by James Wilde
Hereward felt relief that his friend did not hate him. He had feared he would, and that they would never speak again. ‘We have saved each other’s life time and again across the years, and there will be more times to come, no doubt.’ He glanced down at the stump, bound tightly with a clean cloth. ‘If there was another way, I would have taken it.’
‘Next time you need a hand removing, I will be the first to step forward,’ the churchman said in a sardonic tone. Glancing around to make sure they could not be overheard, he added, ‘The monks are abuzz with talk of ten bodies found in the water beyond the walls.’
‘And you think I had something to do with that?’
‘Did you?’
The Mercian showed a humourless smile. His friend knew him too well. ‘Once again we are at war, monk. We came here in good faith, to earn our fortune through hard work and the battle-skills that are all we know. Instead, we have been mocked, and spat upon, and now we are being hunted down like dogs. Is this the way things are done in Constantinople?’
‘Good men walk a hard road.’
‘Good?’ Hereward winced. ‘No man would ever call me that … unless you were at my side to guide me along the right path.’
‘And you shall have my aid again.’ Alric clapped his remaining hand on his friend’s arm. ‘My wrist aches like the devil, but the wound is healing well. I will leave this sanctuary today and stand by you. And as we did in the fens, we will fight the one who hunts you down.’
‘His name is Victor Verinus.’
The monk frowned. ‘I have seen him, here, this last night. Speaking with his brother Nathaniel. A monk was poisoned. On the very day Nathaniel Verinus was made sacrist in his place, Victor came with his son, Justin, and they talked in the chamber long into the night. I heard their laughter myself.’
‘Poisoned? Is that how you monks conduct your business? At least a warrior looks in his enemy’s eyes before he kills him.’
The monk glanced down at his feet, uncomfortable. ‘The church has great power here in Constantinople. Even the ear of the emperor himself, so it is said. This is not how we did things in Jarrow. But men who seek power will do terrible things, as you know as well as I.’
The door at the far end of the nave creaked open and a corpulent, bald man lumbered in.
‘You think this Nathaniel poisoned the monk?’ Hereward lowered his voice to a whisper.
‘I could not say.’
‘But it is at least possible?’
‘From what I have seen of Nathaniel, anything is possible. He spends his time with boys in his chamber with the door closed. And Victor’s boy too …’ Alric bit his lip. ‘No, I cannot say. Sometimes I think the worst, and that is not how God would have it. But Nathaniel has little kindness in him, that is certain.’
Hereward nodded, turning the news over in his head. ‘A sacrist has no power. Overseeing the holy books and relics … why would any man kill for that?’
Alric shook his head.
‘Though I would rather have you at my side, I think it best you stay here for a while,’ the Mercian mused aloud. ‘Be my eyes and ears in this monastery.’
The churchman shrugged. ‘As you will. But you may be seeing plots where there are only shadows.’
The bald monk heaved his bulk towards them. A eunuch, by the looks of him, Hereward thought. He had met the kind before, in Wincestre when he was a boy.
‘This is Neophytos,’ Alric said, leaning in. ‘He is the cousin of Maximos. He has cared for me well.’
Clasping Hereward’s fingers in his chubby hands, the bald monk introduced himself. ‘Maximos speaks well of you,’ he gushed. ‘A man of honour, and a brave one too. And now you work for the Nepotes—’
‘Work for them?’ Hereward’s eyes narrowed. ‘We are allies, of a kind.’
Neophytos bowed in apology. ‘My English is poor. But your aid is still welcomed. My family have few friends, and they have suffered greatly.’
‘There has been little justice in your world,’ the Mercian agreed, ‘but now Victor Verinus has chosen the wrong enemy.’
Neophytos smiled, and Hereward thought he saw tears spring to the monk’s eyes. When the eunuch had promised to aid Alric in any way he could, he took his leave. But Hereward could see he had been deeply moved by the offer of support.
As Alric led the way back to the gate, the Mercian said, ‘It is a strange war where you know not what your enemy wants, nor who all your enemies truly are.’
‘We have much to learn if we are to survive in Constantinople,’ the monk agreed.
‘Aye, and learn quickly. Monks poisoned. Men’s throats slit in the street …’ He shook his head, baffled. All he had worried about for a long time was that his friend might die, but now that fear had been assuaged, another trouble surfaced. ‘Monk,’ he began hesitantly, ‘when we were in Sabta you said a strange thing. That you killed my brother.’
Alric’s shoulders sagged. ‘I thought … I hoped … that was a dream.’ He sucked in a long, deep breath. ‘Then I can hide it no longer. I must make my confession, for truly it has lain upon my heart like a rock until I thought I might die. Your brother Redwald is dead. I killed him.’
Hereward reeled. The brother he had loved and trusted all his life, but who had murdered his wife Turfrida and cut off her head, who had betrayed the English to their enemies. Who would have slit Hereward’s throat in his sleep, if it would have benefited him. ‘When was this done?’ he demanded.
The monk was trembling. ‘Redwald lay in wait to kill you after you had met King William at his palace in Wincestre.’ He raised his remaining palm and stared at it in horror. ‘I found him there, though he was already badly injured. And then I … I strangled him, Hereward. With my own hands. I took a life, God help my soul.’
Hereward could scarce believe what he was hearing. His belief that Redwald still lived had been the bitterest blow when England fell behind them, but now he was not sure how he felt. ‘That vengeance should have been mine,’ he said.
‘No!’ Alric grasped his friend’s shoulder. ‘If you had slain the man you once loved, the guilt would have eaten its way into your heart. You would never be able to escape that act. I know you well, Hereward. You speak of your devil, but you are not that thing. You are haunted by every savagery. I could not stand by and see you doom yourself, brother or not.’ He wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’
As he let the news settle on him, Hereward realized a weight had lifted from his shoulders. His father was dead. His brother was dead. The ones who had done so much to ruin his life. Perhaps he was free of the lure of days gone by, for the first time. He smiled, not used to such freedom. ‘If you forgive me for taking your hand, then I forgive you for taking the life of my brother. We have both punished each other, and saved each other. Mayhap that is our curse, eh, monk?’ He crushed Alric to him until the churchman wriggled like an eel and gasped for breath.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out into the busy streets. Perhaps there would be a fresh dawn for all of them in Constantinople after all.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE SHATTERED BODY sprawled across the heap of creamy stones waiting to be shaped by the masons. Spatters of blood had dried to rust-brown in the glare of the morning sun and fat flies were already buzzing lazily around the remains. The reek of death rose in the heat.
Kneeling beside the broken corpse, Wulfrun shielded his eyes and looked up the dizzying height of scaffolding to the top of the aqueduct of Valens. There was no doubt that the victim had fallen from that lofty perch. The guild of masons had been repairing the water course for long days now, toiling under the hot sun atop the rickety timber frame. But had this poor soul taken his own life, or had he been dragged up the ladders and hurled off the top during the night? ‘Easier ways to end your days,’ he mused.
Ricbert prowled around the bloody masonry. ‘Perhaps he was admiring the view. Or trying to get closer to God. Too mu
ch wine …’ he pressed a finger under his nose against the stink, ‘thought he could fly with the birds …’
‘Ten bodies in the Bosphorus this morn. This one here. Even for Constantinople, we are knee-deep in slaughter. Nothing from your spies?’
The smaller man shook his head. ‘That is fine cloth,’ he said, scrutinizing the clothes on the body. ‘That pouch bulges with coin. He has not been robbed. Too rich to try flying from the top of the aqueduct.’
‘Even the wealthy can have the weight of the world upon their shoulders, Ricbert.’
‘Still, I would rather be rich and miserable than poor and the same.’
The skull had been smashed to pieces by the impact. Wulfrun glanced down at one hand, draped across a mason’s mallet and chisel. A large gold signet ring gleamed. Frowning, he stood up, and took a step back. ‘This is Apasios Basilacius, yes?’
Apasios was a fawning, acid-tongued man who oversaw the running of much of the young emperor’s day-to-day business. He was rarely away from Michael’s side and some said that, in his own waspish way, he carried as much influence as the finance minister Nikephoritzes himself.
‘So much blood on his fine tunic,’ Ricbert said with a shrug. ‘He would be disgusted with himself.’
Wulfrun felt uneasy. He had a sense of a shadow forming in Constantinople, one that matched the growing dark beyond the city’s walls. So many bloody events – a stabbing here, a poisoning there – and all seemingly unconnected. And yet he knew these Romans well enough by now. They were not as plain as the English, even those nobles who whispered and plotted at the king’s court. They weaved their skeins with subtle hands, and oft-times the connecting threads were invisible until they were pulled taut.
Ricbert coughed and muttered, ‘A bad day gets worse. Put steel in your spine.’
Glancing up, Wulfrun saw Victor Verinus approaching at the head of his band of cut-throats. The commander clenched his jaw. He was in no mood for more of the Stallion’s hungry comments about Juliana. But for once the general’s true feelings showed on his leathery face: a scowl. He was carrying a sack in one hand, and his strange, moon-faced son wandered at his heels like a lapdog.
‘What use is the Varangian Guard if Constantinople falls into chaos around the emperor?’ he boomed. ‘How can you protect him when swords are drawn and lives are taken without a second thought?’
‘The emperor is safe enough,’ Wulfrun replied, unconsciously flinging his cloak over his shoulder so that his sword was visible. ‘But you seem cut to the heart.’
‘This was left upon my doorstep.’ Gripping the bottom of the sack, Victor emptied the contents out into the masonry dust.
A head bounced, rolled and came to a stop near Wulfrun’s boot. The white eyes stared up at him. The mouth was slack, the teeth jutting this way and that. The bloody skin hanging from the neck was ragged. No clean cut that, no axe or sword stroke. It looked as though it had been hacked at with a knife.
‘One of the bodies we pulled from the waters was missing a head,’ Ricbert said. ‘All the parts are together now. I can rest easy.’
Wulfrun rested the tip of his boot on the forehead and rolled the head back to Victor. ‘One of your men?’
The Stallion shifted with momentary discomfort. Wulfrun felt pleased. The general was hiding something, but this business had troubled him enough to bring his worries to the surface. ‘He has done some work for me in the past,’ the man grunted. ‘But that is neither here nor there. We should not have to endure such slaughter. We are not barbarians. Those responsible must face justice.’
‘All who threaten the emperor, and Constantinople, will be judged. Their crimes are punished, sooner or later.’
Victor’s eyes narrowed. ‘There are enemies abroad in Constantinople, I tell you. They come with the flow of miserable shit that streams in from our frontiers day and night. They hide among us, plotting … plotting against the emperor himself.’
‘Give me names, then. Show me where they live. I will bring these plotters to justice.’
‘My faith in the Varangian Guard wanes fast. You may have won the hearts of all the women in this city, but you failed us at Manzikert. I think you have grown weak. Too much gold, too much wine.’ Victor smiled, turning the blade.
Wulfrun flinched. They both knew that Victor twisted the truth. But to show anger would be taken as weakness, so instead he swept a hand towards the body at their feet. ‘And was Apasios Basilacius also murdered by these plotters?’
Victor Verinus did not even glance down at the tangled remains. ‘Murder? Are you certain? I had heard that Apasios had lost so much gold at the hippodrome that soon he would be begging for scraps on the Mese. Despair drives a man to terrible things.’
‘Debts,’ Wulfrun said. ‘I had not heard that.’
‘So it is said.’ The Stallion turned to leave. ‘If any of those who have recently arrived in the city pose the smallest threat to the emperor, I cannot remain silent. I will make my voice heard, in the forum, on the steps of the senate, until all know what dangers we face. Constantinople needs a strong hand if it is to survive. Not the weakness we all see around us.’
When he had watched the general, his men and his son sweep away, Wulfrun turned to Ricbert. ‘Find someone to move these remains, then meet me at the Great Palace.’
Marching east through the streets, Wulfrun knew that Victor Verinus was right about one thing: there was too much weakness in Constantinople. Everyone in the city knew that. But it was not the Varangian Guard who was to blame. Everywhere he went he heard the people lamenting the loss of the strength that had made the empire great. It was a gulf that many would have no qualms filling.
At the Great Palace, it was his intention to alert others to his increasing unease concerning the emperor’s security, but although he spoke to general after general, minister after minister, his words were wasted. Emperor Michael was like a leaf blown by the wind of whoever had his ear at the time. And most days it was that viper Nikephoritzes, who cared only that the coffers were full and nothing for the growing threats that assailed them from every side.
For a while Wulfrun wandered the corridors, gathering what information he could from the palace slaves. Once he had learned the emperor’s plans for that morning, he loitered in the shadow of an arch in the long corridor running through the heart of the vast hall. After a while, he heard voices and carefree laughter, and saw the emperor approaching. Michael was surrounded by his friends, men with too much gold and too little desire to make any mark upon the empire. Behind him came a clutch of older men, led by the severe Nikephoritzes. The commander stepped out of his archway. A splash of colour in the grey corridor, his crimson cloak demanded attention.
‘Loyal Wulfrun!’ the emperor called when he saw him. ‘I sleep easy in my bed knowing your sword is ever ready.’
The commander bowed. ‘I would have words with you about matters of some import.’
‘The emperor is too busy for the likes of you, Wulfrun,’ Nikephoritzes said, stepping between the commander and the emperor. His voice was light and his lips curled in a pretence of humour, but his eyes were cold. The finance minister would only be happy if the emperor heeded his voice alone.
‘Ah, Wulfrun, always so grim!’ Michael said as he passed. ‘I must hear the plans for our service to remember the dead of Manzikert. Why this should trouble my day, I do not know, but it shall be done. We will talk another time.’
The emperor moved on with his friends, but Nikephoritzes remained, no doubt to make sure Wulfrun did not pursue his request. Once Michael had disappeared, neither man felt the need to pretend warmth.
‘Who speaks truth to the emperor? You?’ the commander snapped.
‘There are many truths. Not all need trouble him.’
‘Our scouts in the east say the Turks are moving closer by the day. They eat the empire’s land, yet we stand by and do naught. When should this matter trouble the emperor?’
‘When the threat is clear.’
Nikephoritzes forced a tight smile. ‘Armies cost gold. We must be careful not to waste. You see only the stuff of swords and battles, Wulfrun, but the emperor and his government must weigh many matters, often ones that fight with each other.’
‘Armies cost, yes. But what good full coffers if they are in the hands of the Turks?’
‘Would you have us raise taxes further?’ Nikephoritzes’ smile grew wider.
Wulfrun set his jaw. The burden upon the people was already great. Many struggled to pay. The price of wheat was becoming too high for the common man, and in the markets angry voices could be heard on a daily basis.
‘New coin will be minted. It will flow into the marketplace soon enough,’ the finance minister said.
‘Coin with less gold in it?’
Nikephoritzes pursed his lips. ‘A little, perhaps.’
‘Soon it will be as light as a feather.’ Wulfrun wagged a finger at the other man. ‘Mark my words, soon there will be trouble. More trouble than we can handle, both inside our walls and without.’
‘Then you will deal with it,’ the minister said. With a nod, he strode after the emperor.
Wulfrun swept from the palace, his feeling of powerlessness turning to anger. Ricbert waited on the steps, grinning at the women as they passed. He flinched when he heard the stream of curses at his back.
‘A good morning, then,’ the smaller man said.
Wulfrun gritted his teeth, forcing himself to be calm. ‘War is coming to Constantinople, Ricbert, a greater war even than the horrors inflicted upon the English by William the Bastard and the Normans. But the emperor is blind to it. And its tendrils will reach out across the world as every power, great or small, jostles for influence and advantage. Michael is weak …’ he glanced round to make sure he could not be overheard, ‘and little more than a boy trying to grow his first beard. Weakness will lose this city, and the empire, to the Turks. And weakness will see us destroyed from within as all the vipers plot in the shadows, fighting for control. Their struggles, too, will ripple out across the world. In the face of that, what do men like you and I do, eh? Troop merrily towards doom?’