by James Wilde
The words died in her throat. When Rowena looked up, she saw the girl backing away from a man who had lurched into the entrance to the alley. He was tall and thin, dressed in threadbare clothes, and streaks of dirt marred his face.
As his gaze fell upon the three women, a hungry grin spread across his features. Rowena felt disgust. She had seen that look too many times before.
‘Leave here,’ she demanded, holding her chin up in defiance.
The rogue glanced over his shoulder at the racing crowd. Rowena could read the thoughts passing through his mind. Folk were too frightened to pay any heed to what was happening in the alley. He licked his lips as he examined each woman in turn.
‘I said, leave here!’ Rowena stormed. She took a step forward, but the man was not threatened. He drew a knife, waving it in the air.
‘Move back,’ he growled.
Juliana whirled. ‘Quickly! Your blade,’ she whispered.
‘I … I have lost it,’ Rowena murmured. ‘In the crowd.’ She watched Juliana’s eyes grow dull with a faraway look as she weighed her response.
The rogue edged forward, and Rowena could see from his grim face that he would not be deterred. He wanted one of them, all of them, and he was prepared to do anything to quench his desire.
‘Take me,’ Juliana said suddenly, spinning back to their would-be attacker.
‘No!’ Rowena exclaimed, but as she tried to restrain the girl Simonis caught her arm. With one pointed glance, the mistress silenced her.
With a coquettish smile, Juliana swayed up to the rogue. ‘I would have a man like you,’ she breathed, pushing out her breasts. ‘Strong. You would make me cry out in delight, I would wager.’ She pressed her hip into the man’s groin, as brazen a display as Rowena had ever seen.
The rogue was flattered by the advance. He moistened his lips, trying to mouth a response that never came.
Juliana played her part to the full. As she eased her body against him, the man’s knife hand wavered, fell. In that instant, Juliana lashed out like a striking snake. Swinging both hands against his head, she slammed it against the wall. Rowena gasped at the ferocity she saw in the girl’s face.
The attacker cried out, cursing. Stunned, his legs half buckled, but he kept his grip on the knife. One hand flew to his head, and when it came away it was sticky with blood. Fury blazed in his eyes. Snarling, he rounded on Juliana. The blade swung up.
Without a thought for her own safety, Rowena threw herself forward. Grabbing hold of the rogue, she hurled him back against the wall. Before he could recover, her hands snarled into his hair and she crashed his head against the stone again and again. The sound of shattering bone echoed out.
Staggering back, Rowena let the man slip to the ground. She gaped, filled with self-loathing at the crime she had committed. Her hands were shaking as they fluttered to her mouth.
Simonis and Juliana were around her in a moment, hugging her. ‘You saved my life,’ Juliana murmured, pressing her face into Rowena’s shoulder.
‘Do not blame yourself,’ Simonis added. ‘You saved us all.’
Rowena swallowed, unable to take her eyes off the fallen man. But then he stirred and she sucked in a juddering breath of relief. ‘We must fetch help for him,’ she said.
‘And we will.’ Taking her by the shoulders, Simonis spun her round and looked deep into her eyes. ‘We all do what we must to survive. Now come. You are with friends, and we stand together.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE JEERING CROWDS lined the street. Boys scooped up handfuls of filth and hurled it with all their strength. The men threw stones. But the women were the worst. Calling to each other, they pointed and laughed until tears streamed down their faces.
As he hurried through the streets of Constantinople, Ragener the Hawk felt his face burn with humiliation. Here were riches beyond imagination. Towering public buildings in gleaming white marble, churches stuffed with gold, reflecting pools and statues in the fora, cool gardens where citizens could shelter from the shade. But though the folk wore the finest embroidered Syrian silk and jewels beyond counting, Ragener decided they were little more than pigs, snorting and snuffling as they wallowed in mud.
His ruined face would never be accepted anywhere. Some even called him eunuch – the life that was half death! Only when he had a pile of gold to sit upon could he lift himself above their cruel gaze. Only then could he find peace.
Behind him, the woman stumbled along on trembling legs. Despite the sweltering heat, he had swathed her in a thick cloak with the hood pulled low so none could guess at her true identity. He would not risk losing her to some other gold-hungry cur, not now he was so close to his dream. He had gagged her with a filthy rag to prevent her calling out. And he gripped tight to the length of rope between them, the other end lashed around her wrists.
On the long journey across the whale road from Afrique, he had starved her and beaten her so she would not show any resistance. Now it was all she could do to stagger in a straight line. He would never forget how she had taken him to the edge of death in Sabta. A woman! And he, with his one hand, had not been able to resist her feeble attack. If she had not been worth more in gold than he could imagine in his wildest dreams, he would have taken her eyes, then her face, before throwing her over the side for the fish to feed upon.
Ragener shouldered his way through the thronging streets. He could endure this mockery, as he had endured so much in his life.
And God, once again, had smiled upon him during the crossing. The weather had been fine, the wind had been at his back and the sea had been as still as a mill-pond. And when he had sailed into the harbour that morning, he had leapt from his stolen boat and kissed the very ground itself, for his ordeal was almost at an end.
The search for whoever had placed the bounty upon Meghigda’s head had been harder than he anticipated, but after questioning countless folk in the marketplace he finally had a name.
The home of the Verini was as opulent as he had hoped. Vast and white and pristine, with columns standing each side of the door to support a portico which would shelter visitors from the hot sun or the rain. Ragener felt awed. Never had he seen the like in England; not even the great halls of earls were so wondrous. Those in the marketplace had been quick to spin their tales of Victor Verinus, though there was little agreement: a courageous general who had led his army to victory after victory, a cruel despot who would crush any man or woman to achieve his heart’s desire, a wealthy merchant, a cunning speaker who had the young emperor’s ear. The Hawk cared little. Victor was a great man, a powerful man, and that was all that mattered.
Disgusted by his ravaged features, the slave refused him entry. Like a dog, he was forced to wait on the front step while the slave went in search of his master. He kept his head down. He did not want more jeers ringing out when he was introduced to the Stallion, as one of the men in the marketplace had called Victor with a sly smile.
But when the door swung open once again, only a boy of perhaps fifteen summers stood there. The pirate sensed something odd about the lad. Under his russet hair, his moon face was unnaturally still, as if carved from marble. He stared at Ragener’s face until the Hawk squirmed.
Expecting only disgust, Ragener felt shocked when the boy murmured, ‘You have been touched by God.’ The sea wolf could only gape as the lad reached out a hand towards his face. ‘May I?’ he asked. Almost tenderly, his fingers traced the edges of the holes where the nose had been, across the scar tissue and around the milky eyes, and then down to the ragged lips. Finally he took the ruined man’s arm and felt the stump where his hand had been. ‘Suffering has shaped you,’ the boy whispered, entranced. ‘This flesh means nothing. It is of the earth. And you have risen above it. You have become a thing of beauty, a god set free from the clay that contained him.’
Ragener stared into the boy’s face. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. ‘Who are you?’ he croaked.
‘I am Justin. And one day I will be empero
r.’
Dazed, the Hawk let the boy take him by the arm and lead him across the threshold. As they entered, Meghigda tried to pull away, but Ragener yanked on the rope so hard that she almost fell.
In the cool hall, the sea wolf glanced around, dazzled by the gold that gleamed from every surface. The air was scented with sweet perfume, and he could hear the sound of tinkling water. Surely this was heaven.
‘I will bring my father to you,’ Justin said.
The boy slipped out, and soon after a tall, powerful man with a leathery face and hair the colour of iron swept in. He surveyed Ragener down the length of his nose. The Hawk saw none of the wonder the man’s son had displayed, but nor was there any of the revulsion he usually encountered. Victor Verinus treated him like any other man, as one who could be a dog or could be of some use. For that the Hawk was so grateful he all but cried.
‘Speak,’ Victor growled.
Ragener bowed his head, afraid to look in the other man’s eyes. ‘I have brought you the woman you seek. Meghigda, queen of the Imazighen, also known as al-Kahina, the torment of the desert.’ He swept one hand behind him to indicate the hooded figure.
The Stallion grew rigid. His cold gaze licked over the sea wolf’s captive and then he said, ‘Show me her face.’
As Ragener turned, he glimpsed a young girl hiding in the shadow of a doorway. He guessed from her red hair that she was Justin’s sister, but unlike the boy’s her face was as hollow as a skull and dappled with bruises. She looked as if no good meal had passed her lips in days. She edged back into the shadows when she realized she had been seen, but the Hawk could sense her still there, watching.
With a flourish, he yanked off the queen’s hood. Though she had suffered greatly, she drew back her shoulders and pushed her chin up with defiance. Her dark eyes flickered over Victor, and then she looked away as if he were beneath her notice.
‘Did you murder my son?’ he asked in a clear voice. When Meghigda did not respond, he strode across the hall and struck her with the back of his hand. A cry, quickly stifled, echoed from the hiding girl. The queen crumpled to the flagstones. Blood spattered across the white marble. Eyes flashing, she craned her neck round to glare at her abuser. Ragener thought that if she could, she would have torn out Victor’s throat with her teeth. The Roman should know that this was no normal woman.
‘She is quick to claw,’ he began in warning.
Victor held up a hand to silence him. Pulling aside his tunic, he unfurled his member and pissed upon his captive. Spitting epithets, Meghigda scrabbled backwards, but the Roman only stepped forward, directing the hard, hot stream at her face.
Like a wildcat, the queen hurled herself at his cock, determined to tear it off. Wrenching at the rope, Ragener dragged her back into the puddle.
When he had emptied his bladder, Victor rearranged his tunic and said, ‘You will be well rewarded. The bounty I placed upon this whore’s head was so great any man between here and Thule would have sought her out. But you, only you, brought her to me. You have the gratitude of the Verini now, and you will never want for anything again.’
Unable to hold back his tears, Ragener dropped to his knees. Never had he imagined that he could be treated so well by another. Once he had caught his breath, he looked up at his saviour and said, ‘Beware, there are men hunting for her. English warriors … and a Roman.’
Victor’s eyes narrowed. ‘A Roman, you say? Maximos Nepos, it can be no other,’ he said under his breath. ‘He yet lives while my son lies dead.’
‘They are savages.’ As the words left his lips, the Hawk began to warm to his subject. He still craved vengeance for his humiliation. And after the injuries inflicted upon his friend, Hereward would never leave him alone. It would not be over until one of them lay dead. ‘The Roman … Maximos … it is my belief that he loved this woman,’ he continued, sweeping one hand towards the glowering Meghigda. ‘He has sworn Hereward the English warrior, and his men, to his cause. They travel to this city to end the days of the man who put a price upon her head.’
Victor’s stare was unblinking and for a moment Ragener feared the other man had seen through his lie. But then he said, ‘Then I will be waiting for them. From the moment they set foot in this place they will be hunted, and when the time is right, they will be slaughtered.’
Ragener grinned. In truth, it felt as if he had been delivered to a heaven upon earth. In all his life, he had known no friends, and now he had the most powerful one of all.
‘Worry not,’ Victor continued, glancing at Meghigda. ‘This sow’s days of bloodshed are done. This is not Afrique. This is Constantinople. Here a sharp sword is not enough to thrive. It takes wits, and cunning, and gold, and of those she has none. She will rot in the dark, and think upon her crime, and when I am ready, I will take her head.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE CITY OF Heaven hung between the earth and the blue, blue sky. Sunlight reflected off its white walls and soaring marble buildings, its towers and domes and columns and statues, so that it seemed to glow with an inner light.
After days with only the whale road beneath him, after weeks of hardship when the dream seemed to be slipping through their fingers like the desert sand, Kraki could only stare in awe. Was this how Valhalla looked, he wondered? Craning his neck, he let his gaze trail across the magnificence of the stone buildings. He had been told of the sheer scale of Constantinople, bigger than London and Wincestre and Eoferwic combined, but he had never imagined that to be true. Yet here it was. Surely this was the greatest city in all the earth.
Silence had descended upon the ship from the moment the wondrous sight had first hove into view. Heads were held rigid, eyes fixed on the prize that had always seemed just beyond their reach. No one had dared speak, as if to do so would break the spell.
As they neared, they heard the music of the place roll out across the waves: the voices of a multitude raised up in what could only be celebration. A forest of masts waited in the port of Boukoleon. So many vessels, so many shapes and sizes. Kraki could scarce believe it. Under swooping gulls shrieking with hunger, folk swarmed across the quayside, unloading bales and sacks and the day’s catch. Merchants haggled over prices. Lads ran with messages from the guilds.
Once they had been given permission to moor in the harbour, the warriors sat on their benches for a moment longer, still staring. But then a dam seemed to break, and with cheers ringing out they scrambled on to the quayside. Eward, a lanky youth with a thatch of black hair, dropped to his knees and kissed the stones. The others wandered around, entranced by the buildings and the people and the ebb and flow of life.
‘Even you will have to crack that stone face with a grin, eh?’ Guthrinc said, nudging his friend as they stood at the waterside.
Kraki snorted. ‘I never doubted for a moment that we would reach this place.’ But he had, they all had. For too long it had seemed that fate was conspiring to drag them off course then dash them upon the rocks of the cold, hard world.
Guthrinc nodded, a smile playing on his lips. The strong man had always been able to see through him, Kraki thought. ‘We needed this,’ Guthrinc added, turning his attention to the great dome shimmering in the distant heat haze. ‘A fresh start. A new dawn. A chance to forget what we have lost, all that we have left behind.’ He eyed his friend. ‘Even you.’
The Viking showed no emotion, but he wondered if he would ever forget Acha. She had changed him, and he was still not quite sure how. All his life, he had cared for nothing but gold and mead and battle. It mattered not where he called home, whose coin he took. But Acha had shown him something more, and now he felt as if he had misplaced his axe and would never find it again.
Guthrinc was right. They all needed Constantinople. They had to forget their losses, and learn once again how to look forward to days yet to come. If there was a chance for him, it would be here.
Of all of them there, only one man seemed untouched by joy that they had finally reached their heart’s
desire. Hereward stood over the monk’s unmoving form while the harbour’s dance whirled around him. Whether Alric would live or die, none could yet say. But that he needed good care, and healing, was certain.
Kraki strode over and stood before the Mercian. They had been enemies and they had been rivals and they had been friends, but respect had always lain between them. Awkward, the Viking struggled to find the words to express his gratitude. ‘You said you would bring us here and you have,’ he grunted. ‘No warrior could ask for a better leader … in battle or in life.’
Hereward seemed touched by the words. ‘We reached this place together, as brothers,’ he replied. He looked around the harbour and then his gaze drifted down to his friend. ‘We thought we had lost everything when we were forced to leave our home behind. But there has been a high price to pay to achieve this prize. Friends who set sail with us. Alric’s hand. If all that had been for naught … if we had failed to reach Constantinople … that price would have been too terrible to bear. But know this: I will not lose any more. I will not give up on this new life we have earned.’
‘Worry not,’ Kraki replied. ‘We are here now. Gold and glory. All will be well.’
Maximos marched up. The Viking thought how tense the Roman looked. Normally he was braying and bragging like a fool, even in the heat of battle. He seemed torn. His home held no attraction for him, he had said that often enough on the journey. But there was no mistaking his desire to find the woman.
‘There is a monastery not far from here where your friend will be well cared for,’ Maximos said. ‘If anyone can save the monk’s life, it is my cousin, Neophytos. He knows the herbs and potions and pastes as well as any leech.’ The Roman pointed to a cart waiting by a row of stone urns. ‘My name means something in Constantinople. The owner of that cart will deliver your friend to the monastery. I will pay him later once I have coin in my purse. But forgive me, I cannot tarry. If we are to find Meghigda, I must first find Victor Verinus.’ His mouth jerked into a snarl as he hurried away into the throng.