Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome

by James Wilde

  Ricbert shrugged. ‘We serve the emperor, for good or ill. That is our oath. And if we are to die, we die at his command.’

  Before Wulfrun could respond, he saw a figure break away from the throng streaming along the dusty street. As the man climbed the steps of the palace, he recognized Deda.

  ‘I have good news. Your hopes have been fulfilled,’ the Norman said with a bow. ‘Your friend is here. Hereward has arrived in Constantinople.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  SLENDER FINGERS CLOSED around the guard’s throat. His howls of agony became rattling gasps, his clawing fingers fluttering in the air. As she straddled the man’s chest, Meghigda felt his bucking subside to become twitches, then the faintest tremors, like raindrops on a pool. And finally he grew still. When she was sure he was dead, she let her hands go limp and her shoulders sag. Empty sockets stared up at her, the eyes lost somewhere among the filthy straw on the floor of the cell.

  Pushing herself up, the queen flexed her sticky fingers. They ached from the exertion. But it had gone better than she had dared hope. The guards had been too confident, she had seen that from the outset. Thinking her weak, they did not treat her with the wariness they would have shown towards a male prisoner. They turned their backs to her when they came into her cell, squatting down to her level as they left her meagre meal in one corner. And they thought one of them at a time was enough. Once she had learned their routines, the rest was easy.

  As she eased open the door, Meghigda felt a surge of defiance. She had been true to the spirit of al-Kahina. Her limbs ached and her belly growled with hunger, but the fire in her heart had never dimmed. She would not be caged, or broken, or contained. Freedom was all that mattered, to her, to her people, even unto death.

  Creeping out of her cell, she plucked up the stubby candle the guard had left on the floor in its pewter holder. The light shimmered across crumbling walls slick with moisture.

  Ragener would be first, she decided. Then Victor Verinus. Men without honour, both of them. They lived their lives in the dark, yet could not see what that cost them. And then she would return to her people and fight the war that she had been born to fight. Her own life meant nothing. Meghigda, the true Meghigda, had died the day her parents had been taken. Comfort, peace, aye, and love, all of that would be for ever denied her. For a while she had grown weak, thought there might be a chance of something else, but now she knew better.

  She crept into the long, dank passage. The dark maws of other tunnels loomed up on either side. At each one, she paused, listening, but there was only silence. In some of them, she glimpsed spears, armour, axes; in others large stone urns. A store of secrets. Few knew of the existence of these catacombs, she guessed, and that made them perfect for Victor Verinus.

  As she crept on, she began to hear strange, distorted echoes ahead. She sensed a vast space away in the dark, and water, lapping, booming, dripping. The air grew chill. The passage came to a ragged break in a wall. Rubble was strewn all around. Stepping through it, she found herself on the edge of an enormous vault filled with water. Stone columns rose up into a gulf of darkness. Her tiny candle barely penetrated a spear’s length into the gloom.

  Glancing around, she saw she stood on a stone step reaching to the water’s edge. A flat-bottomed boat had been moored to a post – the guard’s, she guessed – and that seemed to be the only way out.

  But as she reached for the rope she glimpsed another light far off in the abyss, brighter than her candle. A lantern. It was sweeping towards her, no doubt on the prow of another boat. The water shimmered in front of it.

  Her fingers hovered over the mooring post, but she knew she would not be able to escape without being seen. Silently cursing her misfortune, she wetted the tips of her fingers, extinguished the candle and crept back into the catacombs.

  If only she had Salih’s silver knife to defend herself. She could kill whoever was approaching while their back was turned, and then make her escape. Meghigda set her jaw. There was no point in complaining. Her blood-caked nails would have to suffice.

  The dark swam around her. Feeling her way along the wall, she found one of the side passages and crawled along it. Her breath was tight in her chest. Her elbow clipped something – a spear? – and it clattered to the floor. The echoes rang out.

  Meghigda’s heart thundered. She stiffened, listening. In the distance, she heard a splash, a dull scraping. She imagined the boat bumping against the side, the passenger climbing out, tying it to a post. Could they have heard over the echoes of the water?

  Pressing her hand over her mouth, she waited. Footsteps drew closer. Heavy ones. A big man. Her breath burning in her throat, the queen peered back along the way she had crawled. A soft glow lit the wall of the main passage, growing brighter. Meghigda pressed herself back against the stone, hoping the illumination would not reach into her hiding place. The lantern swung into view, the glare so bright in the gloom that she could not look at it.

  Once the light had passed, she waited only a moment and then crawled back, taking care not to disturb any other obstacles. Her time was short, she knew. If she tried to get away on one of the boats, she would be caught. If she hid, she would be caught once the dead guard and the empty cell had been discovered. Her only hope was to attack from behind and pray that surprise would be enough of an advantage.

  At the passage junction, she peeped around the edge. The light was not moving. The intruder had not ventured all the way to the cell. Perhaps he searched for something in one of the stores, she thought. Here was her chance. Like a wolf, she loped along the passage towards the lantern.

  Her feet made not a sound on the stones. Keeping low, she crooked her fingers into claws, making ready. She strained to hear, but she could have been alone in all the world.

  Meghigda focused all her attention on that light, waiting, perhaps, for a shadow to cross in front of it. And so she sensed movement beside her too late. A low growl, the pounding of feet, a looming silhouette hurtling from one of the side passages.

  The fist smashed against her cheek before she even had time to turn. Her head slammed against the wall, and her wits spun away.

  Through her daze, she heard only animal noises, of pleasure or anger she could not be sure. Her captor cuffed her again for good measure, snarled a rough hand in her dress and dragged her along the passage back towards the cell. Two more blows hammered into her. She felt hands lift her effortlessly and toss her back into the cell. When the door slammed shut, she felt a momentary pang of despair – to be so close and to have freedom snatched away.

  Once he had retrieved the lantern, her captor pressed his face against the bars. In the grotesque shadows cast by the lantern, Victor Verinus looked more beast than man. Meghigda stared into that face and felt a depth of hatred she had never before experienced. Yet she kept calm. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how much she cared.

  ‘You think yourself a warrior, woman,’ he said, glancing down at the body of the guard. ‘Very well. I shall treat you as one. Let us see how you like that.’

  Meghigda held his gaze. She imagined tearing out his eyes, pressing her thumbs into his windpipe.

  He seemed to sense her thoughts, for he nodded. ‘Warriors die by the sword. Sooner or later. I have seen enough battles to know that none slip off into an easy death.’

  ‘You think I care?’ She raised her chin in defiance.

  ‘No. I think you do not. You have more fire than most men, I will give you that. But it will do you little good. Your time is almost done.’

  Meghigda could not understand why this man had not yet killed her. He had wanted vengeance for the death of his son, but that now seemed the furthest thing from his mind. ‘I have seen what happens to men like you,’ she said, her voice calm. ‘I would not wish it on a dog. Whichever god you worship, none of them can abide such cruelty. They will strike you down soon enough.’

  ‘“Men like you”,’ he repeated with a humourless laugh.

 
‘Men without honour. Men who lust for power above all else.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he replied, caring nothing for her insult. ‘Or they seize empires. And crush the weak before them. And make what was once strong and feared strong and feared again. Either way, you will not live to see it.’ Victor stepped away from the bars. Meghigda thought how confident he seemed. Whatever he planned, he was sure it was in his grasp. ‘You will do well to stand when the rats come feasting on your friend,’ he added, nodding towards the dead guard. ‘Once the frenzy is upon them, any meat is prey, warm or cold.’

  Without another word, he turned and walked along the passage. In his eyes, she was not worthy of any farewell. She heard him rooting in one of the passages for whatever had brought him to that place, and then his footsteps, and the light, receded.

  The dark closed around her once more.

  For a while, Meghigda sat against the cool stone, letting the ringing in her head subside. When she felt strong once more, she said in a clear voice, ‘Who are you?’

  No response came back for a moment, and then a woman’s voice said, ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘You have been before. Many times.’

  The queen heard her visitor walk into the passage. The sound of a struck flint cracked out and a soft light shimmered. Meghigda furrowed her brow in surprise when she saw a girl of perhaps seventeen summers. Greasy red hair hung around a gaunt face dappled with bruises. Her dress was worn and filthy, the body beneath it little more than bones. She looked like a beggar-child. ‘Why are you here?’ the queen asked, baffled.

  ‘Because my father deems you worth his attention.’

  After a moment, Meghigda grasped the meaning of the words. She scowled. ‘You are Victor’s child?’

  ‘By blood. By name.’ The girl paused as though she were unused to being questioned. ‘I am Ariadne.’

  ‘And you are here to gloat?’

  Sitting cross-legged in the corner, the girl shook her head as if this was unthinkable. ‘Why do you resist him? He will only hurt you more.’

  The queen looked down her nose at her visitor, weighing her. ‘I am al-Kahina, slayer of devils, ghost of the desert, priestess, soothsayer, warrior, and I will bow to no one.’

  ‘Even though he hits you?’

  ‘Even though he breaks my bones, cuts my flesh, rips out my heart, ends my days. At the final reckoning, all we have is that smallest part of us. That knowledge of who we truly are. We do not trade that away for any price, any gold, any suffering.’

  Ariadne plucked at the hem of her dress, letting the words settle on her. Meghigda thought how sad the slight figure looked. There seemed little of Victor Verinus in her. ‘What is it that you seek here?’ she asked gently.

  The girl looked up, her face determined. ‘I saw you did not cry, even when the rats crawled around you. I saw that the dark and the hunger did not gnaw at you. I saw you hold your head high, even when there was little hope.’

  ‘Even in the dark you see these things?’ Meghigda said with a faint smile.

  ‘I see better in the dark than all others because I have lived my life in it. I sleep in the dark. I eat my scraps off the floor in the dark. Whenever I have done wrong, and those times are many, I am punished by the dark. And sometimes … sometimes I choose the dark.’ She blinked away hot tears. Meghigda was shocked by the passion she saw in the girl’s face. Wiping the snot from her nose with the back of her hand, Ariadne steadied herself. ‘I saw you kill the guard with your bare hands. I saw you defy my father. Now, I would know all that has shaped you. Tell me what it is to be the slayer of devils, the ghost of the desert. Tell me of the road that has brought you to this cold place, of your life, of your battles, of your pain, and most of all of your fears, so that I might know your heart. For in truth, I cannot understand you. Tell me all that, and I promise I will tell you what I seek here.’

  And Meghigda did tell her, everything, from the slaughter of her mother and father to the hardship she endured to become the leader her people demanded. She told her because her heart went out to this fragile girl. And she told her because it reminded her of who she was, in that smallest part of her, that part that would never be extinguished.

  When she was done, Meghigda took a deep breath. Her words rustled away into the gloom, and for a while there was only silence. Then Ariadne looked up from her deep reflection and said in a voice as hard and bare as a desert rock, ‘Every third night, my father uses me like a wife.’

  The queen did not know what to say.

  ‘If I could only be you, I would,’ the girl said, standing. ‘I will help you. If you have friends here in Constantinople, I will tell them of your plight, and they will come and save you.’

  Meghigda grimaced. ‘I have no friends here.’ Desperate, she racked her brain. ‘Wait … I know of someone … of … a family. The Nepotes.’

  Ariadne frowned. ‘You know them?’

  ‘I know of Maximos Nepos.’

  The girl pursed her lips. ‘Maximos has returned to Constantinople.’

  Meghigda’s heart leapt and she hated herself for it. He was the last person in the world she would choose to put her faith in, but she had no choice. ‘Tell him of my plight. Tell him he owes me, and if he has any honour he will do all he can to save me.’

  Picking up the lantern, the girl nodded. ‘Very well. But I must be quick. My father has made up his mind to end your days, and he is always swift in his judgement. Your time is short, he told you that.’ She stepped towards the passage.

  ‘Wait. You promised you would tell me what you seek here.’

  When Ariadne glanced back, her eyes were ablaze. She lifted the lantern to her lips, blew out the flame, and the dark swept in. ‘Hope,’ she said, the word ringing out clear.

  And then she was gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ‘HEREWARD! SHOW YOURSELF!’ The voice boomed through the house of the Nepotes.

  In the courtyard, the Mercian jumped to his feet from a shaded bench. His hand flew to his sword. The threat in that tone was undeniable.

  Maximos was beside him in an instant, his eyes narrowing. ‘That is not Victor Verinus.’

  ‘One of his men, then. The Stallion will not have taken kindly to a head laid upon his doorstep. And he will know it was a gift from me.’

  The Roman grinned. ‘Was that not the point? Prod him until he rears up and shows his soft underbelly?’

  As the two men swept into the cool of the entrance hall, a cry of fury rang out. Hereward had time only to glimpse the accoutrements of one of the Varangian Guard before the warrior drew his sword and rushed at him.

  Brainbiter sang as it whisked from its sheath. As the guard’s sword flashed down, Hereward met it. His ears rang from the clash of iron upon iron. Sparks glittered. With a heave of his blade, he threw the other man back.

  But this warrior seemed to be caught up in a battle-rage. Back he came in an instant, hacking high, then low, thrusting, slashing. Every move was fluid and powerful. The Mercian had no doubt that he was in the presence of a master swordsman, one who could match him in strength and resolve.

  And yet for all his fury, the warrior was as silent as the grave. He remained as calm as deep water and just as dangerous.

  Around the hall they danced, evenly matched. Their swords clanged, jarring bones. But the warrior had the advantage of his shield while Hereward had only his feet and his natural skill to evade the edge of his foe’s weapon.

  Finally the warrior put his shoulder behind his shield and charged. The Mercian slammed into the wall, his sword pinned between him and the hard wood. The guardsman rammed the tip of his blade against Hereward’s neck.

  ‘Now I will have your head,’ he snarled.

  ‘There will be no weapons raised in my house!’ The voice cracked with anger. Simonis Nepa was standing in the doorway, her eyes blazing with the fire of the woman she no doubt once used to be.

  The girl, Juliana, appeared at her back. Her eyes narrowed as she t
ook in the scene and she pushed past her mother. ‘Wulfrun,’ she demanded. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Hereward could feel the other man trembling with passion. As he stared into those cold eyes, he sensed the warrior fighting against his instinct to drive his sword into flesh, as he had fought against his own urges so many times. But this Wulfrun was capable of winning that battle.

  Juliana stepped into his line of vision. Her stare was unwavering and Hereward sensed a strength there that had, until now, been well hidden. ‘No blood will be spilled in the house of the Nepotes,’ she said in a clear voice. Though she smiled and the tone was pleasant there was an edge to it that brooked no dissent.

  Wulfrun wavered. Then, with a flicker of regret, he took a step back. ‘I demand vengeance,’ he said. ‘My father would be alive this day if not for this dog.’

  The Mercian’s brow furrowed. If he had seen this man before, he could not recall it.

  Anger flared in the warrior’s eyes. ‘You do not remember me?’

  ‘Your voice crackles with the sound of the fens, but—’

  ‘Aye,’ Wulfrun snapped, almost driving his sword forward, ‘we share a past, you dog. And that you cannot recall who suffered at your hand only adds to your crime.’

  Juliana pushed her way between the two men, her eyes holding Wulfrun fast. The guardsman had no choice but to let his sword fall away. Her smile became flirtatious and she rested both hands on his chest. A lover’s touch, Hereward thought, and yet, at the same time, both a barrier and a warning. She would not be defied. ‘You are a man of honour, a strong man, who knows full well when to take a life and when to rise above killing,’ she said, her voice honeyed. ‘That man captured my heart. I know you would not disappoint me.’