only of earthly power.’ He paused. ‘There was a third. Victor’s brother, Karas, but he left Constantinople to tend to his lands in the east.’ Hereward watched a shadow cross Maximos’ face at the mention of Karas. ‘Thank God,’ the Roman added.
‘How did this feud begin?’
‘No one even knows. Some slight … some word spoken out of turn … in the days of my father’s father, or my father’s father’s father. And so we struggled for ascendancy. Fortunes came and went. Power slipped through fingers like sand. The miseries piled high, small and great. Through little victories, and sour retreats, no one ever gained the upper hand. Until three years gone. My father made a monstrous error, in arrogance, or desperation, or weariness of a battle that seemed never-ending, with everyone’s hopes crushed under its wheels. Thinking he could win all with one wild gamble, and thereby bring the suffering to an end, he moved too soon. The Nepotes were crushed, once and for all. And the price exacted from my kin was …’ the word choked in his throat, ‘terrible indeed. As the first-born, and my family’s hope for the future, I was to be sacrificed.’
Maximos slumped on to his haunches, staring at the pile of rocks, limned silver by the moon. After a long moment, he continued. ‘Arcadius pleaded for my life. His father is a hard man, not afraid of using his fists. But Arcadius risked his ire. For me. I do not know what price Arcadius paid … he would never say … but I was spared. I owe him my life. I owe him everything.’
‘And so you both fled, thinking you could escape.’
‘If only for a while. To enjoy days free of the demands placed upon us. We were in a jail no less harsh than the one in which Meghigda held me, only the walls were not of stone, but of words. Rules. Commands. And we thought we had escaped. Our days and nights were filled with a joy we had not known since we were children. But then fate made a mockery of our hopes.’
Maximos pushed himself up on trembling legs. ‘Arcadius could have been emperor. That was his father’s wish. To steal the crown and replace the weak man who rules the greatest empire the world has known. But, as I said, Arcadius wanted none of it.’ He bowed his head. ‘Rest peacefully, my friend,’ he murmured. ‘You, at least, are free now.’
After long moments of silent reflection, the Roman led the way back to where the rest of the English and Salih had made camp. The men huddled around the fire against the desert cold, their shadows dancing across the waste. Someone was singing a plaintive song of a lost home, and a wife and a child he would never see again, and Hereward decided it was a night for reflection.
He feared for Alric. He feared it was himself that God was punishing for his crimes, whittling down the good men who had accompanied him from England, whittling down the monk’s body as he, in his lust for retribution, had whittled down Ragener’s.
As they approached the golden glow, Maximos leaned in and whispered, ‘Do not speak to Salih of Arcadius’ murder. I would not have him think we doubt him, or his mistress. A smile comes easily to his lips, but his eyes are always cold. He sees everything, but says litt
le, and he is not someone you would wish for an enemy.’
‘Agreed,’ Hereward replied. ‘There will be time enough for that kind of talk when we have reclaimed what is ours and taken our vengeance. You are certain you still wish to walk this road? It will not be easy.’
‘I would see Meghigda safe.’ Maximos seemed on the brink of saying more, but then the song snapped off and an angry cry rang out. Sighard loomed over Salih, who sat cross-legged on the edge of the circle of firelight. An amused smile played on the wise man’s lips.
Hereward darted forward and pushed the English warrior back. ‘Angering Salih ibn Ziyad is a quick way to get a silver knife in your guts,’ he said.
‘Not if I take his head first,’ Sighard snapped.
The wise man held out his hands. ‘If I have caused offence, it was not my wish.’
‘He taunts Hengist!’ Sighard protested. He pointed into the dark where a grey shape whirled in a wild dance in the moonlight.
‘No,’ Salih insisted. ‘I offer only praise to one who has been touched by God.’
‘Do not mock him.’ Rage twisted Sighard’s face and he pushed against his leader’s hand.
With a gentle shove, Hereward urged his companion back a few paces. He turned to Salih and said, ‘Sometimes Hengist is in this world and sometimes he is in another. When he wanders away from the vales we know, he is ill prepared to keep himself safe. In those times, we have all learned to look after him. He is our spear-brother.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the glowering warrior. ‘More than others, Sighard here has taken it upon himself to be Hengist’s guardian. It is not wise to provoke him.’
‘I do not look down upon your friend. I bow my head before him,’ Salih said. ‘This is a truth.’ He watched Hengist whirl, arms outstretched, a reedy cry swirling up towards the stars. ‘The dead are always with us,’ he continued, his voice rustling out into the night. ‘They walk one pace behind our shoulder, our fathers and our fathers’ fathers, our mothers and our wives. They watch and they guide, and if we stray from the path God has set for us they punish. This too is a truth.’
Hereward squatted, soothed by the rich voice, as were all his warriors. He could sense their eyes locked upon the wise man. He felt as if he were being lulled into a dream, and for a moment he was convinced he could feel his wife Turfrida just behind him. Her fingertips reaching out to brush his neck. The bloom of her breath upon his ear. How much he missed her. Since his mother’s murder, only Turfrida and Alric had brought him peace. And now both were gone.
‘Those who go before us ascend to the gods. They become gods,’ Salih ibn Ziyad continued. ‘From the day when the sun first rose upon the sands, the Imazighen prepared the dead for the journey that was to come, and offered our thanks for when they would return to walk behind us. We painted the bodies with red ochre and buried them in caves and in tombs under rocks so their remains would be safe from animals.’ With a ghost of a smile, he looked around the rapt faces. ‘We left them their weapons, if they were warriors, and the treasures of their lives, and ostrich eggs and food. And if we wished to know which road to take into days yet to come, we would utter our question aloud, then sleep in the tomb. For in their new home, the dead can speak back to us. They enter into us, and we meet them again in dreams.’
Like a wolf, Hengist bounded across the dunes and landed on his haunches next to the fire. In his wide, staring eyes, the golden flames flickered.
‘And sometimes when the dead have entered into us in those dreams, they do not leave,’ Salih murmured, peering deep into Hengist’s stare.
Hereward saw the admiration in the wise man’s face and knew that he spoke the truth.
‘Your brother here is wiser than me,’ Salih added, ‘for he has all the knowledge of the dead, and their all-seeing gaze, locked inside him. He has God inside him.’
Sighard rested a comforting hand on Hengist’s shoulder and the madman looked up and smiled. ‘We are blessed, then.’
Hereward watched the other warriors nod. Anywhere else, Hengist would be mocked and beaten and thrown out of every village into which he wandered. But here he had been accepted for all his faults, a brother among brothers. Perhaps they were all madmen. Hengist only showed it more than most.
‘With the gods on our side, how can we not find victory?’ Salih said, his eyes gleaming.
‘We have a long road to walk before we can raise a cup in cheer,’ Maximos replied, warming his hands by the fire. ‘We are but few, and we must storm the walls of a city of cut-throats. Before I fling myself on to those rocks of despair, I would at least know that we had a plan.’ He glanced at Hereward, questioning.
The Mercian showed a confident face, but that thought had troubled him from the moment he had heard of their destination. Even creeping into Sabta in disguise would probably fail. Their pale skin would shine out like a beacon, and a band of them would raise suspicions the moment they entered the gates. ‘What say you, Hengist? Do the gods whisper a plan we can use?’
Flicking back his lank hair, the madman grinned through lips gritty with sand. ‘Stealth is no good. An army, that is what we need. An army like the one we had in Ely when we bloodied William the Bastard’s nose. Then the streets of Sabta will run red with blood.’ For a moment, he watched the billowing smoke from the fire and seemed to see something in the streams of sparks caught in the grey cloud. ‘We do not have an army. And so we must find a ship, and sail on the grey waves to Sabta, and then we may arrive afore our prey.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WAVES POUNDED THE shore. Across the grey waters, ships strained at their anchors, a creaking forest of masts swaying against the darkening skies. The wind moaned and the last of the gulls shrieked. Both were all but drowned out by the hubbub of voices rising from the sprawling camp on the edge of the beach. Flapping tents and crackling fires reached into the gloom almost as far as the eye could see. The scent of woodsmoke and cooking fish drifted on the breeze, and the reek of shit and piss too. Sea wolves wandered among their makeshift homes. Some sang full-throated bawdy songs. Some fought, rolling around the dusty ground. And others cleaned their mail-shirts in sacks of sand, or sharpened their blades on whetstones. To the handful of men lying on their bellies on the ridge overlooking the bay, it seemed almost a city in itself.
‘How many there are,’ Salih murmured, his gaze skittering across the camp.
Hereward watched that rats’ nest, imagining if it were disturbed. ‘I see no guards. These dogs find comfort in their numbers. They do not fear attack.’
‘Why would they?’ Sighard said. ‘Surely there are few in these parts who could challenge that force.’
‘Then it is good that we do not seek to fight them. The night and silence will be our friends here.’
‘Some would call it madness to venture into the very heart of the enemies who seek to kill you,’ Salih said with a smile.
‘Aye. I have been called mad before,’ Hereward replied. ‘But caution is not for us. Time is no longer on our side. We must set sail tonight if we are to reach Sabta afore Ragener.’
‘Fortune favours the bold, so they say.’ Salih slithered forward to get a better look at the enemy encampment. ‘But never have I heard the like. A handful of men trying to steal a ship from under the noses of an army.’
As the Mercian tried to estimate the number sheltering in the camp, his thoughts flew back over the last few days. When they neared the coast, their journey became harder by far. Raiding parties criss-crossed the rolling dunes, no doubt the sea wolves searching for any sign of Meghigda to claim what must be a truly handsome bounty upon her head. In that open landscape, even a lone figure stood out like a beacon in the night. Twenty Englishmen used to the shelters of deep woods should have stood little chance of escaping the eyes of those enemies. But they had Salih ibn Ziyad as an ally. He taught them how to disappear into the sand, how to cover their tracks as they wandered. He showed them the best hiding places among the rocky outcroppings. He listened to the wind, a
nd he watched the stars, and he guided them on the fastest, safest route to the coast. And in all the long journey they never once wanted for water.
Sighard’s voice jerked him from his reverie. ‘You take too much of a risk,’ he said, his face sullen. His brooding gaze flickered along the short distance between the noisy camp and the ships. ‘Sound carries far in these hot lands. One noise, one error, and every man there will be upon us. We will have no chance to flee.’
‘There is little choice,’ Hereward began, biting down on his irritation that the younger man was questioning him.
‘There are always choices!’ Sighard’s eyes glowed in the growing gloom. ‘Madulf chose to put his faith in you and it cost him his life …’
‘Hold your tongue,’ Salih cautioned, ‘or you will be the one to bring the wrath of our enemies upon us.’
But Hereward could see Sighard could barely contain his seething emotions. ‘We will talk of this later.’
‘When we are all dead? Every choice you make leads us on to further disaster. Only Alric could contain your worst instincts, and he is no longer here—’
‘Do not breathe his name,’ the Mercian snapped. He could feel his blood start to burn.
‘I should. We all should. Because you caused his fate. If you had not let your wrath get the better of you, if you had not tarried to torment the Hawk for the sake of that … that woman, we would not have been caught in the storm. We would not have been shipwrecked. And then we would not have almost died in the hellish cauldron of that desert. We would not have near lost our heads to the axes of the Imazighen. And Alric would not have been captured.’ Spittle spraying from his mouth, he stabbed a finger. ‘You led us to this place. And if the monk is suffering, it is on your head.’