by James Wilde
Wulfrun led the way into another chamber. A body lay upon a table. Hereward felt a wave of sorrow when he recognized Meghigda. He could see that her neck had been broken. In death, the troubles that had weighed upon her features had been replaced by a look of peace.
Salih ibn Ziyad cried out as if a blade had been stabbed through his heart. Remembering the agony of grief he had felt when his wife was killed, Hereward winced when he saw the raw emotion burn into the other man’s face. Salih fell to his knees in front of the table, his hands clasped and his head bowed. From his mouth flowed a babble of words in his own tongue, each one filled with passion.
‘As a leader, she had no equal,’ Hereward said, ‘and as a warrior too. She was brave and honourable. Is this truly what Constantinople is – a place where nothing good can survive?’
‘There is a sickness here,’ Wulfrun agreed, ‘but honour will shine through. I believe that above all else.’
Rowena broke away from Deda’s embrace. ‘Maximos could have saved her at any time. He killed Victor’s son, not her, but Meghigda never betrayed him. Yet he remained silent unto the end.’
Hereward flinched. ‘Maximos?’
‘’Tis true,’ Rowena said.
Wulfrun cursed under his breath. ‘Plots upon plots. I was tricked by that bastard Maximos’ grins and slapping of backs.’
‘As were we all,’ Hereward snapped. He swallowed his anger, for now.
But Salih rose up like a wraith from the grave. ‘Maximos’ days are numbered,’ the wise man hissed. ‘He will pay for this.’ He rested one hand upon the hilt of his silver dagger and swore an oath in his own tongue.
Beckoning to Hereward, Wulfrun led him out of the chamber. In the corridor, the commander said, ‘We have our differences, you and I. But now I am asking for your aid. Help me save the emperor’s life. Without the spears of your men, he will certainly die.’
For all that the other man hated him, Hereward felt only respect for Wulfrun. To live by a code of honour in a city like Constantinople was worthy of any praise. ‘Very well.’
Wulfrun looked surprised at the response, but he nodded. ‘If I know Victor, the men he had in place will be savage. We are few and they will be many. I have sent word to the Varangian Guard, but they may not return in time. This course may only lead to all our deaths.’
The Mercian rested one hand upon the hilt of his sword. ‘I am sick of running like a dog, sick of hiding. Let us fight like brothers, shoulder to shoulder. And if we die this night, so be it. We will not be alone in hell.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
THE FULL MOON hung over the gleaming dome of the Hagia Sophia. Outside the monastery of St George, the street was a river of silver in the stillness of the evening. Shadows flitted across it, as silent as ghosts. The air was fragrant with the perfume of Constantinople’s gardens and peace lay across the roofs, but as the English closed upon their destination their thoughts were only of blood.
When the warriors were crouching by the low wall along the monastery’s front, Hereward heard a low whistle, and the rest of his men streamed from a dark passage between two grand houses. Hiroc the Three-fingered looked relieved as he knelt beside his leader. ‘The red-headed girl, Ariadne, said you would be here sooner or later. I thought it might be a trap. God knows, you cannot trust any of the lying curs in this city, but …’ He clapped the Mercian on the shoulder, allowing himself one of his rare smiles.
Once the new arrivals had been informed of the task ahead, Hereward sent Alric to the monastery doors. Victor’s men would be guarding the entrances in case the Varangian Guard returned, he guessed. But the monk returned a moment later, shaking his head. ‘They are barred,’ he whispered.
Hereward watched Wulfrun glower. The commander was afraid time was fast running out. The emperor was inside. Soon he would be alone in the church, praying before the altar. An easy target for a knife.
Crooking a finger at Herrig the Rat, the Mercian sent him scurrying across the approach to the monastery. Even in the moonlight, he was little more than a smudge of darkness as he weaved like his namesake, low and fast.
‘What can he do?’ Ricbert sniffed. ‘Make himself as small as vermin and wriggle under the door?’
Hereward gave a tight smile, but said nothing. When he reached the monastery, Herrig paused only briefly, scanning the walls. Then, finding cracks and crevices invisible to most eyes, he began to climb.
Wulfrun and Ricbert marvelled as the scout scaled the walls with a speed that belied the difficulty of the ascent. ‘He will fall and break every bone in his body,’ Ricbert said with astonishment. ‘Does he have no fear?’
In the fens, Hereward had seen Herrig claw his way up a soaring ash tree and leap from branch to branch on adjoining trees with scant regard for the danger. Nothing seemed to frighten him. The courage of madness, Kraki called it.
Herrig reached a window on the first floor, clambered over the edge and disappeared into the dark. The warriors waited, breath tight in their chests as they listened for any sign of discovery. Finally, the door swung open. With a gap-toothed grin, Herrig the Rat beckoned them forward.
When Hereward loped up to the door, the scout opened his hand. Two bloody fingers nestled in his palm. ‘For my necklace,’ he whispered, jangling the string of mementos of the Normans he had killed.
One of the dead men lay just inside the door in a pool of blood. His throat had been slashed. Hereward guessed the guard had never even heard Herrig creeping up on him. Holding up a hand to bring his men to a halt, the Mercian cocked his head. The monastery was silent. ‘Lead us to the church,’ he murmured to Alric.
But as they crept along the corridor under the light of sizzling torches, he heard footsteps drawing closer from somewhere ahead. He twirled a finger and his men pressed into doorways. The closer they could get to the church before they were discovered, the better it would be for them. But their hiding places were poor, and if whoever was approaching had sharp eyes they would be seen in an instant.
As the Mercian crouched in a doorway, his hand upon the hilt of Brainbiter, he saw Salih ibn Ziyad still walked along the corridor. The wise man seemed to have been in a dream ever since he had been forced to leave Meghigda’s side.
The footsteps were drawing near to a turn in the corridor. When Deda stepped out to intercept the wise man, Hereward dragged him back. There was no time. ‘Be ready,’ he whispered to his men as he watched Salih stride towards the turn.
But at the last, the black-robed wise man slipped into a doorway. The shadows swallowed him. An instant later, a man rounded the corner. He was unmistakably one of Victor’s cut-throats. His brow was low, his tunic shabby and stained. As he prowled forward, he gripped a double-edged sword with a notched, stained blade and no decoration upon the hilt. Hereward watched as the guard’s gaze fell upon the ill-concealed English. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to raise the alarm.
From his hiding place, Salih ibn Ziyad lunged. His silver dagger flashed. Blood glittered in the torchlight and the man plunged to his knees, clutching at his throat. The wise man was already moving on before his victim was dead.
Hereward darted along the corridor to catch up with him. Consumed by his need for vengeance, the other man could not be trusted to take care. But barely had he rounded the corner when the Mercian realized his fears had become redundant.
Deep in the monastery, a bell tolled. The first of Herrig’s victims had no doubt been discovered. And as the sound of running feet echoed on all sides, he knew the time for subterfuge had passed.
Catching Deda’s wrist, he hissed, ‘Keep the monk safe. Take him away from the fighting.’ The Norman nodded, putting one hand in the middle of Alric’s back and urging him through a doorway. For a moment, Hereward and the churchman held each other’s eyes, and then the English warriors swept into a tight knot, their shields locking into place. The Mercian barely had time to realize that Salih ibn Ziyad had disappeared before Victor Verinus’ men began to rush towards them f
rom both ends of the corridor.
Hereward scowled. ‘Once the plotters hear this din, they may well throw caution to the wind and strike the emperor down.’
‘Then you should go, now,’ Kraki growled beside him. ‘Leave us to fight these dogs.’
‘Abandon my brothers? Never.’
The Viking peered over the lip of his shield and snorted with derision. ‘Look at them. They may be savage … cut-throats and thieves … but they are not fighting men. They run like children at play. Do they think they will knock us flat on our backs with one blow? Where is the skill, eh? Where is the battle-plan?’ He eyed the Mercian through the holes in his dented helm. ‘No. We will rid ourselves of these jolt-headed fowl in no time. When you see your chance, run.’
Hereward knew that Kraki was putting on a brave face. Their enemies might not be seasoned warriors, but by sheer numbers alone they could discourage any resistance. Victor Verinus must have known this. If he had amassed his own army of axes-for-hire, suspicions would soon have been raised. But a few coins pressed in the palms of low men in the inns and markets bought him all he needed: enough fodder to slow any resistance until the emperor was dead. ‘Very well,’ he grunted. ‘But I know you only want the glory for yourself.’
‘Glory? I want to show these bastards they should never spit upon the English again.’
On every side, the wave broke upon the shield wall. Swords and axes rained down. Lit by the ruddy glare of the torches, snarling faces hove into view. The Mercian’s ears rang from the tumult of yells and curses, but soon he began to hear shrieks and screams too.
‘Stay your hands,’ he called to his men. ‘Keep a calm head.’ Bracing his shoulder against the shield, he decided to let these disorganized fools exhaust themselves a little before the battle proper began. When he was sick of the crash of steel on wood, he bellowed, ‘Now.’
Reaching up, he stabbed Brainbiter over the lip of the shield and into the furious face of the man hacking wildly at him. The attacker spun back, trailing a stream of blood. Another stepped into his place, but this time Hereward glimpsed a shadow of unease on his opponent’s face. He attacked with caution, leaping back whenever the Mercian lunged. Hereward grinned. Kraki was right – these curs had no plan. They were not brave. They feared too much for their own lives. Perhaps they could be held at bay.
Spears thrust through the gaps in the shield walls. More shrieks rang out as the iron tips rammed into unprotected bellies and groins.
With a roar, Kraki cleaved a man’s head in two. ‘That is why I wear a helm,’ he bellowed.
The stone floor became slick with blood. But still more of Victor’s men ran to join the fight. ‘Let them come,’ Sighard cried. ‘The sooner they get here, the sooner they die.’
Kraki snorted back a laugh. ‘What is this I hear? A warrior, not a mewling babe? I will ask the monk later if this is a miracle.’
Peering through the swirling bodies, Hereward caught sight of Wulfrun and Ricbert. They were fighting back to back, in silence, their faces like stone. No effort was wasted as they cut down those who came at them. For a moment the Mercian was puzzled by the space they had carved around them until he realized that few of the Verini men were attacking them directly. Their crimson cloaks were unmissable, and no doubt designed to be so, a clear sign that here were members of the fearsome Varangian Guard whose reputation was unparalleled across Constantinople.
One day these city curs will fear us the same way, he silently vowed.
‘Now I have done all the hard work, I will leave you to clean up,’ he said to Kraki. ‘Be ready to close the wall.’ The Viking only grunted.
When he saw a gap in the line of enemies, Hereward put his shoulder to his shield and rammed his way forward. On either side, men fell away from the force of his charge. Yanking aside his shield, he thrust his blade into the stomach of the startled rogue standing in front of him. With a wrench, he tore open the belly and then ducked down to let the cascade of guts and gore splash over him. Slicked in blood from head to toe, he knew it would make it harder for his enemies to tell if he were friend or foe. In the thick of battle, that momentary confusion was often the difference between victory and defeat.
His horrific appearance seemed to terrify his attackers. From their wild eyes, he guessed they thought him mad, and perhaps they were right. Slashing right and left, he cut a path easily through the ranks to Wulfrun and Ricbert. They too looked at him as if he were some wild beast.
Hereward grinned. ‘To the church. Let us see which of these dogs are brave enough to give chase to a devil and two of the emperor’s Guard.’
If Wulfrun was pleased by this alliance, he did not show it. He swung his axe down into a man’s neck, almost cutting through to the breastbone, then stepped aside as the blood spurted. When his foe fell away, a clear path along the corridor appeared.
The three men raced away from the churning battle, praying they were not too late.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THE EMPEROR KNELT in front of the altar. Head bowed, tears streaming down his cheeks, he was mewling like a child. The blade of the axe bit into his bare neck. One drop of blood trickled down his pale skin and spattered on the cold stone floor.
Like all of Victor Verinus’ men, the one standing over Michael was a rogue. Filthy-clothed, with lank, dirty hair, his eyes were bovine, his jaw was slack and he was missing an ear. A ragged scar ran from his forehead across his left eye and down to his jawline, no doubt the result of some drunken brawl. He moistened his lips. This man had killed many times before, but never an emperor, Hereward could tell. The magnitude of the crime troubled him.
A halo glimmered around the executioner, as if he were an angel sent from God, not some devil. The church was suffused with the glow of a hundred flickering candle-flames, the light reflecting off the sea of gold that seemed to cover every surface. The sweet aroma of incense hung in the air. The service to honour those who died at Manzikert must have been well under way when the assassin revealed himself.
Around the altar, the finance minister Nikephoritzes and the emperor’s closest advisers cowered. The abbot and a few of the senior monks whimpered in prayer, but no man was close enough – or brave enough – to move.
As he scanned the nave, Hereward saw one other, a hooded man watching from beside a pillar against one wall. He did not move, did not show even the slightest hint of dismay at the slaughter that was to come.
Raising his sword, Hereward took a step forward. Wulfrun’s hand fell upon his arm. ‘Hold,’ the commander whispered. ‘Do not provoke him.’
‘If we stay here, the emperor dies,’ the Mercian hissed. He watched the rogue twitch, gathering his nerve. One blow of the axe would be enough and then he could make his escape through the door behind the altar.
The assassin seemed to reach an accommodation with himself. He swung the axe up high. Nikephoritzes cried out.
At the rear of the altar, the heavy oaken door creaked open. As Deda and Alric eased in, the rogue jerked round. His weapon trembled above his head. Wulfrun and Ricbert seemed gripped by the shimmering blade, but Hereward saw his moment.
As the Mercian raced along the nave, the Norman sized up the situation in an instant. Levelling his sword, he commanded, ‘Do not move,’ and then repeated the order in the Roman tongue.
The assassin hesitated, his dull wits turning slowly. By the time his decision had alighted upon him, Hereward was already leaping up the steps to the altar. In mid-flight, he swung his sword in an arc. So powerful was his blow that the blade cleaved through sinew, gristle and bone. The axe tumbled to the floor. The head flew up, turned once, and came down upon God’s table. For a moment it rolled from side to side, and then came to a halt, looking blankly over the fools who had been led such a dance by Victor Verinus.
The emperor shrieked as blood cascaded upon him. When he staggered to his feet, he found himself staring into the crimson-stained face of the man who had saved him. Whatever he saw there, he all but shrieked a
gain. But then Nikephoritzes and the other advisers were at his side, babbling with relief that Michael yet lived.
‘Do not tarry,’ Wulfrun boomed as he strode along the nave. ‘There are many enemies abroad in this monastery. Take our emperor to a safe place and guard him well until I can come to you.’
A circle of greying men folded around the callow youth and swept him past Deda and Alric and out of the door.
‘Fortune has smiled on us,’ Ricbert gushed as he raced to his master’s side. ‘Though I would not have wagered a single coin of my own upon this outcome, the emperor has survived.’
‘We are not done here yet.’ Hereward looked along the nave. Head lowered to hide his features, the hooded man was walking towards the door. ‘Hold.’ The Mercian levelled his sword. ‘Reveal yourself, Maximos.’
The hooded figure paused, his back still to the altar. But he knew, as all there knew, that he could no longer hide his identity. Turning, the Roman stripped off his hood.
Hereward felt his anger glow like hot coals. He had called this man friend. They had walked the hard road together, and fought shoulder to shoulder. And all of it had been built on lies. ‘Did a word of truth ever pass your lips?’ he asked in a cold voice.
‘Do not judge me.’ Maximos’ voice cracked.
The Mercian was surprised to see emotion twist the other man’s face. For a moment, he looked as if he had been stabbed through the heart.
‘When you found me, I was a prisoner,’ the Roman continued, ‘but in truth I have been shackled since I was born. A captive of my blood … a captive of days long gone. All I have done … all I have been instructed to do … has been leading to this night.’ He spat on the flagstones. ‘You cannot begin to understand what it means to be Nepotes. No man can.’