by James Wilde
When Hengist and Salih ibn Ziyad set off with Alric for the monastery, Kraki spied Sighard sitting alone on a bale. The shadow that had seemed to hang over his features since the death of his brother had been replaced by the ghost of a smile. The Viking sat beside him, searching once again for the right words. ‘Death walks at our shoulders. That is the curse of the warrior,’ he said after a moment. ‘We know him like a friend. We learn to know his moods and his habits. You are young. You are still not on good terms with him. But trust me when I tell you his shadow will fade, with time.’
Sighard nodded. ‘I believe you. Finally, we are here. Finally, we can find the peace that we all have sought. I will miss Madulf, but now I feel there is hope in my life, for the first time since we sent him into the arms of God.’
Kraki grunted, relieved by what he had heard. Loss was like a canker, he knew. Too much of it doomed a man. But now they could give thanks that they had escaped the dark days. They were safe. He clapped a hand on the young warrior’s shoulder. ‘You are a spear-brother. Never again do you have to fight alone. Do not forget that.’
He had reached his limit of this kind of talk, but he hoped his words had done some good. Heaving himself up, he wandered back to where the rest of the English gathered in a mood of barely contained excitement.
But as he neared, he glimpsed Maximos forcing his way back through the crowd, his face like thunder. ‘I have found that dog,’ the Roman spat. ‘Come … there may still be time before he passes his judgement upon Meghigda.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE CROWD ROARED to the heavens. Feet thundered on stone and fists punched the air, thousand upon thousand of them, a multitude. As Hereward burst out of the dark stairwell high up on the eastern rank of the towering stone circus, he reeled from the spectacle that confronted him.
The sun blasted down into the baked centre of the hippodrome where soon the horses would race. All around him, tiers of benches were filled to the brim by more people than he had ever seen in one place. His head rang from the din, so loud that a man would have to bellow to make himself heard. Nothing he had ever encountered in England had prepared him for this sight. His home seemed so small in comparison, a place of winds whistling through the trees in the desolate fens, and knots of folk huddled around hearth-fires against the encroaching dark.
Kraki, Guthrinc and Sighard lurched to a halt beside him. All three gaped. In awe, the Viking surveyed the mass of bodies and yelled, ‘What is this place?’ It was yet another wonder on top of the many they had witnessed as they ran through the streets from the harbour. After an England built of wood and thatch, they could only marvel at the vast stone bulk of the Great Palace and the soaring dome of the Hagia Sophia, the towers of the churches and the great walls of the basilica and government halls.
Jerked from his stupor, Hereward searched the teeming benches. Maximos had only been a few paces ahead of him as they raced up the steps above the Black Gate. Yet he had seemed so consumed by terror that Meghigda might be harmed that he had lost all thought for the men who had accompanied him.
This man who had set such a high bounty on Meghigda’s head, this Victor Verinus, was a great man, it seemed, for almost everyone in the harbour seemed to know his whereabouts. Aye, and a man who wielded his power with a hard hand. The Mercian had recognized the uneasy looks in the eyes of those who spoke his name.
The crowd’s roar grew louder still as the riders led their steeds out into the circus. Amid the ocean of waving arms he glimpsed Maximos, the only one facing away from the day’s event. One fist was raised, his face contorted with fury. He was shouting at a glowering man with skin like leather and hair the colour of a sword blade. Though Maximos was tall, the man he was confronting loomed over him.
‘We want no fight here,’ the Mercian shouted to his men as he pushed his way into the throng. ‘If this crowd turns on us we shall be torn limb from limb.’
The two men were arguing in their own tongue, but when Victor saw Hereward approaching he called out, ‘I see English dogs.’ Aloof, he turned back to Maximos. ‘And once again I will tell you, I know of no woman, nor of any sea wolf.’
The Roman could barely contain his rage. ‘They are here, I know it.’
‘If you have been told that is true, then it must be so. But they have not darkened my door. Why would they? I no longer wish to pay good coin for the woman who killed my son. My grief lies heavy on me, but I do not need vengeance to assuage it.’ Victor looked down his long nose, his cold eyes daring the other man to challenge him.
Maximos held that gaze for a long moment, and Hereward thought much more than Meghigda’s disappearance raced between them. Unable to control himself any longer, the younger man lunged, snarling. As he whipped back his right fist to throw a punch, Victor lashed out like a snake. With one huge hand, the older man caught the wrist, while the other snapped round Maximos’ throat. He began to squeeze.
‘Why have you survived, while Arcadius lies dead in some foreign land?’ the general shouted above the thunder of the crowd. ‘There is no justice in this world.’
All around, men and women scattered from their benches to avoid the fight. Victor seemed oblivious. Showing no emotion, he began to crush his fingers tighter. With time Maximos’ youth might have given him the edge to break free. But long before then, Victor would have choked the life from him, Hereward could see.
The Mercian threw himself into the fray. He wrenched the two Romans apart, the heel of his hand thumping into Victor’s breastbone to drive him back. The older man’s face blazed at this audacity. But before he could speak, men leapt to their feet on every side, encircling the English warriors.
‘Victor’s guard,’ Maximos called. ‘Beware!’
Whirling, Kraki threw up his axe with a roar. As Hereward whipped Brainbiter up to Victor’s throat, the other spear-brothers snatched out their own weapons and faced their enemies.
‘Come on then, you dogs,’ Kraki growled as he looked around the circle of cold faces. ‘Though there are a thousand thousand of you here, I will take on every one of you.’
For a second, silence hung over that corner of the hippodrome, and then laughter rang out, growing louder by the moment. All around, the crowd stood on their benches and pointed, throwing their heads back and jeering. Kraki’s cheeks coloured at the mockery. The English warriors’ eyes darted around, uncertain. Never before had they experienced such a reaction.
Victor stepped on to a bench and threw his arms wide, playing to the crowd. ‘Barbarians!’ he cried, to more ringing laughter.
Hereward watched his men’s discomfort as their weapons wavered. They deserved better than this. Sheathing his blade, he ordered, ‘Lay down your arms.’
Maximos pulled his way to the Mercian’s side, seemingly embarrassed by the display. ‘This is Constantinople,’ he hissed. ‘Not some mud-spattered village in Thule.’
Hereward silenced the other man with a stare. ‘No, we are not in England,’ he said. ‘Would that we were. But it seems we have new rules to learn.’
The crowd’s mockery died down as their attention swung back to the circus, where the riders were bringing their mounts to the starting line.
‘We must be away,’ Maximos urged, his voice low. ‘I lost my temper. I was a fool. But Victor will not take kindly to this insult. He has had men killed for less.’
The leather-faced general was still making a play of humour, laughing silently at the barbarians. But his eyes were like nail-heads. He leaned in to the Mercian and whispered, ‘My guard will hunt you down like the dogs you are, you and all your men. Your days are done.’ Pulling back, he announced in a loud voice, ‘Now, leave my sight. The race will soon begin.’
A lull settled on the hippodrome as the horses lined up. But with the starting cry and the first rumble of hooves, the full-throated roar soared up to even greater heights. Back on his bench, Victor watched the race. But Hereward could sense the general’s eyes upon his back as he walked away and he knew he
had made an enemy that day.
Outside in the shade of the street, where the crowd’s exultations had become a distant drone, Maximos hung his head.
‘Do you believe him?’ Hereward asked.
‘Victor Verinus keeps his plans and his plots to himself,’ Maximos said, ‘and if he believes there is an advantage for him, his tongue will lie easily.’
The Mercian felt puzzled. For all his words, the Roman’s fear for the queen had ebbed, and if anything he seemed to be filled with relief.
‘You must forgive me,’ Maximos continued. ‘In my passion to find Meghigda, I acted too rashly. I have led you all into danger.’
Kraki turned up his nose. ‘Let him come. My axe will be ready.’
Maximos held his hands out in weary despair. ‘Your axe will only lead you to a cell. There are laws. And you do not know Victor Verinus. He always finds a way to destroy anything that offends him.’
Guthrinc looked up at the towering walls of the hippodrome. ‘I would think in a city this big there are plenty of places for rats like us to hide, until we decide on a plan.’
‘It might be better to leave this place,’ Maximos began.
Hereward silenced him with a cold stare.
‘Then hide well,’ the Roman went on, ‘because if Victor takes against you, he will leave no stone unturned. For myself, I must find Meghigda before …’ He let the words die in his throat, his cheeks flushing as if he had caught himself on the brink of speaking too boldly. Hereward tried to read his face. Did he fear the queen was already dead? Or was it something more that was preying on his mind?
‘Find the woman. Stay alive,’ Kraki snorted. ‘Good. Now I know what I am doing.’
Hereward felt fire burn in his breast. He would not let the promise of Constantinople be snatched away from them. They could not bear any more loss. He would fight even a man as powerful and dangerous as Victor Verinus to win the new life they so desperately needed. He would fight as never before.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
RAVEN WINGS THRASHED the air. Beady black eyes and rending beaks, a sound like thunder. Amid that storm of sable feathers, a watcher. A man, with bone-white face and eyes dark from lid to lid shining in the holes of his helm. He wore a mail-shirt rusted and crusted with blood, and furs, and the bones of small creatures swinging on leather thongs. An axe hung in his hand, the blade notched from too many battles. Grim was its name, Alric remembered. Grim.
‘It is not yet your time.’ His lips never moved, but the words rolled out, somehow cutting through the roar of the wings. Unblinking, the man watched, and waited.
From the darkness of his dream, if dream it were, the monk surfaced. Light hurt his eyes, and he screwed up his face until he was used to the glare.
He must have jerked in the tremor of waking, for he felt the weight of a hand on his arm and a soothing voice saying, ‘All is well.’ A man, it was, though the voice was somehow too reedy.
Opening his eyes, Alric looked into the plump, smiling face of a fellow monk, by the look of his tunic. He was huge, layers of fat straining at the cloth that covered it, and he was hairless. Letting his gaze flicker around, the Englishman realized he was lying on a cold slab looking up at a vaulted stone roof. ‘Where am I?’ he croaked.
‘You are in the monastery of St George,’ the bald monk said. ‘At the behest of my cousin, Maximos, your friends, the desert man and the one who has been touched by God … Hengist … brought you here so I can care for your wounds and help you recover.’
‘Then I am free of the sea wolf? Hereward saved me.’ Alric allowed himself a smile of relief until he realized the pain in his arm was burning hotter than it ever had before. Could Ragener have taken yet another finger? Raising his arm, he stared at the cloth wrapped around it. But his wits were failing him, even as he tried to make sense of this thing before them. After a moment, realization, and horror, raced up to him.
‘Look!’ Alric cried, holding his stump high. ‘Look!’
‘Oh,’ the Roman monk said, ‘you have lost your hand.’ His light tone sounded to Alric’s ears like mockery.
‘Have you no pity?’ the Englishman demanded, incredulous. His head was spinning and he thought he might faint.
‘Pity?’ The fat man lifted his tunic. He was naked beneath it. Alric gaped at the ragged mass of scar tissue where his balls should have been. ‘Ah, if only I had lost a hand.’ Dropping his tunic, he added, ‘’Twas not my choice, but there it is. It is God’s way, and we shoulder our burden as we walk his road.’
Alric felt no comfort at the words. He blinked away hot tears. But gradually he felt the rush ebb away and a desperate calmness settle on him. ‘Who did this?’ he whispered.
‘Your friend.’
‘Friend?’ he snapped. He wanted to cry out that no friend would wound him in such a way. ‘Hereward?’
‘Yes. He is a good friend. He took your hand to save your life. The black rot was creeping into your arm. When it reached your heart, and your brain, your days would have ended.’ The monk leaned in until his smiling moon face filled Alric’s whole vision. ‘Now you will feel grief for your loss, and then anger. But you must trust me: what is gone is gone, and you will learn to live without it. Be grateful you still have your life, English.’
Alric wondered if he would ever learn to live with this loss. But Neophytos brought him salted fish and wine infused with some aromatic herbs that made his head sing and doused the fire in his wrist. In no time his thoughts were already drifting elsewhere.
When the door to the leech-chamber creaked open, he was pleased to see Salih ibn Ziyad and Hengist there. Neophytos was long since gone.
‘See,’ the madman cried as he gambolled around the slab on which the monk lay, ‘I said he would return to us from the shores of the great black ocean! What tales do you have to tell us of the Land of the Dead, monk?’
Alric thought back to the figure standing amid the swirling flock of ravens and shivered. ‘I will say this, my friend. For all its hardships, I prefer this world.’
Salih pressed his fingertips against the throb of blood in his neck and after a while he nodded, pleased. ‘It will take time until you feel whole again, but you will, even without this.’ He pointed at the stump. ‘You are strong. You have already survived the worst. And you are doing better than any man who has lost a hand should be. Are you sure you are a monk and not a warrior?’ he added with a smile.
Alric felt warmed by the kindness. ‘When Kraki next shows off his wounds as he boasts of his prowess, he will be forced to bow before a meek man of God,’ he said, trying to make light, though he felt the world was shifting beneath him. ‘There is much I need to know,’ he added through the dreamy haze. ‘Of Sabta, and how we survived … and Drogo Vavasour and Ragener … of the journey across the whale road …’
A cry rang out from somewhere deep in the monastery. Hengist jerked to a halt, cocking his head to one side as if he were listening to someone no one else could hear. ‘Death,’ he muttered. ‘Death.’
When the sound of running feet echoed, Alric waved aside Salih’s protests that he should rest and insisted that they investigate. With the wise man supporting him, they followed the sound of the tumult along ringing stone corridors.
A small crowd of monks had gathered in that part of the monastery that held the monks’ cells. The doors to the tiny rooms hung open. Alric glimpsed low, rough beds, straw-covered floors and small, rickety tables and stools. As they neared the hubbub, he caught sight of Neophytos standing in the shadows at the end of the corridor. The eunuch’s face was drawn with worry.
When a tall, bony monk with sallow skin and thin lips pushed his way through the churchmen, Alric urged Salih to follow in his footsteps. A strange reek hung in the air, vinegar-sour. The tall man entered another small chamber and halted abruptly. Bowing his head, he muttered a prayer.
By the far wall, a monk with lank grey hair and a bald pate was slumped across his table. His dead eyes were wide with horror and his
lips were black and foaming. Alric crossed himself.
‘Nathaniel,’ one of the others called, and then asked some question in the Roman tongue. The tall man replied in a grave tone, but the English monk did not need to understand the words to know the meaning. ‘Poison!’ he murmured. ‘What den of devils have we entered?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE BULL AND the Lion stared out across the white-tipped waves of the Marmara Sea. As Hereward led his men along the shore and through the harbour towards the great palace of Boukoleon, he glanced up at the stone sentinels. He could not help but be impressed by the majesty of this city, but a part of him still yearned for the peace of the fenlands where often the only voice was that of the wind in the trees.
Once they had passed the guardian statues, a quiet fell upon the men. The palace rose up before them, larger even than King William’s new home in Wincestre. White stone reflected the sun as if the place were afire. Every traveller crossing the whale road to Constantinople could not help but marvel as they saw this glory awaiting them. The vast bulk sprawled along the shoreline, with rows of arched windows along a covered walkway, and colonnades, and a tower with views far to the south. Its grandeur whispered of ancient days.
‘Heads high, brothers,’ Hereward called, prodding his men not to be awed by this sight. They had earned their right to be here. They must never forget that.
As they made their way past shady trees and reflecting pools along the sweeping approach to the palace, they saw groups of women waiting for something. Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes bright, and they clasped their hands in front of them, clutching coloured ribbons.
Sighard hailed them. ‘Why do you wait?’
‘For the Varangian Guard!’ one of the women called back in perfect English, waving the ribbon she wanted to offer as a token. But as she looked along the line of warriors, her eyes widened and she gulped a mouthful of air. ‘You are to join them? New recruits?’